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Chapter Text

Maybe it's the four restless hours of sleep you barely managed last night or the three cups of coffee you forced down this morning?
Maybe it's a combination of both? Either way, this is the most vivid dream or hallucination you've ever had.

Frozen to the spot, you gawk at the imposing sight. A vast forest lay before you, spreading out as far as the eye can see; trees towering high above ground like gigantic pillars, seemingly forming a hostile wall to keep intruders out.
Some of them have trunks as wide as the length of a car and none appear small enough for you to wrap your arms around. Their gnarly branches loop and twist towards the sky, reaching such a height that they manage to block out the sun. You've never seen anything like it before.

Everything is still, like a painting; there's no wind nor breeze, no sound cutting through the air; not even a bird taking flight. Peering in between the trees, attempting to see further than your eyesight allows, you take notice of how dark the forest is.
No, not dark, that doesn't adequately describe it. Dark is a moonless night or a dingy basement; this is a black hole swallowing any light that seeks to penetrate the murky air. And if that isn't enough, you sense a presence as if you're being watched; the unsettling sensation akin to having spiders running over naked skin.

A shiver rakes through your body and you wrap your arms around you.

This isn't real, can't possibly be. A headshake. No, you're on your way to work. You sat down not five minutes ago on the bus taking you to another tedious shift at the fast-food joint downtown. And furthermore, you live in the city - nowhere near a forest!

So how can you be here...?

You must've fallen asleep on the bus. Right, that must be it. It wouldn't be the first time. Even as your mind clambers to hold onto this explanation it's instantly rejected by the more rational part of your brain, as no dream has ever manifested itself in such a crystal clear, tangible manner.
On top of that, what are the odds of dozing off when the surge of caffeine is still wreaking havoc in your body?
To put matters to rest you resort to pinching yourself in the arm, wincing at the brief sharp pain that quickly dulls. An old and perhaps crude trick but it nonetheless further cements your belief that this is not a dream. What then?

It might be that you've cracked; the stress of it all finally getting to you. Falling behind on bills, constant harassment by dissatisfied customers at work, in addition to having your hours cut for the third time over a period of less than four months. Maybe this is what a meltdown looks like from the wrong side of the fence.

Madness or not, staying glued to this one spot won't help the situation. Even though a part of you screams danger, you turn your back on the menacing sight to take in the rest of your surroundings. And almost wish you hadn't.
Behind you is a dried-up field spanning infinity. Nothing else. No trees, houses, no people, nothing. Just the flat yellow and brown dead earth.

Right. So your choices are between a guaranteed death-march over the field with no end in sight or the scary forest that will probably turn out to be haunted. Lovely.
Though you have no choice, you can't just stay here. If this is in some strange way neither a dream nor a surreal vision conjured up by your stressed-out brain battling lack of sleep while high on caffeine, you need to find help. And you'd rather take your chances in the forest.

Edging forward with tiny steps, your gaze leaps side to side in a bid to detect any threats as you approach; body tense and ready to break out into a sprint if need be. Stopping at the very border of the tree line, you discern something on the forest floor. Large, flat stones shaped into a narrow passage. It slinks forward like a snake, cutting a path through the wilderness.

Relief floods through you. The path is obviously manmade and that means there must be people nearby. And people equals help.
Encouraged by the thought, you set out to follow the path. Although you're somewhat put at ease by the discovery, you're still on your guard.
You're not what one would call 'an outdoorsy' person and you have no idea what kind of animals might call such a huge forest home. Wolves, bears? It's best to keep eyes and ears open and stay on the path.

It has probably been hours since you ventured into the forest and the creepiness hasn't lessened. At first glance it's just like walking through a postcard portraying a cosy summer-turned-autumn day; some trees stand tall and green - having lost nothing of their summer coat, whilst others display an array of warm colours; yellow, orange, brown and red.

On further inspection the tranquil illusion falls apart, at the unveiling of a great number of trees growing into twisted and sinister apparitions. Some have foliage of a pale grey shade, as if something has sucked the very life-force out of it, and others wear not a single leaf trembling onto their deformed limbs. They look old. Like centuries old.

As long as you stayed on the path it wasn't that bad. Glaring down at the stones whilst slogging forward, it allowed you to focus on your goal of getting help and ignore the ominous atmosphere. However you must've taken the wrong turn somewhere, the path in places overgrown with roots and moss, and suddenly you found that you had wandered too far and was unable to find your way back.

So yeah, you're definitely lost. Not that you know how it's possible to be lost when never having been "on track" in the first place, since "being on track" would imply that you have an idea where you're heading.

In a miserable haze you stumble and almost fall, barely remaining on your feet. Leaning against the tree of the offending root, heart pounding at the sudden boost of adrenaline, you close your eyes for a moment. Your feet ache and your throat is desperately dry.
There's been no indication of people or a hint of the path and you start to question if there even was a path to begin with, or if it was all just a trick of your mind.

There's no way to tell if it's nearing nightfall or not since the canopy is so thick it shuts out almost all natural light. Even so, the air seems chillier as if the temperature is dropping. It is abnormally quiet. Every little sound is so faint, as if it's being muffled. A small noise catches your attention. Straining your ears, you follow the sound as it leads you to a modest stream.

Before even taking the time to contemplate it, you kneel down and stare at the distorted image of yourself in the moving water.
The water is clear and gently sprays your face when you lean in closer, the cool bite of it brushing against your skin as you all but press your dry and cracked lips to the surface. You're so thirsty. A few mouthfuls of crisp, delicious water to coat your parched throat sounds like heaven.
But you hesitate, knowing that drinking from an unknown source is risky.

The trickling of water grows steadily louder until it's deafening, and it splashes and leaps playfully in an open invitation. You're salivating at the mere thought of sating your thirst. Would one sip really be harmful?

But the prospect of catching a dangerous bacteria and getting sick ultimately makes you pull back. It's not worth the risk.
Putting some distance between you and the temptation, you decide to continue in the same direction as before so you don't end up going in circles.
You start walking with a purpose before coming to an abrupt halt, realizing that you've forgotten which way you came from. Surveying the area, striving to catch onto anything indicating the right way, you give up as everything looks the same.

"Damn it." Your voice is strangely loud in the silence.

To make matters worse, your stomach growls aggressively. It must've been hours since your paltry breakfast, running mostly on caffeine. You rub your stomach as if trying to calm it whilst attempting to desperately keep your mind off of food.



Twinkle.

You flinch. Did you just see something?



There! It happened again! Something is gleaming in the distance. You squint, trying to make it out. What is that?

Maybe it's a flashlight or something reflecting light like binoculars? Gaining additional strength at the thought, you quicken your steps and march towards the source.

It continues to sparkle randomly, guiding you like a lighthouse would a ship.

At first you keep a brisk pace, convinced you'll spot evidence of people any minute, but the further you walk the more distant the light seems to get. After some time you stop, tired and shaking legs refusing to carry you any further. Whatever that sparkling thing is, you're not getting any closer to it and you can't continue wandering around forever.

Spotting a tree with a huge pile of leaves beneath it, you slide down into the dry, soft stack, your exhausted body relaxing somewhat as you stretch and make yourself as comfortable as possible. You need to rest, just for a little while.

When your heavy eyes fall shut, you enter into a dreamless sleep.

Yawning and stretching, something crunches beneath you at the movement, and a heap of something warm and shrivelled falls off your chest. Groaning unhappily at the sudden frigid draft, you lazily roll over to the side, chasing the warmth you lost.
Your leg tickles faintly but you're still too drowsy to pay it any mind, until the sensation registers as something crawling up the leg of your pants. Sitting up with a start you fervently rip up the fabric, smacking an ugly looking insect off with more force than necessary. God, you hate bugs.

Your body is still partially in the grip of sleep, which is why what you're seeing doesn't sink in right away. You blink a couple of times in an attempt to get your blurry eyesight to focus, and when it does, you panic.

Where the hell are you? What-



It takes your foggy brain a while to remember but then it all comes back to you.



You're still there. In the forest.



How -? How can you still... ? This isn't possible. Not possible. Breathe. Breathe. You can't break down now; you need to keep it together.
But you can't help it, shoulders shaking with withheld tears.
Your bottom lip quivers and face scrunches up, ready for the onslaught of tears. It takes several deep breaths and the mantra of don't think about it, don't think about it, to get yourself under control again.

You stare vacantly as you hug yourself and fall back against the tree, using it as support. The hard bark digs into your back and head uncomfortably, but you don't move.

What should you do? A despondent voice in your mind retorts; what can you do?

Panicking won't help - that much is obvious. Panicking never helps. But even though you know that, even though it's logical, you can barely stop yourself from having a meltdown. In an effort to get a hold of yourself, you occupy trembling hands with brushing off leaves clinging to you.
It works for a while. But when your hands become idle, the hysteria is fast approaching again.

Don't think about it.

You smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes and take your time readjusting them. You take notice of how dirty they've become. It's an inconsequential detail, but a welcome distraction as you try to brush off some of the dirt.

Before long your hands are idle again, so you turn your gaze outwards.

It's much dimmer now. It must be nearly evening. You're not happy about the fact that you're going to be stuck in this spooky forest over night, but you shove those worries aside for now. There's no point in heading out when it will soon be pitch-black; you might as well take a longer break and head out in the morning. The plan has the added bonus of you sleeping through the creepiest hours of the day.

A little calmer with a plan of action set in place, you relax yourself as much as possible; which in truth means not at all, because no sane person would be able to relax in your position. Your body doesn't seem to have gotten the memo, because it tries to force a state of normality on you as your empty stomach makes itself known loudly. Sleep has dampened your hunger and thirst a bit, which is a small mercy, but you're going to need to drink and eat soon.

Just another thing to postpone until the morning, you suppose.

You start to shiver in the cold and gather up the leaves again, piling them over you and creating a somewhat snug bundle to hide in. You curse the fact that you don't know how to make a fire to warm yourself. Like really, you're surrounded by tons of wood - it shouldn't be that difficult!

Your obvious lack of survival skills has never bothered you before (although they do now). Never in a million years would you ever have thought you'd end up in a situation like this, so why should you have wasted time learning how to build a shelter, make a fire or distinguish poisonous mushrooms from edible ones? You've never had any use for all of that, being a city-woman born and bred.

The only time you ever left the city was during the summers of your childhood; when your family took the old, rusty caravan on a road trip.
It was always the same destination; a coastal town with crowded beaches, lively restaurants and street musicians at every corner.
Although it was located by the sea, there weren't much in the way of nature to explore except the beach and a few narrow parks squeezed in between bars and shops.

Memories of your vacations there fill you with warmth. The smell of sea-salt, the rough but humid wind, the hot sun; it's all coming back to you. You remember the early days when you hated going there, when you saw it as a punishment to be dragged away from your friends and get stuck with your mom and dad. Those days are still fresh in your mind. Mom would haul you from store to store to "shop" while never spending any money, and you'd end up at some expensive café where you were never allowed to order what you wanted.

Or you'd follow dad around, carrying his bag as he wandered the streets snapping pictures to sell. 'Art' he'd call it when talking to potential customers. 'Getting some money' he'd call it when talking to mom. Nevertheless, he was good at what he did and seemed to have some passion for it. So much so in fact, that he'd often forget about eating or taking a break, which meant you had to go hungry as well. Those days you preferred your mom. At least she kept you fed even though you didn't always like the food.

As you got older you were allowed to do your own thing and that's when you really started to enjoy your vacation. Sometimes you think your parents were relieved that they didn't have to continue with the bother of you trailing after them everywhere.

The memories of being happy and safe eases up the last of the tension in your body, and in a matter of seconds you're back to sleep.

Auch. You're awoken by a jolt of pain. Eyes fly open and immediately widen as a boot collides with your foot.

A man looms over you. Gaping at him you can't believe your luck - someone actually found you! You scramble to get up on your feet.
The man steps back but doesn't take his eyes off of you. You fail to notice the hard gleam in his eye.

"Thank God you found me!" Your voice is coarse and broken but even so, sheer unbridled relief shines through. Clearing your throat you give him a tentative smile. "I'm lost. I have been walking for ages...." You trail off. Two men stand behind him watching the unfolding scene in silence.

Uncertain, you give them a slight nod and a weak "Hello." The man in front of you says something in a foreign tongue and harsh tone and your eyes snap back to him. His hostile gaze pins you to the spot. "I... I don't understand."

A motion draws your attention to the fact that he is holding a knife. With a frightened inhale you take a step backwards. He doesn't follow you, but he doesn't need to. There are three of them and only one of you.
The initial relief when you saw him, convinced that you had been saved from a slow death by starvation, is brutally crushed. Have you fallen into the hands of psychopaths?

You're blindsided when someone speaks from behind you. Your head whips around to spot a fourth man. He speaks rapidly with the man with the knife and although you don't understand them, they appear to be arguing. At long last, the man puts the knife away and you exhale in relief.
With the speed of a viper he grabs a hold of your arm and yanks you forward. You grit your teeth at the sudden and ungentle treatment.
He gives you an unfriendly glare as if you've somehow offended him and you lower your gaze, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

This is where the infamous "fight-or-flight" response should've kicked in, but you're frozen stiff.

With some clipped words the Ungentle One puts the other men in motion and pushes you in front of him, releasing your abused arm in the process.
The flesh throbs and will most likely bruise. Rubbing the tender spot, you’re caught off guard when you’re abruptly shoved forward, temporarily losing your balance.

Daring a quick peek at him you stammer. "W-what do y-you-?"

The others stand some distance off and he gestures towards the group. Does he want you to go to them? You take a tentative step, mindful to move slowly and not antagonize him if you've read his intention wrong.
When he doesn't try to stop you, you take another step. And then another. You pick up the pace and it seems as though that's what they've been waiting for. The men file into a line and make a path through the greenery. They set a high tempo, necessitating you to do the same.

You endeavour to steer clear of the rougher patches of stone and tree roots but it's difficult to spot them in the dark. You trip frequently over the uneven surface; quiet cries of pain and gasps of surprise the only sounds in the otherwise silent march. Terrified that they'll hurt you if you lag behind, you try to keep up with them, but it only leads to you losing your footing even more. The small cuts and scrapes on your knees and hands sting and throb.

After yet another tumble, they adjust their speed to match yours. That small kindness helps alleviate your fear a little, despite the glare of the man at your back. You didn't get a good look at him before - seeing as you're not stupid enough to stare down a man threatening you - but your arm is still aching from his treatment.
The Ungentle One seems to be the one calling the shots, although one of the others managed to get him to put away the knife. At least for now. The knife-wielding maniac is the last one you want at your back, but he doesn't seem willing let you out of his sight.

Out of the blue, two of the men go off in different directions and the third one turns around to face you; it's the man who confronted the Ungentle One. As he approaches, his face is grim.
You panic. "W-what do you want? Please-" He disregards you and says something directed towards the Ungentle One, who in turn tenses up.

The silence that follows whatever statement the man made, has you holding your breath. You want to shrink into yourself, hating to be caught in the middle. Finally, the Ungentle One walks around you and you immediately avert your gaze. He's going to kill you. You know it.
But he just widens the distance between you, as if the other man had told him to back off. You exhale, body shaking.

The other man watches you closely, as if taking in your reaction. Pointing to the ground, he follows the gesture with a string of foreign words.
You take a couple of steps back before sliding down, seating yourself onto the soft moss.
You're not thrilled with the vulnerable position you're in and cautiously observe him. He fiddles with something strapped to his side and hands you a waterskin. You stare at it.

What if it's poison? Or some kind of drug? Should you pretend to taste it just so he'll leave you alone? Ultimately you don't dare refuse his offer but you don't dare drink it either and end up merely cradling it.

His hand moves to a large hunting knife strapped to his belt. It rests there in a relaxed sort of way, but it may as well be a subtle threat.
You're not taking any chances and promptly take a sip. As soon as the liquid hits your taste buds, you realize that it's water.
You drink eagerly, intent on quenching your thirst before he'll take the waterskin back. But he makes no attempt to retrieve it, instead walking over to speak with the Ungentle One. Mentally you dub him 'the Kind One', though it's only kindness in relation to the others.

The other two men return shortly thereafter and join them. You have no idea where they went or what they've been doing. The Ungentle One is listening intently to whatever the other two are saying.

Even though your stomach is slightly bloated with water you continue bringing the water skin to your lips in the hopes of prolonging the break they've given you, as well as using it as a cover to study them. All four are exceptionally tall and slim with long straight hair in a variety of brown hues. You're not used to seeing men with hair flowing down over their shoulders, and definitely not four of them at the same time.

They're dressed rather alike; pants and tunic in green or brown tones fitting snugly as if they're custom made; leather strapped to their arms - what are those called, arm guards? - looking as though they've stepped out from a movie set about medieval times. Two of them carry a bow and a quiver with arrows. Bows and arrows? Who are these people - Robin Hood?

If you dismiss their strange attire and odd behaviour, a bow and arrow can only have one purpose - hunting. You may be from the city, but even you have seen bows and arrows being sold in stores for hunters. Though they look nothing like these.
Glancing at the other two, you see that they carry swords. Swords! Who goes hunting with a sword? Well, obviously no one does. What are they even doing out here dressed like that? Even if two of the men might be explained away as hunters, the ones with swords are definitely not.

If they weren't so hostile you might've thought they were helping you, but you doubt it. You have no idea what they want, but for now you have no other choice but to go along with their plan. The forest is huge and you've already managed to get lost once and would probably die of thirst or be killed by a predator in no time. You have a higher chance of surviving if you stay with them.

Your whole body is aching from this ordeal but your rest is cut short. The Ungentle One barks some orders and the group is on the move again.
As you get back on your feet, you start to think that the question you should be asking yourself isn't who they are, but rather where you are going... and what will happen to you when you get there?

Chapter Text

Branches snap beneath your heavy steps and small pebbles are sent flying as you barely muster the energy to continue lifting your feet.
You're exhausted beyond belief but the men show no sign of stopping. You must've been walking for hours and the strength you acquired by the short break earlier is a long time since depleted. At least the shadows of night have been chased away by the dim light of day, making the hike a little bit easier to endure.

As you trample onward there's a rapid movement in your peripheral vision. Tired eyes instinctively veer to the spot but there's nothing to see besides trees and bushes. Looking away from the trail was an ill-advised decision however, as you stumble almost immediately. About to fall flat on your face, you're saved by a hand brusquely tugging you backwards, allowing you to regain your balance.
You take a moment to draw shallow breaths, feeling lightheaded from exhaustion and lack of food. The respite is brief as an unsympathetic push from the Ungentle One demands you keep going.





Twinkle.

You blink. Was that-?

Twinkle.

You scan the area in short bursts, not daring to take your eyes off the ground for too long. It glints again, always in the fringe of your vision no matter where you look, so you can't pinpoint where it's coming from. Is it the same light that you saw before?
After all you've been through the last few hours, you had forgotten about the strange gleam you had followed earlier in the belief it was people.
All four men of the group are accounted for, meaning that it's coming from something or someone else.

Your curiosity is awakened just as the teasing light vanishes once more, and there's nothing else to distract you from sore feet and burning scratches. You sigh quietly. Right now you would've done almost anything to be allowed to rest.


Rustle.


Not one to learn from earlier mistakes, you turn your head in the hopes of seeing a human face; perhaps someone who'll get you out of whatever situation you've managed to get yourself into.
This time the Ungentle One anticipates the misstep and takes a hold of you straight away, keeping you upright.

To your disappointment you can't see anyone, meaning you annoyed the aggressive man behind you for no good reason. Although you could've sworn something stirred in the bushes. It might've been an animal that ran and hid of course, but somehow it doesn't feel very likely.
Thinking about it, you realize that you haven't seen or heard any animal since being stranded here. Except one bug. It's almost as if the forest is completely empty of life. Well, present company excluded.

Worried that the Ungentle One is losing what little patience he has left with you, you walk on without tarrying, even though a part of you wants to investigate the sound.

The rustling doesn’t stop. You glance around a few more times but is only met by nothing. The strange light coupled with the movements of something unseen is starting to unnerve you. You even get the feeling of being watched from outside the group.

What if the forest really is haunted?

One of the men in the front slows his steps until you catch up with him. It’s the Kind One. So far he's saved you from being stabbed and given you water, and so you walk at his side without worry. In fact, it serves as a balm to your fragile nerves. The Ungentle One would doubtless throw you to the metaphorical wolves, but perhaps the Kind One would keep you from harm.

You feel the change before you see it; the bumpy surface all of the sudden smooth, and the sound of your footsteps no longer drowning in spongy soil, but making noise as you step on solid ground. You want to laugh as well as cry - you're back on the stony path that got you into this mess in the first place! Here, the trail is fenced by lanterns attached to low hanging branches, giving off a white, brilliant glow. Additional lanterns pop up here and there, driving away the ominous gloom of the forest. Is that what you saw earlier- lanterns swinging in the wind?

Flinching at another noise you turn to the Kind One, perhaps looking for reassurance or protection from whatever is out there.
As he is looking up, you follow his line of sight and gasp. "Oh my God..."

Eyes dart from one tree to another as you attempt to take it all in while you draw nearer. There's just too much too look at and you come to a standstill, gaping in shock and wonder. You've never, never, seen anything even closely resembling this.

