Chapter 22,
The water lapped gently at Elena's collarbone, its warmth softening the soreness in her limbs like a salve drawn from memory. The silence wrapped around her like a familiar cloak, broken only by the low hush of steam curling against the walls and the slow, rhythmic echo of breath, hers, and now his. Thranduil's presence beside her was as natural as breath itself, but she had not anticipated how much she needed it. Not just his nearness, but his stillness. His patience. He promised that, despite the battles behind them and the ones still ahead, she did not have to endure them alone.
She tilted her head, letting her temple rest lightly against the curve of his shoulder. His skin was warm and smooth beneath her cheek, and she listened quietly to the steady cadence of his breathing, the strong heartbeat pulsing beneath the surface. Her fingers, submerged beneath the water, drifted slowly over his chest—not seeking, not claiming, simply remembering. Each scar they passed over spoke of a life that had known war, pain, and endurance to match her own. He was her equal in weariness… and in strength.
"You always find me when I've begun to forget where I am," she murmured, her voice low and rough-edged, like a stone pulled from deep water. "Even when I try to vanish."
Thranduil's breath deepened, his arm sliding gently around her back beneath the surface to draw her closer, his hand resting at the base of her spine. "You don't vanish, Eleneth," he said softly, using the name only he ever had. "You shine even when dimmed. Even at your weakest, I've never lost sight of you."
She closed her eyes, the tension in her shoulders giving way as she exhaled against his skin. Her hand moved upward, fingers splaying gently across his chest where she could feel the calm beat of his heart. "I thought the pain had made me disappear," she whispered. "I felt hollow. I watched the world move from behind a wall I couldn't break."
He shifted then, slow and fluid, turning toward her. One hand emerged from the water to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly beneath her eye as if to wipe away something invisible. "You never disappeared from me," he said, his voice low, grounding. "Even with that cursed metal on your throat, you burned brighter than anything. They never took you from me—not truly."
Her eyes opened, finding his. She didn't flinch away or hide the faint red lines that still traced her throat like shadows of a chain. In that gaze, he saw everything—her grief, her exhaustion, the trembling hope she'd been too afraid to hold. And he didn't look away. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was slow and reverent, like a prayer whispered in a temple. His mouth met hers with a gentleness that nearly undid her, lips brushing across hers repeatedly until the tension melted from her fingers. She kissed him back with quiet desperation, not of fear or hunger but of relief—of coming home. Her hand slid up into his damp hair, anchoring herself as her other gripped the curve of his shoulder.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together in the steamy air. Her breath came shallow, and her heart unsteady, not from weakness but from the flood of feelings that swept through her.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"And you," he answered, his voice barely audible.
Beneath the water, their bodies remained close, connected by arms and knees and hearts no longer guarded. He held her with a care only time could forge, not fragile as if she would break, but firm enough that she could lean into him without fear of falling. She let herself rest there, one hand still pressed to his chest where that steady rhythm reminded her she was alive. Loved.
The bathwater rippled softly as Elena leaned against him, her breath warming the curve of Thranduil's shoulder. Every inch of her ached—not just from the collar's cruel remnants, but from the days spent holding herself together with fraying strength. But here, in the circle of his arms, the cracks no longer gaped so wide. There was peace in how he held her, not as if she were fragile, but as if she were precious. And that was something far more difficult to bear.
Without speaking, Thranduil shifted his position beneath the water, subtle and smooth as silk drawn over glass. The change was gentle, his hand sliding down to support her waist as he guided her carefully forward. At first, she resisted slightly out of surprise—her balance thrown for half a heartbeat—but then he moved again, his long legs tucking beneath her as he settled back against the smooth stone lip of the bath. In the next breath, Elena was seated across his lap, her legs folded instinctively to either side of him, her hands pressed gently to his chest as if to catch her startled breath.
A small, involuntary squeak slipped past her lips before she could stop it, and a flush crept hotly along her cheeks, quickly staining the tips of her ears a shade only he could ever draw out of her. "You could've at least warned me," she muttered, mortified by the sound she'd made but unable to pull her gaze away from his.
Thranduil's laugh was a low, velvety thing, like distant wind rustling silver leaves. He tucked a damp lock of her dark hair behind her ear with the same hand that had drawn her close, his thumb brushing the side of her cheek with casual reverence. "And deny myself the chance to hear that sound again?" he teased, his voice low and warm with quiet affection. "I've missed it more than you know."
