Chapter 11,
The silence snapped.
Aela blinked. "What?!"
Gloin leaned back smugly, folding his arms over his chest. "I'll marry her. Strong sword arm, quick tongue, good teeth. She'd be a proper dwarf-wife. I'd even build her a forge. And a house with a roof short enough that I get the good shelf."
Aela gawked at him, nearly dropping her cup as Pippin let out a delighted snort. "You mad old stone rat! I'm taller than your beard, which is long!"
"I've married shorter," Gloin said with a shrug. "Well, once. Didn't end well. She hit me with a skillet."
Legolas turned to his sister, deadpan. "It might be worth seeing you wield a skillet."
Thranduil's lips twitched at the corners, amusement flickering behind years of regal restraint. "You've grown bold, son of Groin."
"I've grown tired of dancing around the truth," Gloin replied. "She's still in there. Might need a shove to come back. Or a reason."
It was then that something—subtle but undeniable—changed.
Elena's head tilted ever so slightly, not guided by command, but as if pulled by the ridiculousness of what she'd just heard. Her brows knit together in what could only be described as mild indignation. And then her lips parted—not in speech, but in a slow, audible exhale, as if the mere idea of Aela married to Gloin was enough to draw a reaction from her bones.
Aela leaned over, clutching the edge of the table. "Mother, please. You have to stop him. You have to."
The corner of Elena's mouth moved again—only a twitch, but this time there was intent behind it. Not a smile. Not yet.
But a warning.
Her fingers twitched in her lap, like some piece of her soul had risen from the deep with sword drawn.
Thranduil saw it—the twitch—and something dangerous lit behind his eyes for the first time in days. Not fear. Not fury. But mischief. That single flick of his wife's fingers, that subtle furrow in her brow at the notion of Gloin marrying their daughter—it wasn't just a reaction. It was Elena. She was watching. Listening. Waiting. And maybe, just maybe, she needed the right kind of bait.
He turned to the dwarf, and in the voice one used to discuss military treaties, said, "Well, if this is truly your intent, Master Gloin, we'll have to begin the preparations immediately."
Aela's head snapped around so fast it was a miracle she didn't sprain her neck. "What?!"
Thranduil folded his hands, utterly composed, gaze fixed somewhere above the table as if consulting a long-unspoken protocol. "Naturally, there will need to be a formal proposal. Preferably delivered on a moonlit evening with a witness from each major Houses. I assume you have ceremonial armor? If not, I believe there's still some spiked silver plating in the family vault. Something tasteful, of course."
"I am right here," Aela muttered, burying her face in her hands.
Gloin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, clearly enjoying himself. "I have a breastplate somewhere… dented, but sturdy. Might polish up alright. Though I draw the line at pointy boots."
"Ah, well, unfortunate," Thranduil mused, glancing at Elena as if she might weigh in. "We do require proper elven court shoes for the ceremony. Made of polished stagbone and stiff velvet. Adds about two inches to the walk, but it teaches balance."
Bilbo choked softly on his tea. Ever the subtle instigator, Legolas took a slow sip from his cup and said dryly, "I'll lend him mine. I've excellent balance."
"Legolas!" Aela barked, glaring at her brother.
"What? I'm merely supporting tradition."
Across the table, Frodo and Sam watched with wide eyes, whispering between themselves like schoolchildren witnessing a scandalous family squabble. Merry and Pippin had long since stopped eating, their attention rapt. Even Boromir had paused mid-chew, eyes darting between the Elvenking and the dwarf with barely concealed confusion.
Pippin was wide-eyed, halfway between scandalized and delighted. "Is this really how elves do marriage?"
"No," Thranduil said smoothly, "but it is how I do marriage."
And across the table, Elena's jaw shifted.
Just slightly. But it wasn't from the command.
Aela watched her, hope blooming in her chest like something wild and uncontainable. Something in her mother's expression was stubborn, familiar, as if the sheer absurdity of what her family was plotting had cracked the surface of the spell that held her silent. Her brow twitched, and her fingers moved again, more than before. Not a spasm. Not a tremor.
Elena, still and silent for so long, moved. Not just her fingers this time. Her jaw clenched. Her brows twitched downward, ever so slightly. Her eyes, which had remained dull and cast downward, lifted just enough to glare at the dwarf across from her.
And then she sighed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. But it was unmistakably Elena. A long, slow breath pushed from her lips like it carried the weight of all her disbelief and utter disdain for the conversation around her.