The mammoth trees houses sizeable huts; though it's next to sacrilegious to use such a feeble term as 'hut' to describe structures of such beauty and elegance. The buildings are more round than square in shape and gives the impression of being a natural part of the columns of greenery that supports them. They have high arches instead of doors and windows and there is no glass, no barrier between the inside and out, thus allowing for an unobstructed view of the surrounding nature.

These man-made dwellings are not made out of unpainted, unadorned timber, akin to what one might expect to find in a forest. No, they give the impression of beaming with a subdued light, evoking images of the trillions of small diamonds scattered over the night sky. And they are simply captivating in their embellishments.

The sight is breath-taking and chases away your fatigue. Not even a shove from the Ungentle One can bring you out of the bubble of amazement that enwraps you. You faintly register someone speaking and the Ungentle One doesn't repeat the action. Maybe the Kind One stepped in, but right now it doesn't matter. You don't think you'll ever see anything quite as fantastical again and you drink it in eagerly - ignoring the others.

It takes a while for you to notice that there are several 'floors' of these buildings, though they don't seem to have been arranged in any particular order. The lowest placed ones are bolstered some thirty feet above ground (aprox. 9 m) and those at the very top are probably more than six hundred feet up. (Aprox. 182 m.) The higher up the placement, the greater and more extravagant they seem to become, though you can't know for sure at this distance.

There's no visible rope or poles to reinforce the structures, there's only curved branches gracefully enveloping the floor and ceiling of each building, without impeding the visibility of the landscape. As your eyes travel from one building to the other, your focus shifts to simple, narrow bridges of wooden planks that dangles between them. Your breath hitches when you see a bridge sway slightly.
Who in their right mind would dare walk around up there? In any other case you'd write it off as some kind of extreme sport activity, but that does not fit in the slightest with the surroundings that looks so elegant and serene.

At long last, you take notice of the people, though many of them do a good job of blending in with their environment. Dozens of them are standing on small platforms just outside the buildings; several are watching your tiny group on the ground with unhidden curiosity.
What little you can see of your audience they appear to be dressed like the men who brought you here, and all of them have long hair - quite unpractical in your opinion, but beautiful all the same.

In one of stunning structures a woman is visible as she's playing on a lute, lost in thought. Dressed in a sinuous gown of apricot colour with silky hair draped over one shoulder, she resembles a princess from a fairy-tale. And you're mesmerized. A young girl comes into view and she excitedly whispers in the woman's ear, leading the latter to put down the lute as she peers over the edge to study you.

A couple of other people has stopped on their way over the beforementioned bridges, uncaring about their own safety as their gazes are drawn to you. They're even a few children in the trees; playing with the carefree attitude of the adults.

These are homes. And families.

This is not the folly of a handful of people, but from the looks of it it's the home of hundreds, if not more. The size of a small town.

You're so caught up in staring back at the tree-people - fascinated not only by them, but by the glimpse of this strange but captivating place - that you don't notice the increasingly aggravated voice trying to reach you. Ultimately, a forceful push brings you back to reality. The Ungentle One snarls at you and you stumble over your feet in your hurry to get moving.

There's an impatient air in the group as if the journey is coming to an end, but this is obviously not your destination. You have no idea if that's a good thing or not, But you have a feeling that you'll soon find out.

You don’t have to venture far from the tree homes before the deafening sound of raging water breaks the silence. Through the foliage you catch a glimpse of a violent river cascading down what appears to be the side of rugged foothill of some hidden mountain.
Water crashes against the rocky riverbank, spilling over the tree roots penetrating the boulders of stone; the unrelenting tendrils of the forest reaching even such an inhospitable place.

The men approach the river with determined steps, so it's quite obvious that the end goal is on the other side. Your heart beats quicker. You'll soon know why they've taken you.

When you're close enough that you can almost feel the spray of water on your skin, a solid bridge emerges. It's built high over the rushing water; a beautiful arch of grey stone, the beginning and end of it melting seamlessly into the riverbanks.

At first the bridge appears narrow, but when you step out on the smooth stone you realize it's broad enough to allow four people to walk side by side. Still, it does little to quell the fear in you. The bridge lacks railing and it would only take a shove from one of the men to have you falling down, head first, to your death.

Soon your focus is shifted to what awaits on the other side. This time you don't stop and stare, but you're still extremely impressed.

You're faced with a hostile wall of stone; the material untouched but for a huge decorative facade carved out by skilled hands.
Placed in the centre of the facade is a narrow, tall gate in the colour of a blue sky. Beneath the gate is a terrace of sorts, acting like a link between the bridge and the entrance. The terrace is encompassed by ornate sky-reaching pillars placed in the shape of a half-moon. The pillars emulate trees in appearance; all of them carefully sculptured to have twisted roots spreading down to the floor below.

The river is not very broad so you cross the bridge quickly. Now close enough to study the pillars further, you muse that they don't seem to be carved out of stone but almost out of living wood. Is that even possible?

Your group stops in front of the gate. One man is standing guard on each side of it, dressed in armour of the same colour as the pillars.
Although they're wearing helmets that cover their faces almost completely, you're sure they're watching you. After a quick word exchange with the Ungentle One, one of the guards nods and allows you to go forward. At first you want to dig your heels in and refuse. Where are they taking you? What is this place - a cave? A mine? You don't like the thought of being stuck in either one.

Body tensing up, you're briefly contemplating your options. The only way to freedom right now is over the bridge you just crossed, but there's no way you'll outrun half a dozen armed men without getting wounded or killed in the process. You draw a shaky breath. You should've done something long before now if you were going to act brave. The Ungentle One scrutinizes you, watching your facial expression fall as you ultimately give up any notion of escape and reluctantly step through the blue gate.

It's unclear if anyone other than the Ungentle One would hurt you but you'd rather not make yourself anymore of a target than you already are. Sure, the Kind One has helped you a couple of times, but he has also let some abuse slide; your back is surely covered in bruises after all the shoving you've been subjected to, so you're not keen to test how far his goodwill might stretch. Better to do as they say. For now.

One of the men precedes you and you stare at his broad shoulders blocking most of your view. The kind One walks beside you, which at first was a bit comforting but for every step you take becomes less so. He doesn't acknowledge your presence at all and there are no more kind gestures.
It reinforces your fear that maybe he won't protect you against the others if they aim to inflict harm upon you.

The last two men of the group, including the Ungentle One, are at your back. To make sure you can't escape you suppose. Not that it would be possible, as you hear the hefty gate shut sombrely behind you.
Although you're now cut off from the sunshine outside, it doesn't turn dark as you expected it to. There are sizeable lamps suspended from columns on either side of the walkway you follow, illuminating the ground with a gentle, golden light.

Being enclosed in a cave should make you feel trapped, but you don't. It's so spacious, it's like a arena. You can barely glimpse the ceiling, not even sure if there is a ceiling or just the night sky.
The walls as well as the majority of the ground are engulfed in lush green moss looking like grass and giving the appearance of still being in the forest. There's also another bridge to cross, once more mirroring the outside, but this time there's no river underneath - only hard, flattened rocks.

It's all so beautiful and unsettling at the same time.

As you advance deeper, more is gradually revealed. There's no one walking at your right-hand side, permitting your roaming gaze free access.
In every direction there are paths and stairs, some disappearing behind blocks of stone and some leading to doorways.

A whisper of sound. You peek over the edge to spot two men below, armed to the teeth, patrolling. With knitted brows you take a gander at the Kind One. None of the men give you the impression of being a regular labourer and the cave doesn't strike you as a mine. What is this place? Not only are there armed men outside who are obviously screening people as well as a heavy gate keeping unwelcome visitors away - but there's armed guards inside on top of that? This is better guarded than the Pentagon.

You struggle to take it all in and search for clues, but it's an impossible task. You're steered down a different path and your eyes drift further up until they catch onto two women dressed in silk dawdling nearby. Lowering their gazes, they give a small curtsey as you pass. You stare at them over your shoulder until they are out of sight.

Why would anyone wear a dress in a cave? And not just any dress but one that would've fit in well at the Oscar's? No amount of imagination - even though it's running rampant at the moment - can give a rationale for it. Your head is spinning with all the information and impressions.

You spy an additional handful of people as you ponder this oddity, whereof most of them are armed men, but a couple of them seem to be - for a lack of a better word - civilians; one carrying a basket of linen and another a wooden bucket and a broom.
That means they are both cleaning and doing laundry somewhere around here. Maybe there's a bunker hidden? No matter what, it's clear that this isn't just some cave in the middle of nowhere.

People live here.

Chapter Text

The cave is like a maze. After several twists and turns, you're not sure if you'll ever be able to find your way back.

You're following a narrow, curved road, which you suspect isn't truly a road at all. It appears to be a enormous fallen tree that has been cut in half vertically - the rings of age hinted at under your feet. Ordinarily you would've laughed at the thought of something so absurd. Except, you've seen the strangely formed and gigantic trees in the forest with your own eyes. So the fact that this road might be one colossal tree - fully intact - doesn't come across as that unlikely.

Showing up here out of the blue (wherever here is), the spooky forest, the extraordinary tree-houses and mystifying cave as well as the people... Your mind isn't capable of taking in many more impressions as it's simply too much all at once.
Instead you try to shut it all out. Push it away to deal with it at a later time. And in any case, even though the environments so far have been astonishing, it isn't distracting enough to override the anxiety that steadily grows, tearing at your insides.

Far off in the distance something huge and dark looms foreboding, stretching out in the shape of massive and menacing claws.
Stricken by the thought that this might be the lair of a giant spider - the silhouette of claws actually being the spider's legs - draws a gasp of dread from you. They're going to feed you to it, aren't they? Your imagination has you convinced almost to the point of digging your heals in ready to put up a fight, refusing to be the spider's next meal, when you notice that it's lifeless. What the ...?

You crane your neck, striving to get a better look. Whatever it is, it's perched above some kind of pedestal, although you're too far away to know for sure. That won't be an issue for long though, as it's soon apparent that's where you're heading.

Eyes trailing upwards the ceiling, your gaze catches at exceptionally tall and magnificent columns originating from somewhere far below the trail. They rise around a dais of sorts, hugging it on all sides, and embrace one another in elegant arches far above your head. Warm, soft light caresses the structure like a lover's hand, creating the illusion of glimmering gold embedded in the stone.

It's breathtakingly beautiful.

As the trail takes a turn, a stair of some length comes into view. It consists of wide steps of stone and is rather flat and drawn-out like an accordion, without much height to it. As you ascend, feet heavy with the knowledge that you might not like what you'll see at the other end, what was only hinted at before now reveals itself fully. Above the pedestal are the removed and mounted antlers of a huge deer - the likes of which you've never seen before.

The dais is obviously the focal point of the cave - everything else paling in comparison - and you try to think of what purpose it has. The antlers seem to dominate the area, so maybe it's a sort of trophy room - a place for the hunters to display their prey?

Glancing at the man beside you, the one you named the Kind One, you notice that he's turned stiff. There's a slight tension in the air, almost like reverence. Is this a holy place for them? A temple of sorts? A horrific thought flashes across your mind and your heart begins to beat fiercely, as if trying to burst through its prison of flesh. It's starting to resemble a kind of... altar, isn't it?

You don't even have to be a fan of horror movies to know that when an altar's involved, that never bodes well. You're almost expecting to see a witch doctor standing inside of a huge pentagram with a ceremonial knife in hand - ready to sacrifice you to some pagan god.

Is that what this is - a cult? Sweat is running down your back even as you're chilled to your bones. Sneaking a brief look at the Kind One once more, your eyes wander over his weapons. The bow and arrow might not be a hunter's tools at all, but instead used for a more sinister purpose.

Cult members, terrorists or whatever they may be, there's a wrongness in the air as if something else is watching, following your every step. Something much worse. It's the same feeling you had prior to all this, when you deliberated between the forest and the field.

Tears prickle in your eyes as fear bubbles to the surface more prominent than before. Biting your lip, you swallow the begging that threatens to leave your mouth. You pleaded with them earlier but it made no difference. Why should it matter now?

You're not sure if they can't understand you or if they choose not to communicate. Though you guess it's the former, seeing as intimidating you to obedience would've been so much easier with words. Nevertheless, language barrier or not, there's no mistaking someone begging for their life. And if it comes down to it, you're not too proud to refrain from crawling at their feet to beg for mercy.

You choke back your fear best you can. You don't have to write your obituary just yet. They might bring you to someone you can reason with, someone that might take pity on you. Is it a vain hope to want to believe that someone in this bewitching place harbours a kind heart?

Maybe. But that hope makes breathing easier.

Sentinels on both sides of the dais stand watch as your group approaches. They are as fiercely dressed as the men at the blue gate; covered in armour to the point where the person underneath is all but hidden. All of them are of equal height and a similar build, giving the impression of having been made from the same mould. In one hand they hold a long spear pointing straight into the air, and in the other - a shield.

As you pass the first row of guards, your breath hitches. The huge antlers are revealed to be attached - not to an altar - but to what appear to be a sturdy chair carved out of the trunk of a tree. The chair is elevated over the dais to the point where you have to crane your neck to see the occupant. And when you do...

You’ve never seen anyone like him before.

The man is at least as tall as the guards, if not taller, and of a slender build. Every item of clothing is luxurious; from the knee high boots
of soft leather to the ring-dressed hand languorously resting on fine, colourful fabric draped over the chair, the expensive-looking stones glistening at the smallest movement.

He’s dressed in a long, formfitting jacket of silver-grey with gold woven in, the fabric shimmering like a jewel when catching the light.
He's sporting a high collar open at the throat in a modest V-neckline, teasing only a glimpse of skin. The jacket is slit open at his hips, revealing dark tight-fitting pants underneath, showing off his well-defined legs.
A broche of silver in the form of a deer with huge, sprawling antlers is fastened on his chest, and it would probably look gaudy on any other person, but it suits him well.

A crown of red berries and autumn leaves are resting on silver-gold hair flowing down like silk over his shoulders and chest. His skin's pale, as if he never sees the sun, and for a brief moment you contemplate that he might be a vampire, until you realize how ridiculous that is.
He should've looked feminine and perhaps even tacky, but instead he looks stunning. His features are sharp and elegant and definitely male.

Seated on the hard wood as comfortable as if it's made out of pillows, his eyes follows your small group as you stop at a respectable distance.
The Ungentle One speaks and you quickly lower your gaze hoping not to attract unwanted attention, but you can't help yourself as you slowly work your way back up and watch the new stranger through your eyelashes.

Eyes of shifting grey to pale blue searches your face but you stubbornly refuse to meet them. Above his magnetic gaze there's dark eyebrows stroked with silver, now slightly furrowed.

The man answers the Ungentle One in an unhurried pace, almost nonchalantly. After a bit back and forth between them, the Stranger ends the conversation with words heavy with finality. There's no mistaking the fact that he has issued a command and clearly expects to be obeyed. The four men clears out without hesitation. You almost want to run after them.

Looking down at you from his high-vantage point, the Stranger is the epitome of refinement and pride. He's obviously the leader of whatever this is; the men treat him with such deference. And that's when it hits you - he's not sitting in a chair but on a throne.

The man looks at you with a disinterested expression but his eyes are a whirlwind trying to trap your gaze. He says something in a quizzical tone directed towards you but you have no idea what he's asking. Noticing your bewilderment, he changes the melody of the words and asks a question in another language. But you still don’t understand him.

He searches your face once more. “You are not of the woodmen," he asserts, the words finally hitting the right notes. "Who are you?”

Shock and relief washes over you. If you can speak with him, you can reason with him. Explain that there must've been a mistake.

He quickly catches on to the fact that you can now communicate. “You speak the shore-language.”

You frown at his statement, unsure why he calls it that. However, since his intense stare are burning through you as if he can see your very soul, you don't dare question him. “Y-yes,” you stutter.

Eyes scanning you from top to bottom slowly as if wanting to take in every detail, you fight the impulse to cross your arms over your chest, blushing at your dishevelled and dirty appearance after having been dragged through the forest.

His voice's calm when he speaks but there's still sharpness underneath. “Why are you trespassing in my kingdom?”

Trespassing? You swallow. “I-I…I didn’t mean… I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Oh?” His tone is unchanged. “And where are you supposed to be?”

You're trying to answer but your tongue is tied and you can't manage even a simple sound. It feels like minutes passes by with glacial speed before he speaks again. “Amroth informed me that you were found alone."

Amroth? Is that the name of the Ungentle One? That's the one he spoke with before, so you guess so. Is it a good thing that your kidnappers give out their names like that?

Probably not.

He makes an indifferent gesture. "Found with no belongings on your person. Not even provisions. Where are your companions?”

"Companions?"

“You did not travel to this place alone." He eyes narrows. "Not without an escort. And not without provision.”

“I-I… there’s no one else." Oh my god. Is that why they kidnapped you? They're looking for someone else and suspect that you came here with them? "I was on the bus, and then it… it just… disappeared.”

He raises an eyebrow condescendingly. “Disappeared?”

When you don't offer anything more, he instead asks; "What is 'the bus'?”

Eyes almost popping out of your head, you stammer; "It... it's like... like a ... a car." When he's silent as if waiting for an answer without showing a hint of understanding, you continue carefully; “It’s a way of transportation. To go from one place to another.”

You’re not sure if he’s messing with you or if he really doesn’t know, but the sight of the heavily armed guards makes your decision to humour him an easy one. You'd rather not be impaled by a spear.

Without missing a beat he probes you further; “To where will your journey take you?”

“To... well, to my job.”

A split second it almost looks like he frowns but then his expression's smooth again. “Job?”

Is... is he serious? Doesn't he know what a job is? Or is he asking where you work? Somehow you can tell it's the former and not the latter.

“The place I work at.”

He leans back, drumming a hand on the armrest. “And what is your occupation?”

If he doesn't know what a job or bus is, he's probably not going to understand the concept of a fast-food restaurant, so you're trying to find some simple way to explain it. “I… I give people food. To eat.”

“You are a simple cook then?”

Though he doesn't sound disbelieving, you can feel it in the air. He doesn't trust you. Right back at ya.

“No, I.. I don’t make the food,” you clarify. “People pay me to give them food.”

“Ah, a businesswoman,” he exclaims. “That I am more acquainted with amongst you humans. Are you here to conduct business?”

Though he's not exactly right, you've no intention of correcting him. You don't want to explain the soul-sucking job in detail.
But how are you going to explain ending up here when you don't know yourself?
You’re thinking at a hundred miles a hour. You should be careful. The wrong answer might lead to torture and death.

“Errmm... yeah. I was on my way to... conduct business," you answer slowly, "but something happened and I wo-“you immediately change the words “woke up” and end with “- wound up here.”

“Is that so?” His facial expression turns bored, as if a new shiny toy turned out to be a disappointment. "You lie. Like many of your kind.”

You gape at him like a fish on dry land, fear making you unable to form words anymore.

"You are trespassing on my lands and I will have the truth of it from you." He nods towards the guards and two of them break free from their positions to take hold of you.

"I am patient," he says, "I can wait." His voice is little more than a whisper as you're hauled away but the threat’s clear.

"A year... a decade. It matters little to an elf."

Chapter Text

With a firm hand you're pushed inside a small room and you walk forward without a word of protest, not wanting to anger the armed guards behind you. Expecting there to be a stair or something leading on, you're surprised when met with a solid stone wall. You whip around only to have a door slammed shut in your face. The guards leave before you can even question what's going on.

The 'room' you're in is hardly wide enough to hold two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but it's quite deep. And although you can't be sure without asking the architect of this place, the room appears more like a very small man-made grotto.
The door consists of thick, rather widely-spaced bars of unbendable dark metal, though it's not wide enough for someone to squeeze through. Pressing your face in-between two of the bars, you feel the metal scrape against the soft skin of your cheeks as you try to take in as much as you can of your surroundings.

Water is dribbling from the cave ceiling with soft echoing sounds, making splashes as it gently collects into tiny pools on the stone floor.
It's so damp and glacial down here at the near bottom of the cave it almost hurts to breathe; the steam of your warm breath suffocating as it meets the wall of freezing air.

You can't see any guards. Are you really alone or are they hiding out of sight?

Seconds tick by while you're rooted to the spot, as if expecting someone to walk into view at any moment and intimidate you into curling in a corner. When that doesn't happen, you don't know if that makes the situation feel better or worse. But just because you can't see them, doesn't necessarily mean they can't see you. You might be under surveillance.

Although you're not sure what to look for, you scan the area again - more thoroughly this time. When you still can't spot any invasive cameras it makes you marginally more at ease.

Seeing as they might have torture or God knows what lined up, you know that you can't linger here for long. Not even to rest up. It really does seem as if the guards are gone and this might be your only chance for freedom. So you must take it!

... Right? Right.

The logical part of your brain concur with your plan to get as far away from these maniacs as possible, even encouraging it fervently, screaming for you to go! go! But your body is rigid with crippling fear. What if they catch you trying to escape? What will they do to you?

And how are you supposed to get out? You have no idea how to pick a lock, so that option is off the table. Option B would be to dig your way out like you've seen being done in prison movies, but even if you had a tool to use, the thickness of these walls is ridiculous. You could spend ten years digging and still not get closer to freedom.