She narrowed her eyes at him, but the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "You're infuriating," she said—though the words held no weight. She let her arms slip around his shoulders, the motion slow and deliberate, and leaned in until their foreheads brushed. "But you're mine."
Her lips found his again before he could respond, this time with more certainty than before. The kiss was firmer, deeper, but not rushed. It carried a different weight now—one not just of love, but of claiming. She had been taken, hurt, and silenced. But she was here now, and so was he. In that kiss, she told him what words could not: that she still chose him. That her heart still beat in rhythm with his. No collar, pain, or shadow of fear had been enough to bury what they had built together.
Thranduil responded in kind, one hand sliding up her spine beneath the warm water, fingers tracing the shape of her back with aching familiarity. His other hand cradled her jaw, his kiss patient but unyielding, as if assuring her that she would never face the darkness alone again. When they finally parted, her breath trembled, but her eyes were steady.
"You still feel like home," she whispered, her voice cracked but full of truth.
"And you always will be mine," he murmured in return, kissing the center of her brow. "Not even the cruelest hands could take that from us."
She rested her cheek against his shoulder, letting the world quiet again as the water wrapped around them and the soft flicker of candlelight danced across their joined silhouettes. She was exhausted—bone-deep tired—but it was not the hollow kind she had known in captivity. This was the kind of tired that came after surviving, after returning, after being loved without condition.
And here, in her husband's arms, Elena let herself begin to heal—not with distance, not alone in silence, but with closeness. With warmth. With touch.
Morning arrived in a slow, golden hush.
The light crept gently across the floor of their bedchamber, filtered through gauzy drapes that stirred faintly in the breeze. It caught the edges of carved wood and embroidered tapestries, spilling across the silken sheets tangled at their feet. The air was warm and clean, scented faintly with wildflowers carried in from the woods beyond, and somewhere in the far-off canopy, birds sang a song that didn't demand to be heard—it simply was, soft and steady, like the breath of the world exhaling.
Elena lay nestled against the warmth of her husband, her body half-curled around his, his arm draped protectively across her waist. The rise and fall of his chest was a steady rhythm beneath her palm, one she hadn't realized she'd missed until last night. She had woken a few minutes before the light broke entirely across the room, and for the first time in weeks, she hadn't felt pain snapping through her limbs or dread pooling behind her ribs. She felt… peace. Not the kind found in solitude, but in arms that had held her through storms.
Her fingers brushed lightly against the back of Thranduil's hand, tracing the elegant bones there, memorizing the feel of him all over again. She tilted her head, pressing her cheek against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that had lulled her to sleep. A blush lingered on her cheeks from the night before—not from embarrassment, but from warmth. From the quiet, soul-deep satisfaction that remained in her bones like the music's echo. Their union hadn't been urgent or desperate. It had been slow. Reverent. Healing.
Last night had not been a claiming—it had been a coming home.
She shifted slightly to face him, careful not to disturb him, and studied his sleeping face. His brow was smooth, free from the furrow of command. His lips, slightly parted, carried none of the cool regality the world often saw—only softness, only breath. His silver-blond hair spread over the pillow like silk, and she reached out to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. Her fingers lingered there, just for a moment. To touch.
There had been moments in that prison of hers, within the darkness the collar brought, where she feared she would never see him again, never hear his voice. Never feel the warmth of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the soft press of his lips against her temple in the quiet hours of night. But he had found her and held her. Fought for her.
And loved her… even through the silence.
"I missed you," she whispered, though she had said it before. This time it wasn't a desperate truth but a grateful one.
Thranduil stirred faintly, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile before his eyes opened. "And you," he murmured, voice rough with sleep but warm like sunlight. His arm tightened gently around her, his fingers brushing low along her back, and when his eyes opened—clear, ice-blue, and steady—they found hers without hesitation. "I never want to feel you slip from me again."
"You won't," she said quietly, her voice a promise sealed not with certainty, but with devotion. "Not if I have breath in my body."
He leaned forward, his hand rising to cradle her cheek, and kissed her, soft and lingering. Not for passion's sake, but because he could. Because they had earned this moment. When they parted, he pressed his brow to hers, their legs tangled beneath the sheets, their hearts speaking a language older than words.
No throne. No scars. No pain. Just them. And in that stillness, Elena knew—whatever came next, she was no longer alone in facing it, not as queen, warrior, or mother. But as a woman, deeply and endlessly loved.
The warmth of morning lingered a while longer, but reality always had a way of finding its place.