Thranduil sat back, victorious. "There. See? She disapproves."
Aela looked between her father and mother, her mouth open in astonishment. "Did she just—Mother, are you serious right now?"
Elena didn't answer, but the barest twitch of her eyebrow seemed to scream 'Fools surround me.'
Elena wanted to throttle them.
Every single one of them. With one hand tied behind her back and a wooden spoon in the other. The idea that she had died, clawed her way through endless silence, was dragged back into a body bound by chains of magic—and now had to listen to a dwarf haggling over marrying her daughter like she was a barrel of aged mead? She could've screamed or cried. But what emerged first… was rage.
Beneath her stillness, beneath the iron grip of the crystal's control, she burned. Not with fear or despair, but with the raw, incandescent frustration of a woman who had fought dragons, survived kings, buried friends—and was now being discussed like a silent painting in the middle of breakfast. She couldn't twitch an eyebrow in disapproval without it becoming some family milestone. And now Gloin, bless his stone-crusted heart, was offering to marry Aela if she couldn't talk in five days?
Her daughter. Her fierce, brilliant, sharp-tongued Aela once dislocated a man's shoulder for calling her "girl." The same Aela who could split an arrow from across a battlefield, but apparently couldn't dodge a proposal made over porridge.
Elena's fingers twitched—again. Not just irritation now. Warning.
Then her husband—her perfectly beautiful, absolutely traitorous husband—decided to join in. Thranduil, King of Greenwood, Lord of Dignity and Discipline, who once refused to attend a harvest festival because the invitation had the wrong border trim, was discussing wedding trials for his daughter with the solemnity of a death oath. Court shoes. Dowries. Mountain property.
Elena's eye twitched so hard she thought it might count as a seizure.
And worst of all… the man didn't even smirk.
No, Thranduil delivered each line with the composure of a diplomat, his voice so smooth she half-wondered if he'd prepared for this exact moment. Had he waited decades for a chance to troll her like this? Was this revenge for the time she painted vines in ink on the throne room columns that took a decade to fade?
She exhaled hard, and the sound slipped past her lips. Not on command. Not by force.
It was hers.
It was also, quite clearly, a groan of spiritual exhaustion.
Across the table, Aela was between sputtering in horror and reaching for a butter knife. Legolas looked delighted. Gloin beamed like he'd just cracked open the gates of Erebor with nothing but charm and a bag of coins.
And Elena—silent, still, regal in every carefully posed line—wanted to chuck her teacup across the table, hit Gloin in the beard, and shout, "Over my undead body!"
If she had to listen to one more line about velvet boots, she was going to find a way to scream, even if it meant biting her tongue off and throwing it at someone.
Still.
She was here.
And they knew it now.
Elena was going to weaponize a bread roll.
It was just sitting there—innocent, soft, slightly glazed—beside her plate. And it was becoming increasingly tempting as the minutes dragged on and more nonsense spilled across the table like someone had uncorked a barrel of bad ideas and let it flow freely. If she could move her fingers a little more, just enough to grip it, she'd aim it squarely at Thranduil's smug, too-handsome face and then see how seriously he took courtship rituals.
Sure, he'd dodged arrows in battle, but could he dodge a perfectly aimed insult wrapped in yeast?
Still, her fingers refused to obey.
But her thoughts—they were sharp. Clearer than they'd been in days. Maybe weeks. It was like someone had cracked the seal on her mind, and now the floodgates were groaning open, and behind them was a sarcastic army ready to march. She was halfway through planning a speech for when she did regain complete control. It included at least four threats, a promise of eternal humiliation for her son, and a particular line about dwarves and courtship that was probably too vulgar for mixed company.
Then she made the mistake of thinking about Aela again.
Her daughter would look beautiful—stunning, even—in a wedding dress. Elena didn't need to imagine it. She'd dreamed of it a thousand times before the world had gone mad. Flowing fabric, golden embroidery, that fearless chin lifted as if daring anyone to say she didn't belong in armor and lace. Elena had never admitted it aloud, but she'd always known her daughter would be stronger than her. More radiant. Aela was a force of joy and defiance, and in a gown made for queens, she'd be something no one could look away from.
Elena sighed internally, just a little dreamy.
And then snapped herself out of it like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water at her soul.
No! Not!