Wait... you didn't notice the guards locking the door. Did they? You sneak closer to the door handle, breathing uneven and hand visibly shaking even as you form it into a fist in an attempt to steady it.

If you do manage to get through the door, how are you going to find your way back through the cave and get passed the blue gates without getting caught? One problem at a time.

An inch from the handle, your breathing stops completely. This is the moment of truth.

An icy water drop hits your exposed neck. Audibly gasping, you almost jump out of your skin at the contact. As the cold burns your skin, you're trying to calm down your rapidly beating heart.

It's only water. Come on. It's nothing to be scared of. Your inner-voice is not convincing in the least.

Trying to muster up some courage even as your eyes are wide with terror, your hand inches closer to the door handle again.

Rattle. Rattle.

The door is locked.

Deflated, and strangely, almost relieved, you take a couple of steps backwards. Well, they would've been lousy prison-guards if they'd left the cell door unlocked. So what now?

Scanning your eyes over the small cell again, you see a low bed to one side, carved directly out of the rock. It's covered with a thin mattress.
Are you meant to sleep on that? Or are they just trying to scare you into submission, softening you up before interrogating you?
It makes sense, you suppose. Isn't that what they're always doing in movies? But it doesn't matter if you know what tricks they're up to, when it's working.

Still staring out through your cell door you can see that your cell is not the only one of its kind. There are several more all spread out at different heights; some below you and some above. Are there more people trapped here?
You listen intently but don't hear anything except water dripping. Maybe they're sleeping? You've lost all track of time but it might be in the middle of the night by now. Either way, you're beyond exhausted.

Your back hurts at a mere look at the poor excuse for a bed, but you've been walking for hours and your feet can't take anymore abuse.
Reluctantly you sit down. The moisture of the mattress quickly seeps through your clothes and you hop up from the bed as if it bit you.
Half-turning your upper-body, you see a wet patch spread all over your backside. Yuck. That's disgusting. Stupidly you try to minimize the damage by brushing a hand over the spot repeatedly, but of course it does nothing.

Damn it. Can this get any worse?

And at that precise moment you need to pee. Again looking around, to see if you perhaps missed a toilette, you realize to your horror that there's not even a pot left in the cell for you.
Maybe you can hold it in for a bit longer? But it's doubtful. You've been holding it in for hours and now when your body's finally starting to relax after being tense for so long, the need is urgent.

You press your face against the bars again. "Hello?" Your voice's low, as if afraid of making too much sound.

There's no answer so you raise your voice and try again; "Hello? Is someone there?"

Still no answer.

Great. That's just... great.

Glancing over to a corner of the cell, you wrinkle your nose. You've lived your whole life in the city where there's always been a restroom close by. You've peed outside once in your life and that's when you were drunk.

This is going to be so gross.

Later

There's a loud rumble from your stomach as it groans with hunger. Although you don't have a watch, you must've been in here for hours by now. You've not eaten for a whole day, if not longer. Are they going to starve you?

At least you've access to water. What's the rule - you can survive three weeks without food but you can only survive three days without water?
If it's true or not, you don't know. But at least you can starve for about three weeks before dying. That's good to know.

Two fingers rubbing your temples on each side, you're trying to ease the mounting headache. You'd really like some painkillers right now. Maybe a little water will help?

Cupping your hands together in a 'u' shape, you hold them at strategic places where the water drips from the ceiling. It takes several minutes before there's enough for a mouthful, but you've got nothing but time right now so it doesn't really matter. After drinking several mouthfuls, you're satisfied for the moment.

Although you've avoided it for as long as you can, you finally break down and return to the damp bed. Removing your sweater you use it as a blanket and let your bare shoulder press down into the wet mattress.

You barely stifle a joyless laugh remembering how often you complained to your friends about your apartment being too hot and suffocating.
You always have to crack open a window because the AC works like crap and you mostly sleep without a blanket with a fan blowing straight at you just to get some relief. But now you're shivering, cold, wet and miserable; longing for your too-hot apartment and soft bed.

To keep your mind off the misery you're in, you make a few signs with stiff hands, fingers barely cooperating due to the cold. You recall signs for simple words you picked up some years ago when you dated a guy who had a deaf sister. You've always loved languages and eagerly threw yourself at the task of learning sign language, even keeping it up a while after you stopped dating him.

The signs die away as you zero in on the layers of dirt and grime on your hands. Your fingernails look like you've been playing at being a gardener; all blackened by filth. Even the tiny tattoo on your right wrist is almost covered by mud.

You trace the tattoo with a finger.

You got it about eight years ago with your then best friend. Young, giggling and flirting with the handsome tattoo artist; you had both been excited and full of life and expectations for the future. She had wanted to be a singer and you wanted to travel the world. And there was not one iota of doubt in either one of you that you wouldn't both succeed.

It might've as well been another lifetime ago.

The tattoo is black in colour and looks like a very stylized 'M' where the letter ends with a low sharp stroke reminiscent of a scorpion’s tail. Fitting, since it's the symbol of the star sign you were born under.
It's silly really. You don't even believe in star signs. But she had gotten hers - a Capricorn - and you had gotten yours. Every time you look at it, it reminds you of a simpler time. A time when you were happy.

Another rumble from your stomach.

Oh, you're having some serious cravings for a pizza. The mere thought of thick pizza crust covered with tomato sauce with melted cheese on top, fresh mushrooms and spicy pepperoni makes your mouth water. You can just imagine the grease dripping from the pizza slice down your chin as you bite into it, the flavour exploding in your mouth.

At that very thought, you hear a faint sound. Immediately you stiffen. What is that - rats? Or is someone coming?

Unsure if you should scramble off the bed or pretend to sleep, you just lie there, quiet and very still as an unfamiliar face appear.
The man bends down and you can hear him putting something on the ground. He speaks a few words and leaves. You've no idea what he said, but when he's gone you peek over the edge of the bed and see food.

There's a steaming hot bowl of porridge of some kind; white, thick and grainy; and golden-brown bread wrapped in a napkin made of a huge green leaf. You're not fond of bread so you throw yourself over the porridge, burning your tongue in the process.

It actually doesn't taste like porridge. It's more like a mixture of coconut and cinnamon and maybe a little vanilla. Almost like a dessert.
You wrap the bread-in-leaf in your sweater, intending to save it for later. It's better not to take anything for granted from these people. And that includes food.

Eyes heavy and yawning uncontrollable, you return to your former position in bed. Although you're shaking from the cold, it takes only a few seconds for sleep to overtake you. Asleep, you dream. But even in your dreams, you're not free.
Instead your mind's invaded by a man with haunting eyes of shifting grey to pale blue. Eyes that seem to strip you bare to your very core.

And you just know that you haven't seen the last of him.

Chapter Text

Sometime later 

If anyone had asked you - just a few days back - what you thought your primary emotion would be if you'd been kidnapped, you'd never have thought it would be boredom. You're so, so bored.
It's like sitting and waiting for the bus all alone and with no book, friendly conversation or phone to kill the time. You're just waiting and waiting for that damn bus. It's driving you up the wall.

No one's been back yet to give you more food and you're glad that you saved the bread-in-leaf. Walking back and forth in your cramped cell, you eat tiny, tiny pieces of it, making sure to ration it for as long as you can.
The golden-brown bread has the texture of a sponge cake and the taste's so foreign, there's nothing you can compare it to. Not that you're a connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination; you've practically been raised on junk food and rarely use the old stove sat in your apartment, preferring the microwave instead.

This is getting ridiculous. You're spending your time thinking about bread. Bread. That's how bored you are.

And it's not helpful that there's no way for you to keep track of time, seeing as there's no difference between day and night. No matter if the cave has a roof or not, the cell is obviously too far down and tucked away for any natural daylight to reach you.
There's only the faint glow of lamps hidden away from your view and therefore you can't know for certain if days have passed or merely hours.

For the first time in your life, you're cursing the fact that you don't wear a watch. You've always preferred to use your mobile phone instead, but unfortunately your bag didn't get magically teleported with you.

It's odd. The boredom struggles with the fear of death looming over your head. When you hear a sound that you mistake for footsteps, your breath hitches and you mentally beg to be left alone, beg that no one will show up and drag you out to torture and certain death.
But on the other hand, you're also terrified of being forgotten down here, left for weeks or months even. Starving. Fading away bit by bit, until there's nothing left but skin and bone.

You don't want to think about either scenarios, but you can't help it. There's nothing distracting you from going back to those dark places in your mind. And you don't know which fate is worse.

You come to an abrupt halt in the middle of your cell - which is also coincidentally the beginning and the end of your small cell - and frustrated kick the wall, immediately regretting it when the pain shoots up your icy-cold foot.
The foot pulsates from the assault and you bend over in a fog of pain, using the most colourful swear words in your vocabulary.

Yeah, okay, that was a bad idea.

Gently, you remove your sneaker and sweat-soaked sock and rub the aching part of your foot, trying to both soothe the hurt and bring some warmth. Your movements are awkward. Your fingers aren't at all willing to obey you, they're red and frozen from the cold and you're starting to lose feeling in your pinkies. That's what makes you spring into action.

At first you do a couple of wobbly jumps up and down, followed by a dozen bending down and jumping up into the air. If anyone saw you they'd probably think you're insane - exercising in your prison cell.
It doesn't take much for your untrained self to warm up, the blood flow increasing with every motion. You stop before sweat starts to break out, because you'll be a lot colder afterwards if you sweat and allow it to cool.

You're definitely going to get a cold staying here. Though that's probably going to be the least of your problems, it's still nothing you'd want to experience where you don't have access to pain-killers, tissues and coffee.
Oh, you could go for some coffee right now. You usually only drink it in the mornings to get a kick-start, and maybe once or twice during your shift if it's a long one. But you'd drink almost anything right now if it's warm. You've never been this cold for so long in your whole life.

Why am I here?

The thought pops up in your mind now and again. It's so frustrating because you've no answer. The man with the grey eyes - you hesitate to think of him as king because it's just too intimidating - haunts your dreams when you sleep.
You can almost hear his voice in the water dripping from the ceiling, and nearly glimpse his shadow in the corners of your eyes until you turn around to see nothing. You're going mad, aren't you?

He seems to think you came here together with other people. Who? You try to remember everything he said; see if you can find any clue to your predicament. At that time, standing in front of him, you'd been so scared that his words didn't really sink in.
Except of course him not knowing what a bus is. Or a job. Trying to picture him working 9-5 in some stuffy office somewhere almost makes you snort. Okay, so maybe you'll give him a pass on the 'job' part.

So what's his deal? Even if he's been brought up far from any town or city, how can he be ignorant about modern things? He must've been to a doctor or seen an airplane in the sky or even met other people, right? Has he never been to school?

Well... if this is a sect, that might be your answer. You're not an expert on the subject, but you've seen enough documentaries and news stories to know that sect members needs to be controlled and kept in check, which you manage easiest by keeping them ignorant. So no Internet, no phones, no contact with the outside. They probably have their own doctor and their own little classroom and everything.

Maybe the Stranger knows what a bus and job is but played ignorant in front of the guards? Because he didn't seem crazy or simple to you. On the contrary, he seemed very intelligent.

Going over the short conversation you had with him in your head, you remember something. He called you human, didn't he? Well, he's not wrong, obviously, but why call you that unless ... he's not.
You bite your lip irritated. He's not a vampire. There's no such thing. He probably said it to get inside your head. The sect might worship him as some kind of God and he plays into it. There! An explanation. No need to dwell on every little word he spewed.

A couple of strands of hair fall down your face and you push it back with your hand. You try to undo some knots in the tangled mess but quickly give up. You need water and a good brush. Better leave it alone so you don't make it worse.
Stretching your arms over your head, every inch of your body aching, you catch a whiff of a foul stench from your armpits. Oh my God, you stink. Sweat and dirt is clinging to your body like a repulsive lotion and yfou almost gag.

You've never gone this long without a shower and feel disgusting. Did you smell this bad when the men brought you here? Your cheeks burn at the thought.

But why should you feel bad? These people has stripped you off your dignity, locked you up and treated you as someone even lower than the fast food-slave you where before. What gives them the right to do this? Embarrassment is replaced by anger.

Wanna bet he doesn't stink. Oh no, be probably smells really nice, like roses. Being pampered all day, sitting on his ass in that chair or throne or whatever. Not that you care what he does or what he smells like. Next time you see him, you'll give him a piece of your mind. Oh how you wished you'd done that immediately!

Pumped up with fiery rage at your mistreatment, blood boiling, you don't hear the soft footsteps. When a face suddenly pops up in front of the bars of the cell, you almost scream aloud in surprise.
It's the same man that gave you food before but this time his hands are empty. He opens the door, steps to the side and holds it open. Every ounce of anger is drained from you and the all familiar fear comes crawling back.

This is it.

Chapter Text

One might think that the sky-reaching pillars would catch your eye. Or even the strange reindeer antlers on display. But grey eyes demand your attention the moment you step onto the dais, and you can't help but be drawn into the deep whirlpool of them.
The stranger doesn't sit on his throne this time but stands below it. Even so, you have to tilt your head to meet his gaze. Everyone's so tall here - what are they feeding them?

The guards are absent. Is that telling of what's going to happen? You swallow, trying to suppress the trepidation. After contemplating your death so much during your time here, you'd think that you'd be prepared by now to face the inevitable. But you don't want to die.

The stranger gives you a once-over and circle around you. It takes every ounce of your self-control to keep from turning your head to watch him. Instead you stare right ahead, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm.

After completing the circle he comes to stand in front of you again, the distance decreased. Gently wrinkling his nose, as if smelling something foul, he nevertheless stays unmoving. Momentarily you're ashamed, imagining how you must look and knowing how you smell. But then you raise your chin in a show of defiance. So you're not smelling peachy right now, so what? It's his fault.

You'd promised yourself to berate him for your treatment if you'd meet again, but being in his presence brings out the meekness inside of you.
You dare not curse him out. Dare not say a word. Any sound might break the bubble of protection you're in and bring you closer to death.

"What is your name?"

Coming out of no-where, the completely normal question catches you off-guard. Mouth opens automatically to answer, but then your lips presses down into a thin line. Giving your real name might be dangerous. What if he'll use it to find out more about you? Maybe he'll hunt down and hurt those closest to you? Even though you've barely had any contact with your parents since their divorce, you still don't want them to be harmed.

"Speak." He commands. "Whilst you still have a tongue."

At his threat, any slim chance of denying him an answer or even lying flies out of the window. You give up your name, voice quivering with fear.
He studies your face for a long time, perhaps making up his mind if he believes you.

Tears are pricking your eyes and you blink violently to keep them at bay, biting your lower lip to keep a sob from breaking free. All the stress and terror has been slowly breaking you down and you feel as though you're on the brink of a collapse. Unconsciously wringing your shaking hands, you pray to any higher power out there that it will be over soon.

The man turns his back to you as he saunters closer to the throne. Relief at escaping his stare hits you like a cold shower. You inhale and close your eyes as hard as you can.

The respite is short, however. "Where do you hail from?" His eyes are upon you again and you get the feeling that he's waiting to catch you in a lie.

The question makes you waver. You don't want to reveal any more identifying details to your kidnapper and maybe future murderer, giving him more leverage, but at the same time you know that you have to supply him with a answer.

Vacations at the coast springs to mind. Determined to protect your family, the town seems like a safe bet and you have no qualms about divulging its name. This time you reply without stammer, bolstered by the knowledge that you can describe the town to such a degree that he should buy your bluff.

Slowly he starts circling you again, at a larger distance this time. Your whole body protests at having him at your back, almost expecting him to pull out a knife and stab you with it.

The Stranger is silent until he faces you once more. "Is that so? And where does this village lie?"

"It's a town. At the coast."

"Belegaer?"

You frown. Obviously it's a question, but you don't understand.

The stranger continues after a brief pause, disregarding your bewilderment. "Your speech suggests that you hail from the Westlands."

Even though it's not voiced as a question, you feel compelled to answer. Nodding, you find your voice. "Yes, I come from the west." Why does he speak so strangely? Like he's a knight at a medieval fair?

"At what coast does this town lie?"

It's a pretty big vacation town but not famous by any stretch of the imagination, so you're not surprised he hasn't heard about it. More comfortable to speak about a town so far away from your home city, you easily answer him. He appears smug at your reply, as if you've been caught in a trap.

He regards you with arrogance. "I have great knowledge of the lands beyond the Misty Mountains."

Puzzled by what mountains he's referring to, a frown is slowly building before your eyes widen as he pulls back his long jacket to reveal a sword. In a very deliberate act he slowly unsheathes the weapon from its scabbard, the motion fluid and silent. You step back. What is he going to do? He's... He's not actually going to use a freaking sword on you, is he?

Your eyes are fixated on the steel as he continues. "I have climbed the Blue Mountains. I have seen the destruction of Doriath." Sword pointed towards you, he prowls closer. "I have travelled across the Westlands for many years."

You take another step back.

"I admit your speech almost had me convinced." His eyes turn cold. "But no human will make a fool out of me."

"I...I..."

"Who are you an informer for? Man? Dwarves?" He stills. "Or a darker power?"

You shake your head and sob. "No one. I'm... I'm not supposed to be here... I... I want to go home. Please, just let me go home."

"Lies." His lips downturn, as if disappointed. "I see my dungeon has not broken you yet. You shall return there until you speak the truth."

Tears flow unhindered at his cruel words; the room and stranger dissolving into mere smudges as your vision is blurred. Throwing your hands up in some vain attempt to shield yourself from his rage, you're reduced to begging. "Please! Please don't!" You can't go back to that cell. You can't.

You take another two steps backwards trying to put some space between you, as if the small gap would offer any protection. Everything that's been pent up is now released and you bawl your eyes out, failing to notice that the stranger has stopped in his tracks. Maybe he says something, but you're too far gone to hear it.

Almost hyperventilating as this point, you take a few precious seconds to calm your breathing. You expect guards to come running and drag you back to the cell. Instead nothing happens. Cheeks wet with tears, you hesitatingly look at him.

Drained of rage, his tone is eerily calm and conversational when he speaks again. "What is that mark?"

It takes almost a full minute for the question to register. What mark? What is he talking about?

Impatiently he points the sword at your hand, his gaze fixated on you. "What is the meaning of this mark?"

Not wanting to make any sudden movements around an armed crazy person, you slowly turn your hands towards yourself to see what he sees. Your heart is beating wildly, adrenaline pumping. You glance down at your hands and can't see any mark. Except...

"M-my... star sign," you reply through sobs.

"Star sign?" He appears to mull it over, as if not totally convinced.

You nod. "Yes." A mere whisper.

He has made his distrust quite plain from the start, but there must be something in your voice that manages to convince him that you're speaking the truth. Suddenly his demeanour changes and the sword is lowered. “Which one?"

"W-what?"

"Which star is it a sign of?”

His interest in astrology takes you by surprise and you gape at him. Are you seriously going to discuss horoscopes mere minutes after he was about to cut you down with a goddamn sword? He must be insane after all. Either way, your best option to survive is to play along.
You collect yourself, take a shaky breath and try to speak without sobbing. “It... it's the..." You take another trembling breath.

Get it together! Keep him talking and calm him down. Focus!

"It's the star I’m born under.” It's the best explanation you can come up with.

“Explain.” He commands, intrigued.

If he's interested in horoscopes you'll say whatever he wants as long as he doesn't kill you. You try to gather up what little information you remember about star signs and fall short. “It... well, it's…,” Tears all dried up now; you're trying desperately to remember something.
“The sky has a lot of… stars.” You cringe. Somebody give you the Nobel Prize for that one. “And a bunch of these stars form signs. Like animals."

The stranger is still listening, clearly waiting for you to go on. You've more or less exhausted the subject, but scramble to say anything further. "And... and... depending on when you’re born in the year, you are born under one of those stars signs. I’m a Scorpio.”

His brows furrow. "You are a scorpion?" Now it's his turn to look at you as if you're crazy.

"It-it means that... it's the star sign I'm born under. The Scorpio," you quickly add, realizing how weird it probably sounds if you don't know anything about star signs. "That's my mark," you say and point to your wrist.

He contemplates your words. "You have a connection to the stars?”

You wish you knew what you're getting yourself into but there's no room for hesitation, he will read it as a lie. "Yes." You nod. Throwing yourself down the rabbit hole, you hope it won't make things worse. At least he's calm and you will do whatever necessary to keep him that way.

The moment drags on as he scrutinizes you. Lie or truth, you're sure that you'll crack either way under this level of stress. But then he puts away his sword and you sigh with relief as the immediate threat is eliminated. As the tension dissipates, the coldness in his eyes is replaced by intrigue. He whispers to himself. “Êl-nóna."

Is that Spanish? Oh, how you wish you’d taken that class instead of Modern Art back in school - that’d be helpful right about now.

The stranger waves a hand and a man approaches from the shadows. You don't recognize him and he's not dressed like a guard. The man appeared so suddenly that you realize that he must've been waiting close by. Close enough to see and maybe hear everything.
Cheeks burn at the humiliation. It must have been quite a pathetic scene to watch.

The stranger fires off a string of words in one of those foreign languages he speaks. The other man bows and gestures for you to follow him.
You look at the stranger, but he offers no explanation. Are you going back to the cell? Somehow, you get the feeling that you're not.