Elena eventually stirred from where she lay entwined with Thranduil, reluctant to leave the comfort of their shared cocoon. She pressed one last kiss to his temple before carefully slipping from beneath the sheets. He murmured something soft and unintelligible in Elvish, half-asleep, but his hand grazed her wrist briefly as if reluctant to let her go. She squeezed his fingers before moving away, collecting a robe from a nearby chair and wrapping it tightly around herself.
As she stood by the tall windows overlooking the forest, the lingering warmth in her chest faded, replaced by a sense of quiet urgency. The world hadn't stopped turning because she had found peace for a night. The dwarves were still imprisoned. The dragon still slept on gold. And her part in it all was far from over.
Elena made it halfway down the corridor before she noticed the stillness behind her. The sound of trailing footsteps—light and shuffling in that unmistakably Bilbo sort of way—had vanished. She paused, turning with a slight frown as her boots scuffed gently against the polished stone floor. The air was still, sun pouring through the high windows in warm golden shafts, dappling across the intricate ivy-carved walls of Thranduil's hall. But there was no sign of the hobbit.
Her brow lifted with mild irritation as she glanced over her shoulder again. "Bilbo?" she called softly, letting the name roll out with more amusement than concern. There was no answer—just the faint rustle of leaves from the breeze beyond the arches. She stepped back toward the pillar where he had crouched earlier, expecting to find him pressed comically against the stone. But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere.
Elena crouched down, scanned the pillar's base, and even peered behind it to ensure she wasn't missing a trick. "Alright, unless he turned into a squirrel, something strange is going on," she muttered, standing again and brushing her gloves against her thighs. She paused, and for a moment just listened. There—barely a breath. It does not sound exactly, but there is a shift in the air. It was subtle, but distinct. A presence that shouldn't have been invisible.
Her eyes narrowed, and the corner of her mouth tugged upward in dry amusement. "Bilbo Baggins," she said, her tone sharpening with knowing fondness, "if you've come across some ancient magical ring and decided to wear it, now is a miserable time to begin experimenting." Silence met her declaration. The air stayed still, but her instincts didn't lie. Something small, quiet, and decidedly hobbit-shaped was following her—unseen but definitely there.
She crossed her arms and let out a soft sigh, feigning exasperation. "Let me guess: you found it tucked away somewhere you weren't supposed to be, ignored the nagging voice in your head, and slid it on just to see what would happen?" She began walking again, slower now, every few steps listening for the faint sound of invisible feet trying not to echo. "Did it ever occur to you that there's a reason Thranduil keeps things locked in vaults?"
There was still no answer, though she swore she heard something that might've been a smothered snort—or a sneeze—echo faintly from behind a column. Her smirk returned as she ascended the gentle curve of the stairwell. "I'm going to the cells," she said lightly, addressing the space beside her as if it weren't utterly empty. "If you want someone to trust you when everything falls apart, you'd best stop tiptoeing around like a ghost."
A moment passed. Then, behind her was the softest shff-shff of small feet gliding across stone. She said nothing, but her smile deepened. Of course, he followed.
"Just remember," she added as they reached the lower corridor, her voice teasing now, "if you trip and fall while invisible, I'm blaming it on spirits. And Thranduil does not deal well with the supernatural between you and me."
A muffled exhale came from the air beside her—part indignation, part reluctant laughter. She chuckled to herself, brushing a hand across the hilt of her belt-dagger as they descended the last few steps. One figure was visible, the other was cloaked in magic, yet the two moved forward together, quiet, clever, and up to something.
Elena walked with purpose through the quiet corridors of the Woodland Realm, her boots barely making a sound against the polished stone. She slipped through the archway to her chambers, letting the door click shut behind her. The morning's peace still clung faintly to the room, but there was no time to savor it now. The feeling in her chest and the restless gut tug told her it was time to move.
Crossing to the ornate weapon rack near the bed, she reached up and pulled her swords down from their hooks, the familiar weight settling across her shoulders with a comforting finality. Her bow followed, slung smoothly over her back, and she grabbed her smaller dagger before tightening the straps on her leather vest. Her pack lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed, already restocked with supplies from her handmaidens, though they hadn't known precisely why. She slung it over her shoulder, pausing only once to glance toward the nearby mirror. There was color in her cheeks again. Strength in her stance. She was ready.
Moving swiftly through the winding corridors, she made her way to the lower levels of the stronghold where the dwarves had been confined. She didn't need a guard to lead her—she'd memorized these halls centuries ago. As she descended the final steps and turned the corner toward the cells, she heard murmured voices and the soft scuff of pacing boots.