This was not the time for sentimental motherly nonsense. This was the time for imaginary pie assaults and tactical sarcasm. She had a whole war to win—one word at a time—and right now, the first casualty would be Gloin's smug bet and his misguided desire to build her daughter a forge.
Still, the warmth curled behind her ribs again.
She wasn't just aware. She was awake.
Galadriel's fingers froze around her teacup.
A single breath passed her lips as her eyes, pale and ancient, turned toward Elena, not in search, but in knowing. No spell on this plane could mask the pulse of a soul fighting its way back to the surface—not from her. And quietly, a forest hears the wind before it stirs the leaves. Galadriel felt it.
"She's here," she whispered. "Truly here."
Gandalf didn't need to ask whom she meant. His gaze had never left the woman across the table. He smiled, not broad, not bold—just a slight curve that ached with hope. "Yes," he murmured, almost reverent. "And judging by that look in her eye… someone's about to regret opening their mouth."
Galadriel's lips lifted faintly. "I do hope the dwarf brought a shield."
"Oh, he'll need more than a shield," Gandalf said, eyes twinkling behind the lines of weariness. "He'll need divine intervention."
Across the table, Aragorn had been quietly watching. But not passively.
He'd noticed the twitch in Elena's jaw. The slow narrowing of her eyes. Her fingers had begun to curl ever so slightly on the edge of her napkin, like a woman preparing to rise or hurl something blunt. Most might've missed it, but he'd seen too many battles start in silence to misread the storm brewing behind those mismatched eyes.
So, naturally, he smiled and decided to throw a log on the fire.
"Well," he said casually, turning toward Gloin, "I suppose we should begin a guest list, shouldn't we? You wouldn't want to offend anyone. Let's see… all the Dwarves of Erebor, I imagine. The court of Mirkwood, of course. A few ambassadors from Gondor—maybe Rohan too. I hear their wedding feasts involve entire roasted boars and a great deal of shouting."
Aela groaned. "Why are you all like this?"
"Elven tradition requires weeks of dancing," Legolas added helpfully, "with flowing scarves and poetry readings between every course. You'll need to memorize at least three verses for your vows."
"I'll write them for you," Aragorn offered, straight-faced. "I've read all of Elrond's collection. Some of it's… evocative."
Bilbo, who had been sipping from his cup with his legs swinging just above the floor, piped up suddenly. "I'd better be invited. After all I've seen and survived, if I'm left out of this fiasco, I'll put a hex on the cake."
Gloin slammed a hand on the table, grinning so wide it was a miracle his beard didn't split. "Of course you're invited, Baggins! And don't you worry—I'll see to it we have both mushroom pies and honeyed roast. Dwarven weddings spare no expense!"
Elena was convinced she had died again. Not from a sword. Not from poison. But from the sheer stupidity of the moment. This was how great warriors were laid low: not by enemy blades, but by unsolicited wedding plans, dwarven flirtation, and her family spiraling into madness before the eggs had even cooled.
Aragorn, who once brooded his way through three countries, had become a complete wedding planner. He was now listing venues like a paid event coordinator. "Erebor would provide warmth and tradition," he mused, stroking his chin. "But Rivendell has the acoustics. We must consider the ballads. One can't weep during the first kiss if the echo makes it sound like a goat braying."
"Goat braying?" Aela gaped at him. "What sort of weddings have you been to?"
"I've been to yours," Bilbo piped up with a grin, delighted by the chaos. "In spirit, at least. I had the cake picked out and everything. I even wrote a speech. Not emotional, of course. Just enough to make Legolas cry and Gloin faint."
"Oi," Gloin grumbled, raising his cup. "You think I faint easily? I fought a dragon with that woman, remember?" He jabbed a thumb toward Elena. "She nearly bit the beast. I've seen her hurl a spear through three orcs and half a table. You think I'm scared of a wedding?"
Legolas blinked. "You should be."
Elena, meanwhile, was screaming. Internally. Loudly. She couldn't move or speak, but her mental voice had become an operatic aria of sarcasm. She was composing a memoir in her mind, titled "My Family, My Curse: How to Survive Unwanted Matrimony Planning While Paralyzed." She was already in chapter seven: The Rage of Velvet Boots and Dwarven Dowries.
Then Aela snapped.
"Fine!" she bellowed, slamming her napkin so hard it fluttered to the floor like a defeated flag. "I'll marry him. I'll wear the dress, forge the rings, braid his beard with wildflowers if I have to—just shut up!"