You take several deep gulps of air when you've retreated far enough from the Stranger that you no longer feel suffocated by his presence.
Once again you find yourself trailing after someone like a puppy on a leash, the metaphorical collar chafing as you walk in the shadow of this new, unfamiliar person. Nevertheless, having been confronted with what could have been your mutilation and painful death, this is a much more desirable outcome of your encounter with the Stranger. You'd rather be a prisoner than dead.

The man seems to have made it his own personal mission to confuse you as he guides you down several flights of stairs only to abruptly make a sharp turn, cross a bridge and ascend stairs spiralling upward. The chance of you memorizing the path is zilch, which you guess is his plan.
At least the direction you're heading seems to be the opposite of the dungeons, so that's a good sign. You hope.

Quite opposite of when you were first brought here, this time around you retain a leisurely pace through the cave. In addition, your new escort is a lot friendlier than your former ones. He merely smiles in response when you forget yourself and lag behind. And it's difficult not to.
The cave is almost ethereal, compelling you to stop and stare in wonder. You'd already forgotten how beautiful it is, the view from the cell limited and glum.

Scattered all over are arched doorways carved right from the stone, blending in flawlessly with their environment. On each side of the doorways are yellow lights giving off a soft glow, but still strong enough to illuminate the way. Not spotting any cords, you wonder if they're driven by batteries.

Making your way through one opening, you let your fingertips glide across the wall. The stone is surprisingly smooth and silky to the touch, as if it's been formed by the corroding of water for hundreds of years. The passage is somewhat narrow but not to the degree of feeling claustrophobic and it's short enough to allow the light from both the entrance and exit to light up the path.

Exiting on the other side you promptly whip your head around. The frame boosts an intricate pattern you unfortunately can't discern as you walk further and further away. They must've spent days on just decorating the stone - but why? What even is this place?

Another bridge. The stone is white as if it has been painted or bleached to reach its paler colour. But still, it's not an unnatural or blending white, but muted. The bridge is as arched as the doorways if not more so; stairs ascending steeply and descending just as sharply. Not really designed for the handicapped and old, is it?

Treading alongside the edge, you peer down in an effort to estimate how far up you currently are. To your horror, the ground underneath is impossible to make out. Although not normally scared of heights, the lack of a barrier keeping you from plummeting to an early demise makes you step away from the brink.

The edges are not completely naked however, though it's more for decoration than safety. Instead of railings, there are slender pillars spaced out at some 60 inch intervals (1.5 meters), all too thin to hide behind. Each pillar erupts into uncountable branches of that gorgeous white stone with each and every branch connecting to each other, intertwined like lovers.

Scaling another flight of stairs, legs shake from the exertion. You haven't eaten enough, rested enough, to be dragged through a fucking cardio workout. Bruises throb as the skin stretches at your movement. Old cuts, barely healed, stings.
At the summit you very nearly fall in a heap. Hands bracing on your knees, you can taste the bile in your mouth as your body protests the constant mistreatment. Breathing deeply, you try not to heave. If you're going to vomit, you'd rather not have an audience.

The man grants you a short reprieve, perhaps sensing the dire need for one. Mercifully, some higher power has decided to give you a break and your stomach settles. A bit dizzy, you straighten yourself. Meekly you pursue his footsteps down a short stair swirling downwards, the walls of the cave encompassing it snugly. You lean heavily against the wall, movements sluggish, trying to keep your knees locked so they won't buckle.

You've been walking for ages, sick to death of all these damn stairs. But at the foot of the steps your journey ends. He lets you pass him by with a hand gesture accompanied by foreign words. You look around bewildered.

What is this? What's going on?

Chapter Text

The scenery has now changed significantly; going from a backdrop of jaggy rock, constant steps and an almost mystical ambience to something you can't put into words. Your brain is grappling to grasp the situation.

"Wha... what is this?" You stride forward, the man making no move to prevent you from doing so.

You step out into an open, rather spacious area. The walls are unadorned with the raw stone exposed, much like what you've seen so far of the cave. Here, however, the material has obviously been meticulously processed to flatten out the rough surface to the point where it almost looks like uneven concrete. The texture is rather smooth beneath your touch, just like the walkways you passed through earlier.

The ground is a limestone of dark grey, standing out in stark contrast to the paler walls. It has been treated to an insane degree and then embellished with simple and discreet patterns. This is the first time you get the impression of walking on a floor rather than the ground.
Two sizeable, exceptionally wide pillars jut up through the floor and extend to the ceiling, which you note are lower here, a mere 16 feet up. (Approx. 5 meters)

The realization punches you in the gut. There are pillars everywhere. They're not just here to look pretty, they have a purpose.

Like keeping the goddamn cave from falling down on you.

This doesn't strike you as very safe at all. Don't people wear helmets when they go cave exploring? Shouldn't they be wearing safety gear?
Of course, that won't be of any help if the cave collapses and traps you alive. That's a cheery thought.

You drag a tired hand over your face. There's too much here feeding your fear and you're exhausted, running on fumes.

"Why am I here?"

Silence. Honestly, you don't expect an answer. The Stranger is a scary guy and it appears unlikely that even if someone can talk to you, that they will. They're probably scared shitless of him. You know you are.

Scanning the area more closely, you see a chair with a high back-rest and an accompanying round table in one corner - all crafted out of wood - and a brazier empty of fire in another. The ceiling displays a couple of those bizarre lamps that are everywhere, bathing the room in a dim, pleasant glow.

A room. Yes, that's a fitting description. But whose? You're momentarily worried that he's taken you to the Stranger's room; although you have no idea what reason he would have for that.

The room lacks one wall, allowing for an undisturbed view of a part of the cave. You haven't even noticed it before now. You can glimpse a couple of bridges in the distance but the area has a desolated air indicating that it's probably not well visited.

Heart skips a beat at the thought of flinging yourself off the edge in a bid for freedom - reason briefly thrown aside. Your leg jerks involuntarily, as if eager to set the plan in motion. Not even the man watching you is enough to stop the deranged impulse to simply bolt.

Then - an image of a sword hacking at your body, separating limb from limb. Blood splashing across the floor.

You tremble.

There's no doubt that the Stranger expects you to "behave", it might has well have been a spoken order. As far as you know, this may even be a test. And you don't want to think about the punishment if you fail it. The thought is enough to make you suppress any dangerous notion of fleeing.

Shutting your eyes, you get a grip on yourself. When you open them, the man is still standing in the same spot and observing you with a vaguely appraising look. It reaffirms your belief that this is a test. And if that's the case, then you have to pass it.

You clear your throat, breaking his gaze. "What now?"

Replying with unfamiliar words, he signals for you to shadow him. Half-hidden behind one of the massive pillars is a doorway with no door. You stalk forward, not knowing if you'll face another test or maybe the end of a sword.

Taking up most of the space of the adjacent room is a four-poster bed. Its frame is made of light beech and encircled by very fine, airy curtains of creamy white colour. In close proximity to the bed is an elegant slim table as well as chair. A squat chest of darker wood occupies a place at the end of the bed.

The furnishings are sparse, nearly Spartan but for the fact that it's not plain. What is displayed is of unmistakably fine quality and, you imagine, hand-made. Either they've paid an insane amounts of money to buy and transport the furniture all the way out here or they've crafted it themselves, which must have taken weeks to accomplish, if not months.

Wait. Why are you in a bedroom? Struck by a sense of dread, you nervously glance over at the man. Unfortunately he takes it as his cue to come closer. Not liking where this is heading, your body tenses up in preparation for a struggle. "Please-" The words die in your mouth.

He makes no sign of wanting to lay hands on you, instead crossing the room. You watch with knitted brows as he draws a wall tapestry to one side, exposing another doorway. You're still on your guard as you peer inside.

There's a compact space hidden behind the tapestry enveloped in a dim sheen of amber courtesy to the lone lamp high above. Shadows tenderly caress the stone walls as it the lamp lightly sways, moved by some rouge breeze. There is a sunken bath absorbing just about the whole floor, large enough to hold three people comfortably at the very least. It's already filled to the brim with water of an turquoise hue that screams of a tropical island somewhere. Petite steps of smooth stone find its way below the surface, allowing for easy entry.

Your guard is lowered as you gape in incredulity. A bedroom with its own luxury bath. Are they genuinely about to allow you a real bed and bath, or is this another form of torture - to show you what you cannot have?

The tour obviously having come to an end, your guide ushers you back towards the first room, which is no longer empty. Two of the most beautiful women you've ever seen are waiting for you. One of them gives you a heart-warming smile as you stop in your tracks, stupefied. "H-Hi...?"

The smiling woman has rich chocolate brown hair cascading down her back, delicate braids intertwined with silver threads framing her stunning face. Body wrapped in a laurel green gown of chiffon, the armless dress fits snuggly around her modest curves and spreads out on the floor. Upturned eyes of walnut brown gleams as she speaks in that foreign language, dashing any hope of understanding each other.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she sets her eyes on the man and she banishes him with a gesture. He readily retreats, but only after throwing a lingering glance at the other woman. Your gaze is drawn to her for the first time. She's also lovely, but in an understated way.
With caramel coloured hair, thick silky strands contained in a waterfall braid that leaves most of her wavy hair free to reach her knees, she should've been the more eye-catching of the two. But dressed in a ash grey muslin dress with no trim and no shape to speak of, she might as well have a big sign saying don't look at me.

You give her a nod. "Hi." The greeting is voiced almost like a question, hoping that she'll understand you. But no such luck, as the other woman merely nods back. Sigh.
Fine. If you can't get their true names you might as well give them nicknames for now. How about... the Happy One and the Grey One. May as well keep it simple.

As the unexpectedness of the women's arrival dies down, the Happy One guides you with gentle hands back to the bedroom. Much less intimidated by the women than any of the other people you've met so far, you go willingly.
The Grey One carries some clothes and a box in her arms and you watch with curiosity as the lid is opened. Of all the things you expected could've been produced from that box, a bar of soap was not even on the list of possibilities. You stare in shock at the item.

The Happy One mimics scrubbing her hands with the soap and you want to roll your eyes at her - as if you don't know what it is. Well, in all fairness, taking in consideration how you smell and look right now, she's not wrong to believe you haven't seen anything like it before.

Putting the bar of soap back in the box, the Happy One indicates that you should take the whole thing. Distrust washes over you. Are they going to let you take a bath? Really?

They don't care if you're clean or comfortable. You've been freezing to death in a cell for... what? Days? A week? Even though they've given you food once a day, they've never provided water, forcing you to sate your thirst yourself by gathering water drops.
No shower, no toilette, not even a decent bed to sleep on. You've been treated worse than prisoners back home. Why the sudden change of heart?

"Take," she prompts.

Your heart skips a beat. Even though the word is heavy with their singsong-accent, it's your language!

"You understand me?" You ask with baited breath.

She smiles and nods. "Take."

You repeat the question, but the woman's facial expression doesn't change and there's no recognition in her eyes. Your brief joy dissipates.
No, she doesn't understand you. You watch in a fog of disappointment as the box is placed upon the chest by the bed and the Grey One unloads the rest of her burden on the bed. You hadn't truly realized how much you miss talking to someone until now.

With gestures they convey that the items displayed are meant for you and then they gracefully leave to allow you privacy. Gratitude needles its way inside, even though you shouldn't feel anything of the sort for your kidnappers.

Alone in the bedroom you don't know where to begin. Swaying a little, you realize that you're exhausted both mentally and physically. You'd like nothing more than to just lie down on the bed and close your eyes until the dreams come for you, but the disgusting layers of dirt and sweat that coats you drives you to the bathroom.

In that small area behind the tapestry you feel somewhat protected from prying eyes, but trust doesn't come easily. You watch the doorway intently as you undress yourself. Sweater, top, bra - it falls to the ground without ceremony. Stepping out of your sneakers you're repulsed by the stench and throw the offending pair into a corner as far away from you as possible.
Stripping out of your remaining clothes you hurry into the water to hide your nakedness. The water is pleasantly warm and pulls a pleased sigh out of you as you sink down even further, until only your head is above the surface.

This is heaven.

You let yourself enjoy it; warm water hugging your cold, aching body. But the moment is brief. Already it's difficult to keep your eyes open, your tired mind wanting to shut down, and you have no intention of being caught naked.

Having brought the Grey One's box with you and placed it gingerly on the edge of the bath, you now survey the content. Almost jumping of joy at the sight of the soap bar once more, you grab it and start scrubbing through layers of filth. At the same pace the water is being sullied by dirt and grime, it's thankfully being replaced by fresh, clean water. It appears the tub is a natural spring pool with water flowing freely.

You take a deep breath and sink down, forcing your eyes open to survey the walls of the pool. It takes mere seconds to register that there will be no escaping through any water tunnels. The openings are barely large enough for your hand, never mind the rest of you. Gasping for air as you resurface, your hands instinctively push back your wet hair from your face.

Seizing a vial containing a pinkish liquid with flower petals floating within, you knead the scented oil into your hair thoroughly, determined to get cleaned up from head to toe.

You don't know how much time has passed when you've finally sampled almost everything the box has to offer, and when you rise your body is pink and flushed, skin pure satin and hair glossy and fragrant.

The mere idea of redressing in your smelling and filthy clothes makes you shudder with disgust. The only other option is to wear whatever the women brought, which you're not thrilled about. Briefly, you entertain the idea of simply cleaning your dirty clothes in the bath but even if you can get them clean they'll be soaked for hours if not days. That's a pneumonia waiting to happen.

Naked you tiptoe to the doorway to peek out behind the tapestry. The bedroom is still empty and the new, clean clothes lie on the bed.
You leave wet footprints as you quickly march across the stone floor. There is no bathrobe or towel provided, only a neatly folded bed sheet. Wrapping yourself in the white fabric, it hardly stops shivers from raking through your body as a result from the chilly air.

It's better than nothing, you suppose.

Laying out each item of clothing side by side, it takes a mere glance to realize that there's no underwear. First thing first, you'll not stand here naked if they come back. Snatching up one of the dresses they've provided, you pull it over your head and shimmy into it.
It's made of linen with elegant loose sleeves reaching down to your fingertips and the fabric is dark moss green trimmed with a faint pattern of branches and leaves in a golden-brown shade. It's quite possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever worn.

You slide your cold mistreated feet into a pair of black slippers and almost purr of satisfaction at the sensation on your skin of the warm, soft fur that the slippers are lined with. So comfy.

Surveying the remaining articles of clothing tells you that what you're wearing is probably only some kind of undergown, although it looks and feels expensive to the touch. It's not a huge surprise - who hasn't seen one of those historical dramas where the heroine has to put on like ten layers of clothing to be presentable? And the people here is obviously fans of some or other historical time period.

Now to be clear, you have no interest in following their dress code. There's no reason for you to put on layers of clothes just because they probably do. However the outfit, already thin and formfitting on its own, leaves you rather exposed as it clings to your wet skin and it makes you uncomfortably aware of the fact that you're naked underneath.

Picking up another dress, this one of a dark shade of brown with discreet golden details, there's no question that this is the main garment, so to speak. This second dress attaches across the bustline and waist with thin strings made of silk. It follows the undergown to the floor although it's not as snug, and it reveals the fancy gown beneath while still allowing for modesty.

There's only one item left on the bed; a flimsy excuse for a dress, delicate and figure-hugging. Placing the garment against your body to get an idea of how it will fit, you notice it barely reaches mid-thigh.
Seeing the attires worn by the people here this is obviously too daring to be shown in public. It's probably another form of undergown or maybe a nightgown. You discard it into the chest by the bed. As you close the lid, there's a noise coming from the other room.

You see the Happy One first. She leads you to the chair and you allow it without protest. Your hair is still heavy with water and soaking your back, making the fabric stick to the dress underneath. Thankfully the moisture hasn't breached the barrier closest to your skin, granting you some protection from the cold. The Happy One grabs the white sheet you've been using as a towel and begins to carefully dry your hair.

Of all the things you've imagined your kidnappers might do to you... this was not on the list. Not even close.

When dry enough, she combs your hair meticulously before pulling it into a tight braid. Even though you dislike it and would've preferred having your hair loose, you don't voice any complaints. Not that they would've understood if you had.

The Grey One kneels by your side and takes your hands to basically give you a manicure, though you don't recognize the products or tools.
Relaxed from the bath you let them pamper you without putting up a fight, because really, why should you? So far, they've been nothing but nice. It's an improvement from how you've been treated previously.

The Grey One holds up a small round box containing some kind of cream. As she gently rubs it onto your hands, dry and cracked skin seems to heal instantly before your eyes, leaving it feeling smooth and moisturized. Blinking several times, you take an even closer look. What kind of monster cream are they peddling?

Lastly, you're given a long, thin needle. The Happy One demonstrates its usage as almost like a toothbrush or more accurately, since it lacks the brush, a kind of toothpick? Horribly conscious of the fact that your breath must be foul by now, you make use of it even though you're not confident of the results.

It does leave you feeling a lot fresher afterwards, although you're wondering what this sudden luxury treatment is all for. The Stanger didn't give you the impression of caring about your comfort before so why would he care now?

Slumped back in the chair with eyes getting heavier by the minute, your body is shutting down. You're relieved when the women are finally done and you can stumble over to the large bed. Even though you can't trust them, even though you should stay alert, you can't function much longer without a good night's sleep. You don't even put up a token protest as the Grey One takes your dirty clothes and shoes with her as they leave, too tired to care.

Crawling under the cover, the soft and light weight over your aching body feels divine. You wrap the cover tightly around you to keep the chill out, allowing your body to slowly warm up. Your last thought before falling into the realm of dreams is that you could stay like this forever.

Írimë halts outside the secluded chambers used to host visitors. Her gaze is locked on the man at the bottom of the stairs, startled by his presence but at the same time... not. The steady heartbeat from the sleeping human might as well be the banging of a war drum. It calls to him.

The maiden by her side go rigid with uncertainty and although the young one does not break her silence, the language of her body still clearly convey the unspoken question.

"Walk on." She instructs. "I shall speak with him." Allowing the young one to pass, she follows in a slow pace.

He does not throw a single glance at the maiden scurrying past with head bowed, his full attention directed towards Írimë.
To the untrained eye he displays nothing but cool disinterest as he waits for her to reach speaking-distance, but she can tell he is impatient.
There was a time when she would have been elated to see him, foul mood or no, but they are not children any longer.

Strokable hair of warm brown, ordinarily reaching down his broad shoulders to frame a handsome and hard-edged face, is now roughly pulled back by a tie. Dressed in warrior leathers with his bow and arrows strapped to his back, he gives the impression of being about to go into battle.

Not even inside the keep does he let his guard down.

His eyes are the colour of iron and just as hard. It awakes a memory of how those same orbs, soft in his youth, used to reflect the light of the stars when he smiled. Írimë cannot recall when he last showed any hint of happiness. The starlight long gone.

He discreetly takes in her appearance as if looking for injuries or marks. Faint echoes of the past flitters across those grey, impregnable eyes. It is gone so swiftly that she might have thought she had merely imagined it, if not for the stab at her heart.

"Do you have anything to report?" Harsh and to the point. Grim events have altered everything too much and there is no going back. To her dismay, it seems that there is no going forward either.

Although her facial expression does not change - as she too has learned to hide away part of herself - he still knows her. He can read something there, perhaps a glimpse of their shared past. "Speak," he barks, as if she is one of the warriors under his command. "If you have something to say."

Provoked by his treatment, any endeavour to keep her emotions under control fails. "I am sure the words of an attendant mean little to the Captain of the Guard."

His tone is cold. "If that was the case, I would not inquire about them."

"For what purpose are you here?"

His jaw clenches at her question. They both know the reason for his presence. Or at least in part. She does not claim to fully understand the hatred that drives him but she is aware that it is a living thing; a fire that burns anyone who come too close. Her own scar has not yet faded.

His silence stretches on.

"I would think the Captain of the Guard would be better suited for the task of protecting our people, than play the keeper of prisoners." She realizes too late that her words might be seen as arrows aimed to hurt but she has no opportunity to take them back.

He nods stiffly, not even attempting to defend himself. "It is my sole task."

A task I have failed. The words are unspoken, but she hears them loud and clear.

"You have protected us well," she admits with a softer voice. "However, your judgment may be clouded."

"Where does this sudden interest in the human spring from?"

She chooses her next words carefully. "Something lurks in the shadows. You have felt it." He stiffens. Before he can say a word in protest she continues; "So have I. It is constantly drawn to these lands. We cannot be blind to its true shape. It might lead us to ruin."

His eyes narrow as he frowns. "You do not believe the human to be of evil."

He does not state it as a question but she still answers. "I do not sense darkness in her."

"Mistakes have been made in the past," he says brusquely. A hardness in his eyes. "They cannot be repeated."

At her questioning gaze he steers their conversation away from whatever painful memories that still haunts him. "The human keeps knowledge hidden," he instead says. "It does not bring truth."

"Then do not listen with your ears," she insists, closing the distance between them until they nearly stand toe to toe. "Listen with your eyes, with your touch."