The moment she stepped into view, the reaction was immediate.
A few of the dwarves gasped, half-rising from their benches as they saw her emerge from the dim corridor, cloaked in leather and shadow like a phantom come to life. Bofur's jaw dropped open. Dori muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Sitting on a low stone bench, Thorin straightened slowly and let out a heavy, half-exasperated breath.
"By the ancestors… You look good," he said, eyeing her warily but with a touch of honest relief. "Does that mean you can get us out of here?"
Elena stepped closer to the bars, resting a gloved hand on the cold metal as she arched an eyebrow. "I could try to persuade my husband," she said dryly, her silver eyes flicking toward Thorin's. "But that might take longer than we have. Politics, pride, old grudges—it's like trying to dig a tunnel through granite with a spoon."
Before they could respond, she subtly gestured behind her with a tilt of her chin.
A faint shimmer stirred in the air just beyond the edge of the wall.
Then, with a soft flick, the shimmer became a hobbit, standing proud—if a little breathless—with a large ring of keys held high in one hand and a distinctly pleased look on his face.
"I believe," Bilbo whispered, "my way might be faster."
The dwarves all stared.
"By the stones, he's better than I thought," Bofur muttered in awe.
Thorin's mouth quirked into the beginnings of a grin. "I take it back. You both look good."
The clinking of keys was the only sound that broke the stillness of the lower halls as Bilbo darted from one cell to the next. The dwarves emerged, groggy but alert, their eyes wide when they spotted Elena trailing behind him, dressed in leather and shadow, her twin swords strapped to her back like she'd never been away from the field. None of them spoke—not at first. The sight of her was enough to still even Dwalin's grumbling. She nodded, and they began to move swiftly and silently through the ancient corridors.
The air shifted as they descended into the wine cellars. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of oak and damp earth. Barrels towered in rows along the walls, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the distant sound of water echoing through the underground channels. Elena's boots made no sound as she moved through the stone passageways, her silver eyes scanning every shadow. She glanced at Bilbo several times, curiosity tinged with suspicion. Whatever plan he had, it had better be brilliant—and quick.
As she opened her mouth to ask what his plan entailed, raised voices echoed above. Someone had noticed the empty cells. Thorin muttered a curse under his breath. Bilbo's head snapped around, his eyes wild. "Into the barrels! Now!"
There was no time to question it. The dwarves bolted forward, scrambling over crates, lifting barrel lids with frantic urgency. Some climbed in with surprising agility; others had to be shoved in with the combined force of three brothers and a lot of complaining. Dwalin nearly took out Ori's nose as he tried to squeeze two sizes too small into a barrel. Elena watched it all with the expression of a woman who had just realized her allies were far less dignified than she remembered. With a wheeze of effort, Bilbo flung the large hatch open to the river below and pulled the lever.
Barrel after barrel dropped with a thunk, followed by a distant splash that echoed like drumbeats in the deep. Kili gave a yelp that trailed off into the sound of churning water. Thorin went with a grunt and an expression that promised vengeance on everyone involved, especially the hobbit. And in seconds, the dwarves were gone, bobbing down the underground river toward freedom.
Which left only Bilbo and Elena standing on the loading platform.
Bilbo turned to her, wide-eyed, face pale. "So… I didn't exactly plan this part."
Elena gave him a long, flat stare. "You led an entire prison escape without planning how you'd escape?"
"I thought I'd improvise!" he hissed, offended by the accusation.
Before she could reply, boots thundered down the steps. A sharp voice called out behind them. "Wait—who's there?!"
Tauriel burst into view at the top of the staircase, her bow half-raised, her eyes narrowing in confusion at the scene below. Elena nudged Bilbo back with one hand and stepped casually onto the trapdoor, drawing the elf's gaze.
"My Queen? What in the stars are you doing?" Tauriel's voice was half-bewildered, half-aghast.
Elena gave her an utterly unapologetic grin, backing slowly toward the edge of the open hatch. "I'm sneaking out of my own house," she said with a shrug, laughter threading through her voice. "It's been years—I forgot how fun it is."
Tauriel's eyes widened in horror. "What? No—My Lady, wait!"
Elena gave a wink.
And then, without another word, she nudged Bilbo gently behind her and stepped back onto the wooden chute. The mechanism groaned under their weight, then the hatch gave way beneath their feet with a sudden crack.
She and the hobbit vanished with a rush of air and a splash of water.
Laughter echoed up the shaft behind them—pure, wild, and free.