Bilbo applauded. "She says yes!"
"I want her speech at the wedding," Gandalf added, raising a brow. "It'll clear the clouds."
Gandalf set his cup down slowly, his fingers brushing the rim like a man handling live fire. Across the table, Elena hadn't moved a muscle, and yet something had shifted. The air around her had thickened, vibrating like a struck bell. Her shoulders were no longer slumped in magical compliance—they were lifted, pulled taut like a bowstring drawn to its fullest.
Thranduil noticed first.
He watched her hands—the slight twitch of her thumb, the tension bleeding down her arms like something wild trying to break free. Her breath hitched, deep and sharp, and his spine straightened. The expression on her face was no longer empty, but distant. It was the look of a woman who had just remembered who she was and that someone across from her had dared to flirt with her daughter in public.
He turned his head, ever so slowly, to look at Gloin.
And without a word, Thranduil slid his chair three inches to the left.
Gandalf's brow arched as he followed the king's lead. He, too, felt it—the crackle of something ancient and powerful coming to life behind Elena's eyes. His mouth curled up in a knowing, almost delighted smirk, and he eased back just enough to put a good sturdy hobbit between himself and the dwarf.
Legolas, oblivious to the shift, popped a grape into his mouth.
And then, Gandalf—the instigator—lit the fuse.
"I want her speech at the wedding," he said, his voice innocent. "It'll clear the skies, wake the mountains, and perhaps eliminate the groom."
Something inside Elena snapped.
Not in panic. Not in grief.
But in righteous, holy fury.
Her lungs drew in a sharp, fierce breath that felt like it scraped the rust from her ribs. It wasn't intentional. It wasn't planned. It was instinct, the kind of breath taken before a woman launched herself across a battlefield or across a kitchen table, depending on who had most recently tested her patience. She imagined it then, in full color—her standing, eyes blazing, pointing a shaking finger at Gloin and shouting with the force of twenty years of pent-up maternal wrath.
And the world obliged.
Her mouth opened.
And the magic listened.
"FUS!"
The word tore through the dining hall like a thunderclap wrapped in vengeance. The very walls vibrated. The plates skidded. A few unfortunate pears launched themselves into the air like cannonballs. Bilbo's teacup wobbled, righted itself, then gave up and tipped over.
And Gloin—
Poor, oblivious, brave Gloin—
He was blasted backwards off his chair like the gods themselves had catapulted him. He let out a startled grunt—"BY THE BEARD!"—as he flipped midair, his legs kicking skyward, beard trailing behind him like the tail of a very confused comet. He landed with a whump and a grunt, skidding to a halt in front of the fireplace where he lay blinking at the ceiling, boots twitching.
The table descended into a stunned, horrified silence.
And then…
Thranduil calmly picked up his cup, as if he hadn't just watched his wife scream at a dwarf across the room. He turned his eyes toward Elena—those silver eyes alive now, blazing—and smiled like a man who had just witnessed the first sunrise in eighty-five winters.
"I suppose that's a 'no' to the wedding," he said.
Aela clutched the edge of the table. "Mother?! Are you okay?! Are you—DID YOU JUST—" Her voice pitched up so high even the elven dogs outside barked in response.
Bilbo stood, fists on his hips, beaming like a proud uncle. "That's my girl!"
Gandalf exhaled, a laugh dancing behind his beard. "That'll do, Elena. That'll do."
Legolas blinked once, looked down at his now pear-covered sleeve, then toward his father. "I take it the seal is broken?"
"Shattered," Thranduil replied, brushing a fleck of mushroom off his sleeve. "Possibly obliterated. Glorious, wasn't it?"
Gloin, still flat on his back near the hearth, raised one finger. "That's the second time she's flung me across a room. Still worth it."
And Elena—silent again for only a heartbeat—smiled.
She was still tethered, still half-trapped.
But now?
The world knew she was awake.
And Gloin… Gloin was going to need ice.
The echo of Elena's Voice still lingered, curling through the rafters like the last note of a battle hymn.
The hobbits sat frozen, their utensils hovering in midair, mouths wide and eyes wider. Frodo's spoon had paused halfway to his mouth, trembling slightly, while Pippin blinked at Elena as though she'd sprouted wings and set the table on fire. Sam looked from Gloin to Elena and back again, mouthing something that might have been "Is that normal for elves?" and Merry muttered, "That was awesome," in a voice not meant to be heard, but was.