The human's skin is unblemished. Her hands and arms lack scars, blisters or calluses indicating her having performed even a single day of manual labour in her life, and her skin is not leathery after years of toiling beneath a wicked sun.
It is clear that she is not a low-born lake-dweller; come from the settlements at the northern part of the river Celduin. Neither is she a bowman of the Woodmen, a clan of excellent huntsmen and an ally of the elves of Greenwood. Her hands are too soft to have any skill with a weapon that requires extensive training which would harden the pads of her palms.

If the human is neither a huntsman nor a labourer, then what is she? Her teeth are well looked-after with none missing and her body healthy and full. She has most likely lived a privileged life with skilled healers and plentiful food - all hallmarks of someone of a wealthy and perhaps noble birth. Why would a noblewoman or someone of equal stature travel alone? She should have an attendant of her own, a horse or some other animal of burden pulling a carriage, and one guard at the very least.

Írimë admits it is strange. One might even think it suspicious. Nevertheless, if one spends any time in the human's company, they will soon find she is quite inattentive with the sort of unawareness that Írimë has only ever seen amongst the innocent.

Amroth is about to dismiss her words when she shakes her head. "You are too full of hatred to listen."

"The human intruded on our land. You speak of darkness. It is here." He throws out an arm, gesturing to the visitors chambers. "I will allow it to spread no further."

Írimë may be a mere attendant but their lord does not allow just any elf to enter into his service. She is sharp-eyed and clever. There is a reason she was ordered to greet the human and Amroth should understand that.

"The human is not of the warrior kin." She says. "She cannot speak our tongue and therefore can offer us no lies. Would a spy enter the camp of its enemies with no weapons?"

"Unable to speak lies also means unable to speak truth." He replies.

Stubborn man. There is something about this human that angers him. She needs him to see reason. "Do you believe our lord to be easily fooled by human wiles?"

"He is calling her êl-nóna..." He turns silent, as if hindering himself from continuing down a road that could turn treacherous. She declines her head slightly in acknowledgement. It has reached her ears as well, though she does not know what to make of it yet.

In the silence she can sense some of his old self buried deep beneath the hard surface. Unable to stop herself, she raises a hand to lightly brush against his cheek. His skin is warm. Closing his eyes, he briefly allows her touch. Something slips into her gaze just then, her expression softening.

"Amroth..."

He withdraws from her caress, face once again turned to stone. "No more talk of this. The human is not to leave the rooms and will not receive visitors unless approved."

Flicking his eyes to somewhere behind her, she does not need to turn to know that guards are approaching. The human is still a prisoner even though her cell has been changed for clean, spacious rooms.
Írimë knows that Amroth will not rest until he has discovered every secret the human wishes to keep, even if harm will come to her in the process.

Chapter Text

It's dark.

But not like the thick impregnable darkness of the forest. No. It's like smoke from a fire - inky-black and suffocating, allowing merely shapes and contours to be distinguished whilst teasingly withholding the truth of your surroundings.
Though reason dictates that you are still in the cave lying on the bed where you fell asleep and that this must be a dream, it doesn't feel like it. This appears as real as when you found yourself having to choose between the forest and the field.

If you can just get past the smoke you know you'll see everything clearly, but it's impossible. Coiling around your body like a snake made of shadow the smoke circles you, pierces through you.

It's as if it has a mind of its own.






It's quiet.

Unnaturally quiet. As if in reality a ear-splitting storm is raging all about you, but someone's pressed the mute-button; temporarily reining in the madness.



Crunch.



You whip around - the smoke stirring by your action; reshaping itself and latching onto you like a loving pet attached to its master.


What was that?



Crunch.



Blinded by the smoke you can't pinpoint the origin of the sound. Is it coming from behind you?



Rustle. Crunch.



It takes several precious seconds before you can place the noise of shrivelled leaves crumpling and brittle twigs breaking as they're being crushed underfoot by something heavy. Someone's here.

Is it your kidnappers? All that pampering before should've tipped you off. Have you been drugged and thrown out into the forest?
Are they now pursuing you?

Thinking back at the knives and bows they carried, you start to shake - trepidation a cold hand squeezing your windpipe.

Are they hunting you?




Crunch.        Crunch.        Rustle.




Sweat is beading on your forehead. Someone or something is getting nearer, closing in on you, but you can't see anything.
Eyes are strained as you intensely focus on the darkness, squinting as if you'll suddenly gain the ability to see beyond. But it's pointless.

Without warning, a sense of malice erupts into the air. It's palpable and abruptly pushes down on you like a heavy hand vibrating with unrestrained anger. The forceful pressure all but burns and you gasp as your skin stings in response.
The air is thick with tension as if the very earth is holding its breath, waiting for violence to be unleashed.

Whatever is coming... it wants to do harm.




CRUNCH.




The sound grows in strength as it draws closer and your fear spikes at the innocent sound made threatening. Eyes dart wildly as you will the smoke to clear up and let you see.

Then, a sudden silence. Expectation's pulsating in the dark; a deep breath before the dive into pitch-black water. It prompts a shuddering gasp you don't manage to quell.

It knows you're here.

Heart hammers in your chest and blood surges like a savage river in your veins; the noise as it rushes to your brain deafening. Terror, feral and vicious, rakes your mind, leaving any coherent thought into bleeding shreds. A unreleased scream is stuck in your throat.




CRUNCH CRUNCH RUSTLE CRUNCH RUSTLE CRUNCH CRUNCH RUSTLE CRUNCH




It barrels forward in high speed.

Dîn gingerly places the pitcher crafted out of silver on the table, adjusting its position with a strict eye. The young elf searches the solar for further tasks, scrutinizing the area thoroughly. Every item is still in its rightful place, the chamber still tidy.

The human's wellbeing is her duty first and foremost and Dîn sees her role as attendant as one of utmost importance. This is her chance.
Her one and only opportunity to leave the sheltered existence she has lead for so long.
The faith shown in her when she was assigned this task cannot turn out to be misplaced. No, she must show herself to be diligent and competent. Otherwise, she has no place in Eryn Galen.

A sense of unease suddenly grips her. As she takes in her surroundings she finds nothing awry, but the feeling of apprehension still does not loosen its hold. The human...?

Írimë would surely call Dîn's manners into question as she breaches the sanctuary of the bedchamber by entering, but there is no other option. Stalking over to the bed - the human lying on it with covers pushed aside - nothing seems amiss to the naked eye.
Nonetheless, something is. Dîn notices the unnatural stillness of the woman; body limp and no discernible rise and fall of the chest to suggest she is merely asleep.

Her vision whitens and she sways like grass in the wind. Not again. Dreading the pungent stench of death that will surely reach her soon, she closes her eyes, hoping to shut out the grim reality.

By all the stars, not again.

Images of dried crimson on dead leaves and white, lifeless eyes staring unseeing into the sky burns through the darkness and she opens her eyes anew. On the verge of collapsing, her frail mind unable to cope with the memories, her awareness suddenly spikes.
There. It is faint, but Dîn can sense it. The woman's essence, her light. Though it is fading.
There is no visible wounds and no sickness of the body, so whatever it is, it is beyond the young elf's abilities. However, there is still a possibility of saving her life. Whilst contemplating the best course of action, unwilling to leave the woman and unable to cry for help, fear suddenly permeates the air.

The woman's mouth violently falls open and she gasps desperately, as if there is a lack of air. Her whole body presses down into the bed by an invisible force keeping her immobile. Shaking her head from side to side in a sort of frenzy as if trying to escape some tormentor; the tight braid furiously hits her face as it loosens up and hair whips over her face, a grimace of horror taking shape.

A scream. Loud, piercing, one of pure terror. It's enough to send the guards running.

A shadow is pinning you down, squeezing the air out of your lunges as if you're a tube of paste. Opening your mouth to cry out for help it wraps around your throat, choking you. Spluttering you try to claw at its non-physical form, panic driving you, but there's nothing solid to cause harm and your fingers scratch the empty air.

Throwing out a mental scream - help me! - you pray anyone hears as darkness swarms your vision. But there's only you and the nightmare.

Twisting and kicking beneath it, you hope to find a leverage to break free, but it's no use. Your throat burns as you desperately fight for air,
the sound of your wheezing fading into the background as your consciousness is washing away.
Arms suddenly heavy, they drop to your sides as you're getting weaker - life slowly and painfully being thorn out of you. Eyes roll back in your head before there is only darkness.

This is the end.

Light floods through your eyelids as if someone's turned the light switch on. It's so glaring that you're compelled to shield yourself but your arms won't obey your command. It takes a few seconds before you realize that the pressure around your throat is gone, it's only the feeling still lingering on your skin. Using every ounce of energy left in your body you manage to barely force one eye open; taking in the scene through the small slit.

The shadow's gone. There's only this radiant glow - so pure white it hurts to look at. Shutting your eyes again you rely only on your hearing to paint a picture of what's happening. The sound of gentle hooves makes you frown. An animal?

Suddenly you're levitating above ground; your head falling unsupported back into the empty air. Your body is cradled against something hard and warm and you feel... safe. With that knowledge, you fall into blessed unconsciousness.

Amroth stands with his weapon ready blocking the entrance to the bedchamber with his own body, a grim expression set on his face. No one would dare cross him by attempting to breach the barrier he has formed.
Dîn has been allowed to stay in the solar, perhaps to be questioned afterwards or perhaps to be of assistance if the need arises. Avoiding looking Amroth in the face of fear that she might draw his wrath, Dîn silently wishes that Írimë was here. She is the only one who seems able to manage him.

Even though they move quietly, she can still hear the swiftness of soft footsteps on the stairs before before two familiar men become visible.
Inglor is grace personified as he steps into the solar and his eyes shoots to Dîn, as they often do. She pretends not to notice.

Behind him comes the healer. As Inglor makes ready to speak, a movement from the bedchamber catches the attention of all of them.
Amroth moves to the side as if obeying a spoken command and the doorway is filled by an imposing presence. Dîn lowers her eyes but not before catching a glimpse of him, the one she serves. Awestruck by the sheer power radiating from him, she shrinks when those eyes - beautiful and piercing - regards the room coolly.

The healer bows in awe. "My Lord."

"Leave."

Dîn hesitates at the command. Her concern for the human overrules her obedience briefly as she feels obligated to stay and aid the human best she can, but she readily flees the room when pinned by Amroth's harsh scowl. She is followed by Amroth and Inglor as they take their leave as well. Only one servant remains; the healer. He is waiting patiently for the reason for his summoning to be revealed.

"The human will not wake."

Human? So the rumours are true. The Elvenking's dungeons has a new occupant. Curiosity burns behind the healer's collected facade, but he lets none of it show. Instead he calmly awaits his assignment.

The Elvenking makes his way over to the table without sparing the healer a glance. His splendid robes drag on the floor but no filth latches onto the fine fabric. Pouring himself a goblet of water, his movements are unrushed.

"A shadow crept into her mind." His eyes glazed over as if looking into some other existence. It takes but a moment, and then his eyes are sharp and alert once more - and now directed towards the healer. "It is gone. Nevertheless, the danger is not diminished. The shadow does not sleep. It does not rest."

The healer nods slowly, already working through every possibility in his mind. "I must erect a barrier to protect her mind whilst she heals."

"There is no need."

"My Lord?"

When the silver-haired ruler turns his icy gaze towards the healer, the man cowers slightly. The King of the Woodland Realm would never harm a subject without just cause, but standing before him fills the healer with veneration and the knowledge that he himself is unworthy, far too lowly an elf, for this honour. When his lord at last speaks, it startles him.

"The sole task appointed to you is to restore her health. Leave the shadow to me."

Grey eyes narrow, his fury apparent. Who dare orchestrate an attack within the Elvenking's realm? Any threat to him or his people are always dealt with swiftly and with no mercy. The healer shivers, glad not to be on the receiving end.

Glowering with pure, undiluted power, his last words might as well be a declaration of war. "The human is under my protection."

Chapter Text

Five times has the sun risen over Eryn Galen; daylight barely cutting through the thick canopy to the forest floor below.
Five times has the healer come and gone with herbs, tonics and magic healing runes.
Five times has Amroth glared at the human in its sleep, mistrust growing as he wills it to wake.

He keeps his guard up; eyes trained on the motionless form on the bed. Írimë might have been easily fooled by the human but he will not allow himself to be. Trust is earned and the human has done nothing to earn his.

It's chest is rising and falling in a barely noticeable pattern while the body is limp and the face white. It's unconsciousness appears to be unfeigned. Even so, Amroth thinks the timing of this so called 'attack' was a bit too convenient. Why was the human targeted? And why not before, when the human was still locked inside the dungeon? The answer - this was orchestrated by the object of his glare.

He circles the bed. The question still stands - why? Is it a plan to gain trust? Sympathy? If it is, he will disappoint those ambitions.

Amroth glances at the doorway leading out to the solar. It is empty of guards for the moment - on his command. Regular patrols are otherwise made several times daily through the human's living quarters to make sure no further harm befalls it.
It irks him that he, as captain of the guard, permitted someone to be hurt. And in the palace no less! Human or no, it should not have been possible. His lord had been furious after the incident and even though he had not blamed Amroth for it, Amroth took it upon himself.

The guards had feared punishment or at least replacement after the fact but Amroth had done neither, not finding them lacking in their duties.
He knows his men well, having been captain of the guard for centuries, and those he chose for this particular assignment are good men. Loyal until death. Nothing can get past them.

.... And Amroth is certain that nothing did.

No human, elf or dwarf breached the security of the palace to lay a hand upon the human. Of this he is sure. Furthermore, the mute one swore - as much as she was able with basic body language - that there was no one in the chamber with them when the human was assaulted.
Nevertheless, magic is not conjured out of nothing. Someone did this and by all the stars of heaven - he will find the truth of it.

Removing the blanket covering the human's naked feet, he touches the skin - it is warm. What if it is not truly sleeping? Can this all be an act? Amroth shakes his head. Fooling not only himself but his lord as well?

He throws back the blanket further as he rounds the bed. Reluctant to touch the human more than necessary but not seeing a way around it, he grits his teeth whilst lifting up it's arm to take a closer look. The mark on the wrist looks old. As he rubs at the faded black, the colour doesn't come off but appears ingrained in the skin. The mark itself emits no power and is harmless, but still it does not sit well with him.

The human claimed it to be a symbol of the stars. Though Amroth's ears are not familiar with the human languages, his eyes, on the other hand, are. Amroth is well versed in reading and writing several languages; having translated texts from humans, dwarves and other elves since his youth. This mark that the human bears almost takes the shape of the letter "M".
He doubts the human was born with it. No, it must have been branded later in life. But why merely one letter? What is its true meaning?

What if the mark is a sign of devotion to the Dark One?

His eyes narrow. Even though it was ages ago, before his own birth, all elves grow up learning of the Dark Enemy. Morgoth.
He may have been defeated by the great forces of the Valar - beheaded and thrown into the Timeless Void, but that does not mean he is forever gone. Whispers of a prophecy state that the Dark Enemy will one day re-enter the world and with him bring the Battle of Battles, end of all.

And it is known that his spirit, chained in the void, is an power of evil that forces its will on others; tempting and urging - bending them to his liking. Is this human one of his servants? Is that why it is in Eryn Galen - to corrupt the Sindarin and Silvian elves living within?
If the human is truly aided by dark powers it would explain its sudden appearance in the forest. Humans are a greedy sort and will stop at nothing to gain wealth and power and are thus easily manipulated by darkness.

Putting down the arm, he studies the peaceful expression of sleep on the human's face. For the hundredth time Amroth goes through the facts. The human appeared with no other belongings than those on its person. No warm clothes or cloak for travel, no food, no water, no weapon for protection or for hunting. There was no mount nearby and nothing out of the ordinary in these woods that might qualify as a 'bus'.

How did the human travel here and why? On its way to conduct business, it had said... With no goods to sell?

His lord had relayed every piece of information the human had divulged in the interrogations. Needless to say, every word out of the human's mouth is a lie. It lumbered through the forest, most likely aiming to be picked up by his people, and managed to get inside the palace without using force. Trapped in the dungeons, it most likely could not fulfil whatever plan it has. It needed to be freed. And now it finally is...

This sleep might be a feint. The human may still be aware of what is being said and happening around it. A hand slides to his belt where a knife is strapped. Perhaps the human will wake to defend itself if there is danger.
The blade makes no noise leaving the soft sheath but he makes sure to tap his nails to the blade, allowing the sharp clinging sound to fill the silence. It cannot be mistaken for anything else.

Resting the blade on the bridge of one foot gains no reaction. Perhaps if he removes a toe. Or two.

The knife dances over the skin with a feather light touch, drawing a very faint red line without spilling blood. He slides it down to the sole of the foot. Adding some pressure, the knife glides into the soft, vulnerable flesh.
His eyes are locked on the human. Frustrated with the lack of response the knife is pressed harder, blood trickling down to make a tiny pool on the bed. Without extracting it, he allows the dirtied steel further mare the skin, deepening the wound. Amroth does not enjoy torture, but still he receives some satisfaction at having the human at his mercy.

Ultimately, he withdraws the knife; cleaning it on the sheets. He does not care that the mute one stands in the doorway watching him gingerly; obviously torn between protecting the human and knowing her place. He will not be chased away by anyone, even less a youngling unable to speak, but torture is leading nowhere. He might as well think of something else and return at a later time.

Her eyes wander from him to the blood, making him irritated. Will she dare question him on this? Walking up to her with a challenge in his eyes, she quickly lowers her gaze in submission. Satisfied with her choice, he passes her. "Clean it up."

Dîn dares not venture forward until the male has gone; his mere presence enough to distress her. Examining the damage, it is clear that it does not require the healer's attention. Be that as it may, the blood is flowing profusely and it is with some difficulty that she tries to stem the bleeding. Whilst twining a make-shift bandage around the cut, she frowns. Why was Amroth hurting the human? What was he hoping to achieve? Even if Dîn had been able to speak, she knows that she would never be brave enough to ask him.

A sudden sound freezes her movements. She is no longer alone as Inglor is standing in the doorway contemplating the scene in front of him.
Her hands tremble and she wishes, not for the first time, that her voice would return to let her explain. What if he is under the impression that she harmed the human? How can she defend herself when she cannot speak? She holds her breath, awaiting his reaction.

"This is Amroth's work." He does not look surprised but the disapproval is clear on his face.

She sighs with relief. Naturally, they must have met on the stairs. Inglor, being an intelligent one, drew his own conclusions.
He never disappoints.

Spotting the red smirch on the sheets, she gestures to it. "It is simplest if I lift her," Inglor offers. Bending forward, he gently cradles the human in his arms, as if she is a small child.

About to tear the sheets away Dîn sees something in the indentation left by the sleeping body. A necklace, fashioned by two simple strings of thin hemp in white and green braided together with a flat, polished stone attached to the middle. Needless to say, it is not elven craft.
Does it belong to the human?

"Two strings," Inglor murmurs. Unbothered by the weight in his arms, he studies the necklace closer. "The strings are bonded. This is a love token."

He looks into Dîn's eyes and for a moment, a brief and wonderful moment, she does not look away. Does the human have someone she loves? Someone waiting - missing - her? Will someone one day give Dîn a similar token of affection?

She carefully places the necklace on the table. This must be precious and the woman will surely appreciate it being taken care of until she wakes.

"Can I accompany you?" Inglor asks as she finishes up.

She hesitates.

This cannot lead anywhere. Dîn knows this. He knows this. Why does he persist? Although, deep in her heart, she is secretly pleased that he does not give up. She knows that she should put a stop to it and put distance between them, but today her spirit is weak. She lets him walk beside her, carrying the basket with the sullied sheets and filling the quiet with gentle chatter. And it fills her soul with joy.

Írimë longs to walk beneath the stars and feel the dry leaves and soft grass beneath her naked feet. Up until now, the palace has been on alert and everyone on edge. The attack on the human girl might just have been the beginning and nothing is left to chance. Continuous reports are made on anything out of the ordinary, patrols have been more than doubled and the gate is now closed at all times, allowing rare few to venture outside. Though these rules are temporary, they are still chafing.

Entering the Archive of Knowledge she spots Amroth looming over a table. The archive contains many books, ancient scripts and texts as well as items and is open for a select few; Írimë being one of them. Amroth does not even offer her a glance as he studies a beautifully detailed map on fragile yellowed paper.

"The town the human mentioned," he says aloud, without prompting. "It does not exist. I have searched every map, both recent and of a bygone age. There is no description of the town or mention of the name in any texts." He looks up then, whilst pointing to the sea of Belegaer.

Írimë walks around the table to stand side-by-side. "You know as well as I, that it does not mean it is not there."

Maps are seldom wholly accurate. Kingdoms rise and fall, the land changes, and new maps are rarely made. The newest map in the king's possession is likely closer to a century old already. Humans, who live so short lives, are fast and talented builders. Who is to say that the town did not come to existence a mere eighty years ago?

He scowls. "I think it is one of many lies it gave us." He gently rolls up the map. "When the human awakens, I will have it point out-"

A guard enters the chamber, a chiming sound from his armour when he comes to a halt. "Yes?" Amroth demands.

"The human is awake."

Complete and utter silence follows that announcement. Wide-eyed, Írimë turns to Amroth, wanting to warn him from doing anything hasty.
Not a word she manages as he is already storming out of the room with great speed.

This might end badly. Though she does not want to go against him, she does not trust his judgement when it comes to this human.
She is under the king's protection. That has been made clear. And if Amroth harms her... Thranduil is not the forgiving kind.

Chapter Text

Eryn Galen, a long time ago

With a breathless laugh she darts between the trees, dodging low-hanging branches. Breathing strained and chest aching from the lack of air in her lungs, she throws a glance behind her and cries: "Quicker, Fin!" Eyes searches for her pursuer, aware that he can turn completely silent and blend into the forest even whilst at a run - making him undetectable.

Despite his natural abilities, with her Fin purposely allows his steps to make noise. Perhaps in a vain attempt to lessen his otherworldly aura. She does not have the heart to tell him that it cannot be accomplished. He is ethereal. Magnificent. And hers.

Fin overtakes her with a inhuman speed and reaches the large teardrop-tree first. Leaning against the trunk in a carefree pose, he does not appear tired in the slightest. Hair in perfect place, breathing even and calm, his face displays cool indifference even as his eyes sparkle with triumph.

She comes to an abrupt halt before she can collide with him. Hands on her hips, chest falling and rising visibly as she struggles to catch her breath, she gives him an irritated glare. How does he manage to stay so unaffected when her cheeks are warm and red from the race, bun coming undone with strands of hair escaping to frame her face and legs shaking from the effort? It is not fair that he is so perfect and she is so... human.

"You....," she huffs, drawing a couple of deep gulps of air. "That is cheating!" She complains, though the accusation has no bite to it.

Eyes narrowing, he leaves his spot at the tree to close the distance between them. Fighting to keep a smile off of her face, she tilts her head to look him in the eyes. The word is slow, deliberate, provoking. "Cheater."

He lunges even as she tries to flee; but she puts up no fight when arms wraps around her smaller frame and drags her back against his warm chest. "How dare you accuse me of thus?" He growls low, the words tickling the sensitive shell of her ear.

Fighting to keep her breathing under control for completely different reasons this time, she melts into his arms as he leans down to place a kiss on her exposed neck. "Fin..." She sighs contently. She cares not that they are unwed; she would gladly allow him to claim her right here on the forest floor.

As if hearing her thoughts, he turns her around in his embrace and plants a chaste kiss to a blushing cheek. Slightly disappointed, she tries to allow reason to take back the reins. She is well aware that Fin would never claim her like that. His people have different customs and the act of joining is almost sacred for them. And though it sometimes drives her to desperation, she respects it.

"I need to return soon or my absence will be noticed." Even as he speaks his facial expression falls, disappointment evident. She freezes in his arms. Is it so late already? Even though she knows she too has to go back, no part of her wants to leave. "A little bit longer," she pleads.

His embrace hardens and he opens his mouth as she places a finger on his lips. "Please, do not ask." Every time he asks, it becomes even more difficult to refuse him.

Hand rising to his cheek and caressing the soft skin, he closes his eyes and leans into her touch. "I have something for you." She murmurs shyly. Reaching into a pocket in her dress, she hands him a small pouch. Carefully, he pulls out the content and places it in his palm.

"It cannot compare to elven craft," she gives off a nervous laugh, eyes gliding off his face to focus somewhere at the ground. He contemplates the handmade gift intently, memorizing every detail of it. It is a love token, to be worn around the neck.
With a gentle hand, he raises her chin, wanting her to look at him. "I will treasure it always." He vows. Another kiss and he withdraws. The warmth of him - gone. "I will send a message when we can meet again."

Unable to bear it, she rushes into his arms before he can leave, standing on her tippy-toes to give him one last, fleeting kiss. "I miss you terribly when we are apart."

He presses down his lips, as if stopping himself from speaking. Ashamed, she lowers her eyes, already regretting her words. It is her fault that they have to be apart. How dare she complain about it when she refuses the solution to their problems?
A shaky breath. "Please, do not take too long." The tone of her voice has gone soft and vulnerable, and she hates it. She does not want to end their time together on a sad note.

He does not allow her to shy away; instead trapping her in another embrace, his warmth returning in force. "Soon." His fierce response startles her. There is a promise in his voice- that this will be one of the last times they will be separated.

Watching the shadows devour him as he walks deeper into the forest, she reluctantly leaves their meeting spot. She is loath to see him go - a piece of her heart breaking each time.

With the enchantment of the forest left behind, the horror of what she is about to return to grips her. Heart threatening to beat out of her chest, palms sweaty, her steps falter. If Fin knew what she is subjected to almost daily, he would never allow her to go back to that place. He would protect her.

... It is best that he does not know.

Her fingers claw at her modest neckline searching for the gift he had once given her trying to find comfort, until she remembers it is gone. During the winter she had been able to hide it beneath her clothes but the weather has turned too mild. Fearful that their love would be found out, she had begged him to safeguard it until the day when they can be together. He had not questioned her.

Displaying silver around her neck, elven craft on top of that, is asking for trouble. Never would she be so open and brazen about her elven lover. Fin being a well-kept secret known by only one other and she wants to keep it that way. Otherwise, she might put their very lives in danger.

Brown, knobby and horribly dated, the stained cover of the seat is as disgusting as it's familiar, and so is the large but practical bag occupying the seat beside you. The bus is packed with people and conversations fill the space in a low murmur.

Are you on your way to work? You can't remember.

Outside, the sun is blinding. The strong light is relentlessly flooding through your window, leaving you with no choice but to shield your eyes and turn away. You feel dazed, as if you haven't really woken up yet. What's the time?

Scanning the other passengers, something strikes you as odd. Staring at them, you can't really put your finger on it. Leaning out into the empty aisle on your right, you try to catch someone's eye. "Excuse me?"

No answer. No one's even looking in your direction. Frowning, you half-turn in your seat to look behind you. Strangely, it's like the bus just fades away into nothing - there're no seats and no people, just a gaping emptiness. Freaking out, you snap back into your original pose.

This is bad, really bad. You have to get off.

Jumping out of the seat in a panic you're about to run up to the driver and ask him to pull over when, in a mere blink of an eye, you're at the front of the bus. You've no idea how that's possible but there no time to figure that out because you're staring at an empty seat.

Oh my god! No one's driving the bus!

About to scream for help, you're stunned into silence.

The passengers... they're...



Gone.

The first thing you notice as you wake is the softness of the sheets and pillow. It's heavenly. Stretching a little, you instantly regret it.
You feel sore all the way from your neck down to your back, as if your body's been stuck in this position for too long. Secondly, your foot is throbbing something awful. Damn it hurts!

Eyelids as heavy as lead, you can only just marginally open them with great effort. Your room's almost entirely dark with the exception from a faint light at your bedside. Did you forget to turn off a lamp? You never go to sleep with lights on.

Wait, what day is it?

Heart starts to beat harder. Weren't you on the bus just now - on your way to work? Don't you have a shift coming up? Everything aches so much and your head's starting to pound viciously as you try to remember and sort through your memories.

The Stranger. The vision of him invades your mind and you recoil inwardly. No, that... that must've been a nightmare. You're in your bed, you're home, you...

Hurt so much.

Sharp pain stabs through your foot at a slight movement and you gasp. You're not home. You're not in your own bed. And God, you're hurting so much. What have they done to you? Terrified of what you'll see when you open your eyes, you press them shut even harder. Lip quivering, you sniffle as tears burn behind your eyelids.

"Calm yourself," an unknown male voice urge you.

Flinching at the fact that you're not alone, you try to regain control over your body. But it's too late; he already knows you're awake.
Is he here to torture you? Is that why you're in pain? You want to tell him to let you go, to please don't hurt you, but then you realize -

Eyes fly open and you try to pull yourself into a seating position but are instantly overcome with dizziness and weakness. Coughing violently with a throat as rough as if you've swallowed sand, he offers you a cup and you drink without a second thought. Your throat's so dry that the possibility of it being poison doesn't even deter you. Thankfully, it only tastes like water.

When you've drunken your fill, you remember he's probably a sadist getting off of your pain and try to make your uncooperative body roll away from him. The man retreats without hesitation. "I will bring you no harm," he assures you with slow, measured words. "I am here to restore you to health."

There's no way you can stop the tears from falling. They keep streaming down your cheeks as if a tap's been turned, freeing your emotions. It's not pretty. Tears mixing with snot running down your nose, you're snivelling like a small child wanting it's mommy.



He speaks your language.



You're saved.

Straining with the effort to rein in your emotions, your body shakes with withheld tears. The man patiently waits as you compose yourself.

"Y-you..." A shaky inhale. "...Understand me?" Kind eyes consider your teary face. "I learned the shore-language a long time ago during my travels."

That means that he's been outside the sect; met other people, spoken to them and learned from them. Maybe he's not as far gone as the others are. Maybe you can implore him to help you!

The man hands you a damp cloth and you stare at it. "If you wish to clean yourself," he explains. Now turned embarrassed by your break-down and how you must look with tears and snot everywhere, you wipe your face in an attempt to regain some dignity. It also allows you time to pull yourself together.

Taking in his appearance, you see that he's dressed just like the others with that same long, unpractical hair. Undeniably, he belongs here. But still, he's not like the others. Hope blooms inside of you - he might be your saviour.

About to mentally dub him just as you have the others you've interacted with, you realize with no small amount of relief that you don't have to. Head reeling with the knowledge that you can finally communicate with someone, a hundred questions assaults your mind, making it impossible to know where to start.

"Can... Can I ask... What's your name?"

"Uilos, at your service." Courteous and pleasant, he's definitely different. At least from the male population of the sect.

Seizing the moment before someone can interrupt, you plead with him. "Please... please help me." You have to convince him to come to your aid but you're struggling to find the words, your mind still not entirely awake from its slumber. "Please. I don't know why I'm here... I haven't done anything."

"U...Ulos," you stumble over the pronunciation. Taking a deep breath to keep the tears at bay, you try to look as harmless and innocent as possible. "I just want to go home. I won't tell anyone about this, I promise."

He's not swayed. You can see it in his eyes. What can you say to make him see that keeping you here is wrong? "M-my family... they're probably looking for me."

The mention of family seems to spark his interest. Win his sympathy. Make him relate.

"My mom must be worried sick."

In truth, you're not sure she's even noticed your absence. It's not like you talk that often and it's even rarer that you meet in person. And your relationship with your dad is even weaker. But someone must've discovered it by now, surely?
When you failed to show up at work your boss must've reported you missing to the police and they in turn will find and notify your parents. Just like they do on Crime Shows.

A small, despondent voice gnaws at the back of your mind. What if they thought you'd simply had enough and quit? You barely had any hours left. Not nearly enough to cover your rent anymore. You've been searching for a second and even a third job just to make ends meet. Management's well-aware that employees come and go regularly; the restaurant might as well have had revolving doors installed. Even among customers the restaurant's earned the non-flattering nickname of hired and fired.

What of your friends? You have them, of course. But there's no one you've been really close to lately. Being broke all the time has chased many of them away. Wanna go out and have a drink? Sorry, I can't. How about a day of shopping? Maybe next time. A girls-only trip over the weekend? I'd love to, but I'm busy that weekend...

In the end, people just stopped asking you to things.

Heart hurting at the thought that no one might notice that you're gone or - even worse - not care, you sag into the bed, strength failing you. The man says nothing and you know there's no point. He won't help you. No one will.

No.

You refuse to cry and beg and be weak anymore. You'll get out of here sooner or later. And when you get back you'll find a better job, get back in touch with your friends and start living again.

The following silence between you stretches out to an uncomfortable length. Did you take it too far? Will he be angry with you?

But Uilos merely shakes his head sedately. "I am a healer, not a jailor." At those words, he picks up a mortar from the nearby table and crushes something in it with the pestle. "I can offer you no more help than that."

A doctor? Why would you need -

Brushing a trembling hand across your throat, you stare at him. The strangulation. The black out. Was it all real?

"It will not harm you anymore," he assures in a calm voice, but there's nothing comforting in that statement. What the hell is going on?

"It?"

He dodges your whispered question with a delicate wave of his hand. "There is no need to concern yourself. Now, how are you feeling?"
There's true concern in his voice and you lap it up - desperate to have someone care, to have someone on your side.

"Like I've been run over by a truck."

"I am not familiar with that phrase." A quirked eyebrow. "Do you mean to say that you are still hurting?"

"Yeah. My head... and for some reason, my foot." You groan. "I need an aspirin. Or five." He pours his mixture into a cup and offers it up to you. Determined to keep on his good side you don't want to come off as rude, but there's no way you're drinking that. "I... I don't think that's necessary."

"It is for the pain. It is harmless." There's an awkward stare between you and then he nods. "As you wish."

Pleasantly surprised by the fact that he listened to you, you give him a tentative smile. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I confess that scant information has reached my ears." His eyes search your face - for what, you don't know. Maybe he's worried that you'll freak out again.

When you're sure he won't say anymore on the matter and you taste the bitterness of disappointment at the fact, he surprises you. "I know little of the goings on in the palace."

Palace? This place?

You're burning to know more but at the same time you don't want to derail him from the subject at hand, so you bite your tongue to stop unvoiced questions from spilling out.

"Darkness was attracted to your mind."

Darkness? When it's clear he won't explain of his own accord, you give him a slight push. "Like... a nightmare?" Inwardly you scoff at your own suggestion. Yeah right, like a nightmare would cause you physical harm!

"It was a shadow. It was drawn to you... do you know why that is?"

Obviously he doesn't mean a literal shadow. It has to be some fancy term for... what? If this sect worships a deity, they probably have a power which is the opposite. Like God and the Devil. Is that what he means by 'a shadow'? You're not religious, but you'll do and say practically anything to win him over. You'll play their game if you have to if it will keep you alive.

"A shadow... is that like a demon?"

"The meaning of that word is not known to me." He gives you an once-over. "You use many strange words. Where do you hail from?"

Haven't you been through this already? Clearly Uilos hasn't gotten the memo. But you're invested in keeping him happy so you tell him as much as you dare about the coastal town you're claiming to be your hometown, hoping to gain something in return.

He repeats the name of the town, as if searching through memories. "In what kingdom does it lie?"

His question makes you freeze. Are you not even in the country anymore? No, you have to be. There's no way they've managed to get you across the border and into another country without you noticing it. Impossible.
But it would explain why nothing seems familiar and why everyone's speaking another language, you guess. And the strange food and clothes. Hmm. Is it really so out of the question?

Maybe he's just trying to confuse you; trying to catch you in a lie like the Stranger. You have to be careful. Just because the doctor acts kind doesn't mean he's on your side. At least, not yet.

Thankfully, he doesn't urge you to answer. "I have met many humans and learned their ways, customs and languages. You... are different."

Again with this talk about humans. Maybe you can get a straight answer about this. "Are you guys not human?"

His curious gaze burns through you. "You will not find many humans in Eryn Galen." There's something in the way he says it that almost makes you shiver. "Oh." You're not sure you want to know any more about their delusions, but at the same time you can't seem to stop yourself from barrelling forward. "W-what... are you then?"

He sounds astounded when he replies: "Woodland Elves."

What.

Not vampires. Not sect-members. Not even good-old traffickers. But elves?

Chapter Text

Help me.

He strides past the guards, the human's pleading fresh in his mind. It was not his intention to listen in to the conversation between the woman and the healer. He had come for another purpose when the melody of her voice - distressed and in agony - stopped him just outside the bedchamber. Subsequent to what was said, it was clear that this was not a opportune moment to meet with her. Although he had several questions that demanded an answer still - they would have to wait.

Refusing to lower himself to such a degrading act as hiding in the shadows listening to words not meant for him, he departed without further delay. Even so, he could not shut his ears from absorbing her sobs. Please... please help me.

One might suspect the woman of playing the healer false - using tears as a weapon. Despite any misgivings one may have about humans however, it is clear that she is wretched in truth, her sorrow deeply imbedded in the words she speaks.
Even with comfortable lodgings, fine clothes and an attendant of her own - there is only misery. Assuming her to be no different from any other human he has previously encountered, he has evidently underestimated her. She covets not riches or power - the trappings of the palace holds no sway on her.

I just want to go home.

Her wish for freedom appears genuine. He understands that want, that need. His people value freedom above all else - there is no fate worse than that of one in chains. The fact that she is a remarkable human was evident from the moment the meaning of the mark was made clear, however her actions and words afterwards solidify it even further.

Êl-nóna. Worthy of the name.

Írimë darts after Amroth, worry thick in her heart. He must not reach the human!

As the stairs to the visitor’s chambers are made visible, the sight that meets them is like throwing a bucket of water on a candle's flame - violent and excessive, but with instantaneous results. They halt at the very same moment, almost frozen mid-step.
The long robes drags on the last few steps as the king of the Woodland Realm descends. Chancing a glance at Amroth, Írimë can feel the waves of frustration pulsate from him even as he appears collected.

"I made it known that Êl-nóna is under my protection."

Írimë swallows a gasp that threatens to slip free. He knows. And if that is the case... she must show as much reverence as possible in the hopes of nullifying any anger Lord Thranduil harbours towards him. Towards both of them.
Although he might have taken offence by Amroth's deeds, she is nonetheless hopeful that Lord Thranduil will be lenient due to him having provided many years of loyal and trustworthy service as Captain of the Guard. She, on the other hand, might not be so fortunate.

Guilty of not reporting Amroth's venomous thoughts and actions immediately when she knew of them, she had allowed him to do as he pleased, hoping that he would come to see reason. A vain hope it now seems.
Though Írimë has many merits, they might not be enough to shelter her from the wrath of the king. "My Lord." Her deep curtsey takes her almost completely to her knees, head lowered in respect.

To her surprise, Lord Thranduil takes no notice of her - his eyes burrowing into the other male. "I have overlooked any failure on your part in safeguarding the human, once. I will not do so again. If any harm befalls her from this day forth, I will hold you accountable."

Amroth forms his hands into fists but bows in subjection. "Understood, my Lord."

The icy glare briefly sweeps over to her. "Êl-nóna is not to be left without suitable company." It is not a suggestion. It is a command - one she heeds immediately. "I will see to it at once."

"In company, she may freely leave the chambers. The guards are to remain at their post."

Írimë can almost see the protest Amroth bites back before he speaks. "And the palace? Are the gates to be opened?"

Unspoken is the question if the human is suddenly so trustworthy that she can come and go as she pleases. This time, however, he receives a small win. "The gates are to remain closed. I leave it to you to judge who is allowed to pass through. The healer, however, is not to be hindered."

Amroth relaxes slightly. "It will be as you command."

As Lord Thranduil takes his leave, Írimë is so relieved that she feels slightly faint. If any doubt still lingered it has now been made quite clear - the human is no longer a prisoner. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. And with a constant companion she will no longer be at risk of Amroth's rage even if he would dare disobey a direct command.

Amroth turns around to leave but not before throwing a dark glance at the top of the stairs, most likely furious at the invisible wall keeping him from reaching the human. As he storms off, Írimë does not try to follow. So much rage fills him and she does not understand it.
Hoping that he will speak with her about the burden he carries is futile, nevertheless she cannot help it. Even after all this time hope continues to blossom in her chest.

A year... a decade ... it matters little to an elf.

From the moment they dragged you down to your prison cell, you knew what they were. Had you forgotten? ... No. The Stranger's words had been but a whisper barely reaching you in your despair as you were hauled away. You'd been too wound-up, terrified and exhausted to recall it, and even if you had you wouldn't have put any stock to it - no one truly sane would believe such a ridiculous statement out of the blue.
But now his words come back in full force and you don't get the feeling that he's the kind of man to prank people.

Elves. Unbelievable. Still, the truth is sinking in and making you believe.

Clearly, they're not the over the top, fun-loving elves that's displayed on TV each and every Christmas. The image of the Stranger - elegant and intimidating - jumping out of a huge gift-wrapped package wearing a silly hat with bells on it, almost has you burst out in laughter.
Your reaction shows that almost being killed hasn't put a damper on your humour, but on the other hand you might be nearing the edge of hysteria.

You look at the doctor with new eyes, trying to register the fact that he isn't human. That's when you notice his ears. Oh my god, they're actually a bit pointy, aren't they? It's very subtle and hardly noticeable if you don't look for it. Another concrete evidence of their otherness.

Another?

Yeah... that's right. The path's been littered with evidence that something's off. No, that everything's off. It's the small things - the outfits, the language, the fact that they have goddamn swords and armour! But it's also the large, unexplainable things.
Even when your mind tries to rationalize it, you can't escape the fact that they've dug out a whole cave to make a massive... well, palace as they call it, as well as having built a whole goddamn town way up in the trees.

This isn't you being kidnapped and just taken over the border to a neighbouring country. This is all too strange, like Alice in Wonderland-kind of strange. But instead of it being a dream, it's... reality. It's like you've been transported, not through time but through ... what, another dimension? An alternative reality? That would explain why they don't know about buses! Or jobs. That would explain a lot, actually.

You should be freaked out. Question your sanity. But it's like a veil has been lifted to finally reveal what's been there all the time - hidden from view. It actually calms you to know that you've not in the claws of an insane sect role-playing as medieval vampires. You might actually be able to reason with them!

Even so, it doesn't explain how you got here or why. All you did was ride the bus, like you've done hundreds of times before. You weren't even alone that day, so why isn’t the forest crawling with all of the other passengers? Why did this happen to you of all people?

And, more importantly, how are you supposed to get back?

Far away in your thoughts, you don't notice the woman until she's standing by the bed. Instantly you recognize her as the Grey One, now bringing a bowl of what's unmistakingly soup. Your stomach growls aggressively at the mouth-watering smell of it. As she hands the bowl to you the doctor warns; "Eat slowly. Let your body get used to food once more."

It's difficult to do as you're told when you're ravenous but you realize it is sound advice. You take small sips from the spoon and counts to ten in your head after each mouthful. It's odd to sit there and eat while the doctor fiddles with his strange herbs and vials and the woman runs around cleaning non-existent dust from the furniture.

After you've emptied the bowl, the woman gathers it up. "Thank you." The words slip out without conscious thought. The Grey One looks at you a bit uncertain as if she isn't sure what you want. Right, she doesn't understand you.

"How do I say 'thank you' in your language?" You ask the doctor and the woman takes it as she's been dismissed as she slinks away with the dishes.

The doctor's brows furrow. He looks over his shoulder at the woman's fleeing form as if he hadn't even noticed her presence. "There is no need for that."

You flinch at that slightly arrogant response. He probably meant well but it doesn't sit right with you. "It doesn't matter what her job - eh... what she does. You should still be polite to people."

"Certainly," he agrees. "Unfortunately, your kindness would be wasted." At your confused look, he goes on to explain: "She has no voice."

"What?"

"She is unable to speak."

"Oh." The cogs in your mind slowly turn. "But... she can still hear, right?"

At that moment the woman re-enters the room. The doctor is stunned, like you've slapped him. Then he inclines his head. "You shame me."

You sit completely still, unsure if you've offended him. "Annon allen." You blink at him confused. "That is how you say thank you."

As the woman returns to your bedside, she picks up something from the table and brings it over to you. You see it's a very simple necklace, looking like something you might've found at a fair. It's just strings holding a stone, really. Even though necklaces aren't really your thing, it's obviously a gift and you don't want to make her unhappy by refusing it.

You hurriedly repeat to her the words you've just learned, probably butchering the language in the process. The woman gives you a startled look but then gives a small nod in return. Happy with the progress you've made, you put on the necklace. The stone is heavy and cold to the touch.

"It suits you," the doctor comments.

His warm gaze makes you fidget under the covers, aware that you must look quite the mess.

"I ask for your forgiveness but I must leave." A tap of his finger at the cup you refused earlier. "If you find yourself in pain, drink this tonic."

"Wait!" You call out as he gets ready to leave. "Will you come back? You're the only one I can talk to."

He smiles gently. "You are far too interesting to keep away from."

True to his word the doctor returns the very next day. He doesn’t comment on the fact that the tonic has gone untouched or the fact that your face is twisted in a grimace, obviously in pain. You’re grateful for it.

He extends a hand. “Will you walk with me?”

Except a few times when the mute woman assisted you to the bathroom (though that's not an accurate description but something you’re much more comfortable using than the term ‘use the bucket’) you haven’t left the bed at all. You’re excited at the prospect.

He helps you to your feet with a steady hand. Leaning on his arm you're limping forward concentrating on taking one step at a time.
He sits you down at the small table in the other room where a tray of food is already waiting for you. Although it's only some soup and pieces of fruit it looks like a feast in your eyes. Hungry, you dig in immediately.

He pulls up another chair and sits down. You shiver, your body not used to the chillier air outside the warm bed.

“Are you cold?”

“A bit,” you admit.

“I can have a coat fetched for you,” he offers. “I often forget how sensitive humans are to the cold.”

Again you detect a slight arrogance hidden in his kindness and it bugs you. “No thanks.” You chomp down on a slice of orange. Or what you reckon is an orange by the look and taste of it. ”I’ll get used to it.” This is nothing in comparison to your ice-cold cell.
The very thought of that hellhole makes you immensely glad that you've been upgraded on the prisoner-scale. In fact, you're not even sure if you are still a prisoner. But if you're not, then what are you - a guest?

For some reason the movie the Beauty and the Beast comes to mind (and let's be honest, it was the song 'Be My Guest' that started playing in your head that did it). Belle just kind of took her new life-situation in stride, didn't she? Befriending the beast and earning her freedom in the end. If she had been uncooperative and sullen it probably would've ended very differently.

Maybe you should take a page from her book. It's better to be cordial and try to get along with these people rather than alienate them.
The doctor seems friendly enough and is most likely your best chance of information since at least you can communicate. But you have to keep in mind that the communication goes both ways and if he asks too many questions it might end up making things difficult for you.

You eat in silence until the gaping emptiness in your stomach isn't so prominent anymore. "Are you the only one who speaks my language?"

"Not at all," he assures you. "When you live as long as we do you must treat your mind as an instrument and practice it often, lest you forget how to create melodies."

"So far you've been the only one who understands me."

"In Eryn Galen it may be true that few do." He appears to contemplate something. "However, Lord Thranduil is well versed in many languages including yours."

The food is immediately forgotten. "Lord Thranduil?"

The doctor looks at you with a frown as if to say – you can’t really be ignorant about him, can you? Ah, of course. The stranger. So he has a name, has he? It would’ve been funny if his name was Harrold or something but of course the beautiful man has to have a beautiful name.

"Yeah right," you nod quickly, hoping to save face. “We spoke- well he - spoke. Before. When I came here and when -" Not wanting to continue down that path and opening yourself up to questions too dangerous to answer, you redirect the conversation. “Wait, you said something about Erin Gale…what was that?”

“Eryn Galen? It is where we are.”

“The cav-uh, palace?”

He shakes his head. “You may not have heard the elvish name for it before but surely you will recognize it when I mention it by the name Greenwood the Great. Or simply Greenwood, as some humans calls it.”

You don’t have to be a genius to realize that he’s talking about the gigantic forest the size of a small country. "Of course. Greenwood," you agree. All these names whirling around in your head. Uilos. Eryn Galen. Amroth. Greenwood. Thranduil.

You startle as the memory of Thranduil's cold glare flashes by. Or, more accurately, Lord Thranduil's cold glare. You just had to catch the attention of the ruler of the Elves, huh?

Suddenly the events from the first day play out differently in your head and it puts the accusations Thranduil threw at you in a whole other light.
He accused you of not being alone and asking about your "companions", did he think that humans had invaded the forest to spy on them?
Are elves and humans at war? You've no idea and it would probably draw too much suspicion to ask questions about it, but it would explain the interrogations and prison.

Clearly they're not fond of humans. Or at least the Strang- Thranduil isn't too fond. He said some derogatory things in the interrogations you suffered, although you can't remember the exact words.
The doctor is the only one, perhaps with the exception of the Happy One, that appears to like humans. Instead of showering you with hate and distrust, they've met you with kindness and comfort. That affinity for humans however, is also what's so dangerous.
The doctor is already suspicious of the way you speak and both women you've met so far might be watching your every move, so if you continue to act out of place and too modern it will hurt your plan. Not that you necessarily have a plan. But you might. Soon. Anyway, it's best to blend in.

At least you're doing something right since they let you out of the cell. Well, they didn't let you out, he did. But still.
Glancing at the tattoo decorating your wrist as you break off a grape from its wine, the reason for his change of heart is somewhat obvious. Thranduil reacted very positively to your star sign. You have no idea why, but it's clearly the reason why he didn't send you back to the ice-cold prison. Maybe they worship the stars and your so-called connection to them made you less of a threat and more of a possible ally?

There are so many questions whirling around in your head and no answers.

An idea strikes you. When people time travel in movies they need to go back to the place they first appeared in or find some item or fulfil some task before they can return home, right? Maybe it's the same for you.
Standing in front of the forest not long ago with a dry field behind you, you made a choice where to go. What would've happened if you'd chosen the field instead?

Maybe you need to get back to that place.

Chapter Text

Hi everyone,

I want to let you know that this story will be on a (hopefully) short hiatus.

If you've heard about a certain company providing hard drives and cloudservice having been hacked and information deleted, that's the reason.

This happened back in June. I lost so much information. All my notes on all my stories and everything I've planned out plot-wise, gone. I had written almost a whole chapter of this story.

But the most important thing was so many pictures of my little boy that just disappeared because of this. I've cried a lot and been so down. I haven't wanted to write anything and just felt....horrible.

Hopefully information can be recovered, but I don't know how long it will take.

I just want you all to know that this story is still close to my heart, I will continue it, but not right now.

I've decided to write something else, completely new, in the meantime. Maybe it will be posted on Archieve of Our Own, or maybe I'll keep it to myself. I want something to occupy myself with until I know if anything can be saved.

Thank you for all your patience!

September 4th 2021 UPDATE : I want to thank everyone who has been so kind and supporting through this. I'm trying to find the motivation to rewrite the newest chapter, since I doubt it will ever be recovered. So far, I'm getting back into the story by rewriting the other chapters. Feel free to go and check them out! :)

December 18th 2021 UPDATE: I'm getting my hard drive back soon. I sent it to a company to get data recovered. They've told me that a lot of information could be saved. I'm really hoping for the pictures of my son but also my documents and the lost chapter of this story.
I'm still doing my re-writes of earlier chapters but there will be new chapters coming, I promise! :)

Happy holidays!

Chapter Text

The doctor visiting you has become a regular thing, which you're grateful for. He smiles at you, as friendly as ever. “Good morning to you.”

“Good morning.” You return his greeting.

“May I take a look?” He gestures to your foot. After receiving your permission he examines it. “It is healing well.” He nods approvingly. “Does it still hurt?”

You're taking a bit longer to respond than you normally do. You're thinking every word through before uttering them in an attempt to avoid anything too modern and stop yourself from divulging information that might be used against you.

“Not as much as before.”

You walk a bit and demonstrate that you can put some weight on your foot now. He looks very pleased. “When you are better, you are welcome to join me for a walk outside these chambers.”

“Outside?” Your heart skips a beat. That might be a perfect opportunity to escape! “I would love that.” You sit down, not wanting to strain your foot unnecessarily. "You've been very kind to me. Thank you."

“If there is anything you lack, please feel free to inform me,” the doctor offers. “And I shall forward the request on your behalf.”

Your filter malfunctions for a second and you blurt out: “Forward it to whom?” Then you realize that it doesn’t matter and you shouldn’t ask too many questions that might make him suspicious of you.

“To your attendant." He doesn't seem taken aback by the question. "Or to someone else who is suitable for the task.”

“My attendant?”

He gives you a nod. “The woman who sees to your daily needs,” he explains.

Oh, the Grey One. She's been popping up more and more lately. “What’s her name?”

He blinks a couple of times, as if he’s trying to recall. “Dîn.”

”Dîn?” You let the letters roll around in your mouth. “It’s pretty.”

He discreetly looks away. "I must leave you now. I will be back again at the morrow."

“I look forward to it.” You assure him, trying to look pleased and not frustrated at the slowness of everything. When he leaves the room, you deflate. It will take ages before you'll get out of here at this pace.

You wonder if someone's guarding you. There's no door here like the cell. Hmm.

Hissing up your skirts to your knees, as to not stumble on them, you start sneaking up the stairs. It's only to gather information, not an attempt to break out! You repeat it a couple of times in your head, as if trying to calm your rapidly beating heart.
As you follow the curved stairs, you notice the shadow of someone at the top. You lean forward, pressing yourself to the wall as much as possible. You can see the hint of a man. A guard.

He doesn't look behind him but you can see him stiffen, indicative of him sensing your presence. You back up slowly, keeping your eyes at the direction of the threat until you're back in the room again. Okay, so they're not going to let you roam the palace freely. But you can probably leave in the company of the doctor, or at least, he seemed confident that you could.

You don't want to risk doing anything that will lead to you being thrown back into prison, so it's best to wait for him and not attempt anything stupid on your own. As long as you don't offend or anger the king, you'll probably be fine. Although... how are you supposed to know what's okay or not when you don't know the rules?

You stand there, a hundred thoughts running through your mind, when you hear someone coming. Terrified it's the guard and that you're going to get punished for daring walk up the stairs, you hurry to the chair to sit down and act as innocent as possible.
You're relieved when you see it's the Grey One. No, you correct yourself. Dîn. She's carrying a tray of food and it's only now that you notice how starved you are.

You give her a friendly smile. "Hi."

She gives a small incline of her head in acknowledgement and puts down the tray on the table.

"Dîn." You say aloud. The woman stiffens. "That's your name, right?" She lowers her head and you get the feeling that you've done something wrong, though you don't know what. "I get that we can't communicate," you say, more for your own sake than for hers, since she probably doesn't understand it. "But I'd like for us to be... I don't know, friends?"

The woman stays still.

"Or at least on somewhat friendly terms?" You don't know why you continue to speak when it's obvious it's not going to lead anywhere. You're a bit frustrated when an idea strikes you. "Hey. I-" you point at yourself, getting her attention. You say your name aloud.

She looks slightly confused.

You point at her. "Dîn." And then at yourself and repeat your name. When she nods as if grasping your meaning, you then say your name again and make the sign for it with your hands. She frowns and you do it again and again, hoping that she'll catch on. She stares intently at your hands and then tries to copy it.

It's perfect on the first try.

You create a sign for her name as well and teach it to her. It's always a good start. After that you try it with different things; the chair, the table and even the beans on your plate. Pointing at it and making the sign for it.
She repeats it and you beam at her. She's a fast learner. After a while you wrap it up and you thank her both aloud in her language as well with the sign for it.

As she goes about cleaning your rooms you sit and eat, being the happiest you've been since you landed in this world.

A vast scene is painted on the wall. The plains of Dagorlad. Arrows filling the sky, spears and swords pointing towards an army of orcs and other fell creatures loyal to the second Dark Lord; the Ring-Maker.
The image shows only a sliver of the thousands of elves that faced the enemy that day. Countless marched to war and so few returned. And even fewer had their likeness drawn like this.

So many forgotten faces.

Even though Írimë did not witness the battle herself, she shivers as if she can smell the stench of blood and feel the pain of steel piercing flesh. The battles are doomed to repeat themselves. Over and over. The armies might be led by another commander, the land might have been ravaged by time, but in the end blood will be spilled and people will mourn those who are no longer here.

Sometimes, the Undying Lands beckon to her tired heart; to flee the sorrow. However, she knows that she will not find what she is searching for there. No, she will stay in Ennor, in the mortal realm. At least until her heart has healed.

In the middle of the image is a man who demands all gazes be directed towards him as soon as one enters the room. Regal, with silver-gold hair, he has a sword unsheathed and raised in the air, about to smite the nearest enemy.
The likeness to Lord Thranduil is astonishing. She never truly saw Lord Oropher up close when he was alive and have often wondered if the artist did him justice in his portrayal. But Írimë is not looking at him now. No, her focus lies on someone else.

There, to the far left corner, having barely made the artistic cut, she supposes; there he is.

She often finds herself wandering the palace until she ends up in front of this wall. Especially now, when the palace has been closed off.
It serves no purpose, in truth. It will not bring back the dead. It will merely hurt her heart further. And even though she knows that, she cannot stay away.

Walking up to the wall, she places a hand on the painted stone. Over his face. As if she could touch his skin. As if it would feel warm and soft beneath her touch.

To her disappointment, there is only cold, hard rock.

She hears him enter the room; feels his eyes fixated on the face she now touches. She is too tired to argue. To fight. And it would feel disrespectful to do it here, in the Hall of Remembrance for so many fallen of their kin. It appears Amroth feels the same.

"I forget his face." She finds herself saying.

She should not speak of him. It seems to bring Amroth such pain when she does, but she cannot stop the words from flowing freely once she started. "When this wall was first painted, it was years after Lord Oropher's death. Lord Thranduil had it commissioned."

"I remember."

She lets out a tiny laugh. "Of course you do."

She lets a finger run along the painted eyes, following the lines. "After he died, I - for many decades I recognized the mistakes the artist did... the shape of his nose, the hue of his eyes." She sighs. "So many years have passed since then. I can no longer distinguish the errors from truth."

She turns to Amroth, looking him in the face for the first time. "Does that mean my love for him was less than it should have been?"

Amroth's eyes soften. "You loved him more than anyone could." He looks back at the painting. "Some memories fade. Too often it is the good ones."

"Perhaps it is time to create new ones." She cannot stop herself from trying to reach out whenever his walls are down. "Find peace."

"There will only ever be peace in the Undying Lands, free from humans. And still..." He looks at the man's face. "There will be none for me."

Eryn Galen, a long time ago

Amroth is sitting on a thick tree branch high above ground, hidden from view. Waiting. He should not be here, but should instead be doing his rounds as ordered by the Captain of the Guard. Amroth has been told more than once that he has promise and might rise high in the king's personal guard, but right now he is risking the anger of his superiors and losing any advancement he might earn.

It is unwise.

A younger man breaks through the bushes beneath him, unaware of being watched. Amroth wants to throw a bucket of water over his head in retaliation for being so oblivious. Although Finwë is not a warrior, he should know better. Amroth takes a breath, knowing that this next bit will not be pleasant for either of them.

He jumps down the tree, landing softly on the ground. The boy turns around, not looking nearly as surprised as he in all likelihood was. His eyes quickly sweep the area.

"I am alone." Amroth calms him.

Finwë relaxes. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. You need not have gone through this trouble." The boy smiles at him.

His eyes narrow. "Are you? It seems you create trouble wherever you go."

"You must have me confused with someone else," Finwë laughs. "What trouble am I causing?"

He steels himself. "I know of your secret."

The boy stills, smile fading away. "Is that so?" Slightly flustered he glances away, unable to meet Amroth's disapproval.

"I will not let you break apart your family."

He frowns, his expression severe. "Why would I?"

"You are aiming to abandon your family, are you not?"

Finwë lowers his head, as if the burden of the truth is pressing down on him. Amroth sighs, knowing he is too fond of the boy to cause him pain. "I will not speak of this to anyone." He backs off, allowing the secret to lie. For now. "You will be in my debt."

The boy scowls. "I will not take any more wine from my father's storage. He has been wondering if I have developed two stomachs to hold it all."

Amroth grins. "His storage also has very fine cheese..."

Finwë makes a show of sighing dejected. "As you will." He laughs when Amroth grabs him by the shoulder and starts walking back to the village.

Amroth will keep an eye on the boy. Letting him leave is not an option.

Chapter Text

Dîn finds that she does not mind the long walks to the visitor's chambers even though they are located quite remote in the palace. It allows her time to simply think, something she would not have thought a good thing just a few moons past. Her mind would often turn to dark and unwelcome memories if she was left in her own thoughts for too long; reliving events that continue to haunt her even to this very moment. However, the past do not plague her as viciously as it once did. The human is partly the reason for that.

Dîn has very limited experience of female humans so she does not know if the woman is as unusual as the whispers in court claim. Strange or no, Dîn is glad for the opportunity to be allowed to serve her. Most elves would not share that sentiment, she knows. However, the woman is kind. Always speaking to and looking directly at her, something Dîn has grown unaccustomed to after all this time.

What makes her the most excited, however, is the way the human is teaching her to speak; not with her tongue, but with her hands.
Already, Dîn has learned many words and uses her long walks to and from the visitor's chambers to practice what she has learned.
Although this time, she is carrying neatly folded dresses in her arms and will have to make do with reiterating the hand movements in her mind.

"May I accompany you?"

She is brought out of her thoughts as Inglor approaches. He has made a habit of escorting her whenever he is able. When she inclines her head in response, he beams at her. They walk side by side and Dîn ignores the curious looks they are given as they walk further into the palace.

"The palace gates will soon open," Inglor reveals all of the sudden. Dîn turns to look at him surprised. Does that mean the danger has passed?
It stings that she has not been deemed important enough to be informed of this, although Inglor is too kind to draw attention to the fact.

"I long to walk amongst the trees again." He sounds wistful and Dîn wants to smile because he reminds her of Írimë.

There's a comfortable silence between them as they approach the large stairs to the visitor's chambers. Before they are within earshot of the guards, however, he asks; "Would you be willing to share that walk with me?"

She stops to look at him. He offers her a sure smile, although she can see the insecurity hiding beneath it. She should put a stop to this.
A shake of her head, a disapproving glare, something. She is too broken to ever bind herself to anyone.
Still, she cannot bear to hurt him. She gives him a slow, reluctant nod. His smile turns radiant and she cannot help but respond in kind.

You don't know how many days it's been. It feels like weeks because you're growing so restless, but realistically you know it's much less.
At least the doctor deems your foot healed enough to the point where you can leave your rooms. Finally!
As you walk past the guards you almost expect them to try and stop you - maybe demand you show some paper or something to allow you and the doctor to leave. But they don't even blink. Or if they do, you don't notice it.

To be able to leave your rooms, even if it's only temporary, feels liberating. You're dying to just limp your way through the cave and the blue gate and see the sun again. Your heart sinks as you recognize that you might never be permitted to leave.
Maybe you would've fought them if you knew then what you know now; refused to let yourself be forced into a prison from which you may never gain freedom. And you would've died for it.

Even as you're dressed in a lovely gown, being housed in exquisite rooms and being fed delectable meals each day, you've never gotten rid of the notion that you are expendable. Everything you have been given can just as easily be taken away and you can be thrown back to the cold, bleak cell you were first acquainted with. To have any sort of advantage, you would have to get to the bottom of why your circumstances suddenly changed. A tattoo and astrological signs isn't enough to build a case on with any confidence.

Your main priority at the moment is to try to build a rapport with the doctor while maintaining your secret of where you're really from, try to amass information that will be helpful in your future escape and try not to mess things up.
It's a lot to carry on your own. If you make a mistake it's possible that you'll die for it. You try not to dwell on it, but it's hard to ignore.

Absorbed in your own thoughts, you accidently trip on your long skirt. Before you even have the time to react you're saved in a flash by the doctor's quick reflexes. He regards you closely. "Are you well?"

"Yeah, yeah, I mean... yes, I'm fine." Your heart is pounding. You need to keep your wits about you - you can't go around daydreaming like this. Stay in the now, ignore anything else.

"You are not in pain?" He prods, not convinced by your answer.

You gather yourself and take a breath before looking at him straight on. "No, I'm not." Your voice is calm and assuring. "I didn't look where I was going and just tripped."

He seems appeased by your response and you continue on your walk. You haven't gotten used to how otherworldly your surroundings are and drink in the sights eagerly. Having been stuck in your rooms for what feels like forever, any kind of change in your environment is more than welcome.

Walking around in a excessively lengthy gown however is a difficulty you hadn't expected. Since your first bath where they took your old clothes away, you've been wearing their outfits. Merely walking from one room to another, and often with the help of others because of your injury, has been no bother at all. Trying to walk up and down a thousand stairs however is quickly proving to be a nuisance.

You swear under your breath as you almost stumble on the skirt again. "Are you truly well?" The doctor brings you both to a standstill on the bridge you were crossing. "You need not exert yourself."

Not wanting to cut the promenade short, you wave away his concern. "I'm not. Not at all, I promise. I'm just not used to... never mind." It would probably be unwise to draw even more attention to how strange you are by mentioning you're more used to pants than skirts.

Anxious to prevent him from probing further, you look out over the vast, stunning scenery. "I could stand here all day," you say in the hopes of distracting him. "It's so beautiful."

"I agree."

As you chance a glance at him, his eyes are fixated on your face. There's something soft in his facial expression and you don't think he's watching you out of concern. A blush rises on your cheeks. Is he... flirting with you?

He's very handsome. Like every elf you've seen so far. Either they're hiding their mediocre and ugly people or they have the best genetics you've ever seen. He's a head taller than you with shoulder-long hair of hazel colour, kind eyes and a soothing voice. The doctor is nothing like him, almost the opposite in fact.

You want to curse in frustration. Why can't you get him out of your mind? Why do your thoughts always wander back to him? Happily unaware of your inner turmoil the doctor offers you his arm. "We should return to your chambers."

Your mind blanks out as you try to come up with any reason to prolong your walk and you end up accepting his arm. Plagued by your awkward imaginations of piercing grey-blue eyes, you fumble to find anything to say to break the silence. "You've been so kind to me, I really appreciate it."

"It is my pleasure," he assures you. His response sounds earnest and it warms your heart. Kindness is not a given thing in this place and the very prospect of him being interested in you makes his words even sweeter.

Your good mood is promptly soured as he continues; "You are healing well. Soon there will be nothing further I can do for you."

Pulling back your arm under the guise of needing to hold up your skirt as you go down some stairs, you try to quell your disappointment.
Right, he's a doctor. He only cares about getting you well again and then he's not coming back. He's not your friend and he's not interested romantically in you.

Why are you upset by that? You should only care about getting back home, not about anything else. Being a prisoner must be doing weird things to your mind.

The doctor is too attentive or you're a lot worse at hiding your emotions than you think, because he adds a kindly; "I will of course keep you company whenever you desire."

You find some solace in his offer, although you have no idea how genuine it is. "Thank you."

Your neck prickles and you get impression of someone watching. Carefully, you scan the area, not wanting to be too obvious in your search for the source. Are the guards keeping taps on you?

"Will you join the coming feast?" The doctor inquires and this time you do stumble. He is lightning fast and catches you before you fall, bringing you close to his chest in one smooth motion. As you look up at him, your breath catches as you're made aware of how close you are, almost in an embrace. His eyes search yours and your lips part at a small gasp.

The moment is rudely interrupted by a male voice and you freeze in his arms, painfully cognizant of the scene you two are painting out in the open. You briefly wonder if it looks bad for a doctor to flirt with a patient (if that is what he's been doing), but he doesn't seem to have the same worry. He is slow to release you, making sure that you're fine to stand on your own two feet.

Your face is probably red as a tomato but you try to play it off as you brush your skirt free from imaginary dust, intently aware of the rapid word exchange in a foreign language. When you've calmed down, you glance at the newcomer and recognizes him as that guy that hangs around Dîn all the time. He must've come from your rooms, meaning Dîn is probably already there.

"It seems your attendant have brought you food," the doctor says when the man leaves. You doubt that was the extent of their somewhat heated discussion, but you're too mortified to ask about it. "Great, I'm hungry."

It seems like the doctor wants to say something else but you can't stand the thought of experiencing any more embarrassment right now, so you quickly grab onto the nearest subject. "So, what did you say before? Something about a party?"

He looks bewildered. "Party?" It takes him a couple of seconds to recall what he talked about before. "Are you referring to the feast? There will not be merely one party present, but people from both the palace and the village."

"What ...?" Oh, right. Party doesn't mean what you think it means here. "Of course." You give him an assured nod. "So what about the feast?"

He offers you his arm again and you fight a fierce blush blooming on your cheeks as you continue towards your rooms. "Will you attend?" He asks.

Stunned, you blurt out; "What, am I invited?"

"Certainly. The invitation is extended to all, baring prisoners and guards on duty."

"Oh..." Okay, that's one way of finding out that you're not a prisoner anymore. "So, can anyone come to the palace for the feast?" You're genuinely curious. With all the guards running around, it seems odd if they would suddenly be so lax about security and let everyone inside.

"You misunderstand," he replies as you ascend the last stairs, coming closer to the guards outside your rooms. "We prefer to dance and sing beneath the night sky. The feast will be held in the woods when next the moon is full."

"Are you going?" You want to immediately punch yourself as the questions slips out, hoping that he doesn't take it the wrong way. If he really is flirting, you don't know if you want to encourage it and if he's not flirting, you're coming of as desperate.

"Perhaps. Although I am rarely in the drink," he confesses. As you pass the guards you get that feeling of being watched again, but the two men doesn't seem to be looking at you.

"If you wish to go, you may bring an attendant with you," the doctor continues, unaware of the chill spreading through your body at the thought of being spied on. Subtly, you shake your head to get rid of the feeling.

Dîn is waiting in the first room with a tray of food on the table. After you give her a 'hi' in sign language, you turn back to the doctor at the idea that just struck you. "Can I bring Dîn?"

If someone has to watch you (and you're sure that's a requirement to be allowed to go outside since you can't even leave your rooms without the doctor present), you'd rather have Dîn than anyone else.

He inclines his head. "If you wish."

That instantly lifts your spirit. After having said your goodbyes to him, you try to tell Dîn in the limited range of signs you know about what's going on. It's unclear if she understands but at least she's reading the vibe and seems happy that you're so excited.

As you sit down to eat, you realize that you don't even know when the party is. 'When the moon is full' isn't really helpful when you have no idea of when that is. Even so, it doesn't put a damper on your mood. It's soon, in any case. And you look forward to it.

The sun is setting when Írimë is told that Amroth has returned to the palace. He took several of his men outside the walls to train when the sun had barely risen, most likely fuming at the news that the gates are to be opened. Clearly, it was not on his order.

She knows that he has been consumed with finding out anything and everything about the human. Having been barred from interrogating the human further and without any leads to follow, he has instead thrown himself at practice with weapons and creating a new, harsh training regimen for his men. Anything to keep himself as occupied as possible.

Amroth has had free reins for quite some time, being allowed to use whatever means necessary to safeguard the people under his charge.
Sadly, this time it was not successful. The identity of whoever attacked the human has not been revealed and no evidence has been found.

Írimë can imagine complaints having been brought to Lord Thranduil to lift the restrictions and without any clear threat to his people it is hard to justify letting it stand. Nevertheless, she does not doubt that security will continue to be rigid for quite some time, in case something would happen. She just hopes that the anger Amroth harbours will not guide him to do anything rash.

Chapter Text

By the lake, a long time ago

Dragging the thick shawl firmer around her body to keep the chilly air out, it does nothing to protect her already soaked dress and shoes.
The sky is hurling rain down upon the small settlement and she is as eager as the others to get inside as quickly as possible; cutting through the crowd and using every shortcut she knows of.

Her mind is reeling. It's been almost twice as long a wait for her elven lover's message than usual and she's starting to wonder if something is wrong. Desperate to hear from him, her visits to the shore have become quite frequent as she searches the hollow tree for the letter that will tell her when to meet.

Why has he not sent her a message? She cannot help but wonder if he might have realized what a folly it is to give his heart to a human, and instead found a woman amongst his own kind that better suit him.

Spotting her father's house, she ducks beneath the sloping roof to escape the downpour. After shaking her skirts to get rid of the excess water, she pushes the door open. As she walks over the threshold she curses as she notices that the fireplace has gone cold.
Although she immediately builds a fire, it will take some time before it brings any warmth to the cold-infested rooms. Sighing, she sits down on a small stool in front of the fireplace, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

She does not need to check the other rooms to know that they are empty. Her father is at the tavern. No doubt about it. Where her siblings are, she does not know. Perhaps Godrun, the old crone living a few houses down, has taken the young ones. She would have been slipped a coin or perhaps fish, if her father had managed to catch some before getting drunk. At least that means they will be warm and fed.

She adds more kindling to the fire, feeding it, before adding wood. They are almost out of firewood but she cannot leave the fire unattended, so she will need to wait until someone returns before going out to fetch more.

The door opens, allowing a gush of wind inside. She stands in front of the fire, protecting it.

"Where were you?"

She briefly closes her eyes at the voice. Trying to avoid giving him an answer will only earn his ire, so she replies. "I was outside." She continues to stoke the fire, hoping that he will leave well enough alone.

"Where?" He demands. Just as she is about to reply, he grabs her arm and turns her around to look him in the eye. She wishes she had the courage to spit at him.

"I went for a walk."

"Do not lie to me!" He hisses, fingers digging into her flesh. "I went looking for you. The boat was gone."

Of course he would notice. "I got out on the lake," she says, maintaining her calm best she can. "I went to shore. The rain caught me by surprise."

His eyes are dark with anger and she believes that he is about to challenge her lie when the door fly open. He lets go of her arm immediately.
A young woman stands in the doorway, eyes wide at she watches them. She is soon distracted by the two young children pulling on her hands.

She sees that he is about to speak, perhaps to chase the woman out of the house, and swiftly interject. "Haleth, please come inside."

The woman gives them a wary look before she nods. The children run inside and argues about getting the best seat in front of the fire, unaware of the tension.

"I will return to the tavern." He finally says, giving Haleth a short nod before storming out of the door.

The young woman turns to her friend. "Are you well? Did he hurt you?"

She shakes her head. Not this time. "May I ask you something?"

Haleth nods. "Anything."

"If something were to happen...," she gives the children a side-glance, but they are too engrossed in a game to listen to her words. "Will you look after my family? Make sure the young ones are well?"

Haleth takes her hands in her own. "You know that you need not ask."

She is filled with relief. No matter what happens, she can count on her closest friend.

Tonight is the full moon. It feels like you've been waiting forever for this small freedom and you're impatient.

"It has healed well." The doctor gingerly puts down your foot. "The scar you have suffered however, will likely never fade."

You absent-mindedly caress your neck, remembering the bruising around it. At least the assault didn't leave any permanent marks there.

He gathers his things and puts them back into his satchel. "If you experience any health issues, send for me."

You hum. After the incident where you slipped and the doctor saved you from falling flat on your face, his visits have been cut rather short. You've barely had time to talk and he always seems to be in a hurry. He has even instructed Dîn to take you on walks outside your rooms instead, seeing as he is suddenly so busy.

You don't want to bring it up and risk making things awkward, but it bugs you. If he wants to put distance between you and keep your relationship professional, why can't he just say that?

"Do you still intend on joining the festivities?" Your head jerks up at his question, absorbed in your own thoughts. "I... yeah. If I'm allowed."

Is he asking because he wants you to be there? Is it just to be polite? Or is there some other reason? You stiffly await his reply.

"It will do you good, I think." He says, making you relieved. "Perhaps I will see you there." He straightens up and places the satchel over his shoulder. "Until then."

Later that day you find yourself dressing up in a white gown, allowing Dîn to comb and braid your hair. Although you're not one for jewellery, you put on the necklace she gave you as a gift. She gives you a smile when she sees it around your neck.
Spying yourself in a small mirror, you see that their products have done wonder to both your skin and hair. You'll never find anything like it back home. At least nothing you can afford.

"Annon allen." You say as Dîn finishes up. You sign 'thank you' with your hands as well and she signs 'you're welcome' in return. It makes you so happy that you can actually communicate with her, although both of your vocabularies are rather limited.

Dîn is captivating with her beautiful hair flowing down her back and dressed in a delicate light-grey gown. Still she's a bit nondescript in her outfit but her natural beauty makes up for it. Even in your new and magnificent dress of white with sparkling stones, you look dull in comparison.

You exhale. "Let's go."

You trek carefully up and down all the different stairs, holding up your skirt in sweaty palms, following Dîn as she virtually glides forward with unmatched elegance. It takes a while to get to the gates and you're so focused on not falling to your death that you don't even try to memorize the path. You're a horrible future-escapee.

When you're getting closer to what you guess is the main parts of the cave - or palace as they call it - you catch sight of a number of elves dressed in what you suppose are their finest and all going the same direction. This party is probably going to be huge.
Some glances are thrown in your direction, but it doesn't feel hostile. They've probably been aware of you being here, because you don't think it's a secret, but few have actually seen you. And if you're the only human here, you can understand why they would try to get a look.

At long last the gate appears. It's wide open and elves are pouring out of it.

The notion of fleeing crosses your mind as you might be able to get away in the crowd. But that's idiotic. You're in a long, white dress; you might as well be wearing a neon sign that's also works as a straightjacket. Not the best outfit to run away in.
Besides, Dîn is glued to your side. And you wouldn't be surprised if there are others whose job it is to keep a watch on you.

You and Dîn join the long stream of people disappearing further and further into the woods. Several of them are holding lanterns as they head out into the night and the glow penetrates the darkness. The graceful train of elves seems to exude a bewitching white light themselves and you can't help but be spell-bound by it.

The line of people unexpectedly breaks as you reach a massive clearing. Lanterns are hung from the tree branches, barrels of wine or beer are brought forward and several elves sit down with instruments to produce music. The clearing fills with life and movements.

Dîn signs 'drink?' And you dip your head in thanks. As she withdraws from your side you feel exposed and out of place. Not knowing what to do, you stand rather rigidly in one spot as you observe the attendees. That's when you spot him.

Although not wearing a crown this time, there's no mistaking him with any other. His eye-catching blood red robe cascades down his broad shoulders and spills out on the forest floor, much like his golden-silver hair spreads out over his back. As he starts to turn, you make out the outfit underneath of dark teal glistening with imbedded flakes of silver. The outfit reaches to his calves and sports that same high-collar you remember from before, teasing the skin of his neck.

As if he can feel your eyes on him, his head turns towards your direction. Quickly you avoid his gaze, stubbornly ignoring the fact that you can feel his eyes roaming over you. Thankfully Dîn returns with a cup and you take a swig of it to distract yourself. Your eyes tear up straight away as your throat is set on fire and you cough while gasping for air. "W-what" cough, cough, "-is this?"

Dîn smiles brightly, surprising you with her show of genuine amusement. She then proceeds to take several mouthfuls of the beverage without flinching. "God..." more coughing. "This is... horrible!" you laugh.

Nearby, you can see Dîn's male shadow as he throws glances in her direction. "Hey." You give her a nudge with your elbow. When she spots him she averts her eyes, though she seems pleased by his attention. "You like him, right?" As you speak she looks at you, but of course the words have no meaning to her. 'Go.' You sign and gesture encouragingly towards him.

She hesitates. Chances are that she's been instructed to remain close to you and you berate yourself for your stupidity. Thankfully, the solution lands in your lap when you pick out the doctor in the crowd. When you manage to catch his eye he promptly makes his way over.
Dîn happily joins the other man who is trying to act like he's not waiting nervously. You hide a smile. They'd make a cute couple.

You take another sip of the beverage and can feel it starting to go to your head. "So, you made it."

"Indeed I did." He looks at your cup and you're startled to see it's already half-empty. "Can I offer you some more?"

You shake your head but instantly regret it as dizziness washes over you. "Urrhgg... No, thanks." Your face twists into a grimace. "This is really strong. Too strong for me."

His facial expression lit up with comprehension. "Ah, yes. I should have warned you. Elven wine is very potent."

"Mmm." You agree, looking down your cup. The effect is building. You can tell that you're going to be drunk. "I guess you get used to it..."

Your eyes wander unbidden back to him. He appears relaxed while talking to an unfamiliar man, even holding a cup of his own. Is he drinking? This wine is enough to sedate a horse.

You're not sure why you're astounded by it, but Lord Thranduil doesn't strike you as the partying kind. Obviously he doesn't sit on his throne every waking moment looking all haughty, but you definitely expected him to be doing classy things like reading poetry or glaring at drunken elves from a window in his palace. (If the palace has windows, of course.) He looks too casual and borderline approachable right now.

"You seem fascinated," the doctor comments.

Eyes widening at the statement, you begin to stammer. "N-no, I... I-I'm just surprised that he's here."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Should he not be? It is his feast."

You blush but blame it on the drink. "I think I would like some more," you say, just to get away from the doctor's prying eyes.

While you wait for his return, you lean against a tree with one shoulder touching the bark. The influence from the wine is taking a hold on you and you don't think you're the only one affected. The atmosphere is joyful and elves are dancing and laughing brightly.
Although they still look dignified and strikingly beautiful even when partying, they lose some of their otherworldliness and appear more accessible. A couple of elves are playing a good-humoured prank on another and the man you recognize as 'The Kind One' is engaged in a game of dice. Even Dîn has been drawn out into a dance with that guy she likes.

As the doctor returns in your peripheral view, you take back your offered cup without breaking away from the dancing couple. "They look really happy," you smile. "And pretty." You're beginning to slur a bit. You shouldn't drink anymore but you still take a couple of small sips since he went through the trouble for your sake. "Of course... everyone's pretty here..."

You wobble on your feet and a strong arm snakes around your back to keep you upright. "Thanks."

Your eyes glide from the couple's entrancing dance and search the crowd. "Where is he...?" You mutter, too lost in a fog of alcohol to censure yourself. "The king," you clarify, even as the doctor stands silently beside you.

You take a step forward without conscious thought. "He's gone." Without support you sway on unsteady feet. You take a couple of staggering steps backwards to the trunk of the tree. It's warm against your back. Is it getting hotter out? Maybe it's the drink.

You sigh unhappily. Despite all the handsome men squeezed into this somewhat confined area, their leader is without a doubt the most attractive. It's too bad he's already left. "He's... pretty." Your mouth decides to voice your thought aloud. "Scary," you add. "But pretty."

"Mmm." The doctor agrees.

Your blabbering makes your face heat up. What is he going to think about you - going on and on about Thranduil?

All of the sudden the tree stirs and you turn even redder as you realize that your back is pressed against the doctor's chest. "Oh! I'm so sor-"
The words die on your lips when you spot the doctor deep in conversation across the clearing.

It takes your paralyzed brain embarrassingly long to register that you've not been monologuing to the doctor. The warmth at your back disappears as you're gently angled back towards the tree trunk. You're too petrified to turn around and take a look at your quiet companion as he slips away.

You haven't moved an inch when the doctor re-joins you with an apology about meeting an old friend recently returned to Eryn Galen.
You hide the second cup with one hand behind your back as he hands back your cup. "Uhuh," is your senseless reply as your mind runs a mile a minute.

Your eyes roam the crowd as if it will reveal who listened to your humiliating rant. There's this horrifying feeling in your gut about who it might have been, but... that's a bit rich of you to believe, right? Yet, you can't shake the feeling that it's true. You almost expect him to show up and give you a knowing look, but no such luck. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe he really left before, as you thought.

"I... I'm feeling tired and... actually a bit sick." You admit.

The doctor looks at you troubled. "I will fetch your attendant."

"No!" He looks a bit taken aback by your outburst, but Dîn is having fun and you don't want to have it ruined. "No, I'll just sit and rest for a while. I'll be fine."

You sit down and let your head clear a bit as you watch the continued revelry. It takes no time at all before you're asleep - the late hour and alcohol too overwhelming to fight.

You squirm in the seat, more restless than usual. This bus ride is taking forever.

A gentle whisper of something inaudible grabs your attention. Your head whips around. None of the passengers are looking in your direction and the seat beside you is only occupied by your bag.

The voice speaks again, louder this time. You're straining to make out the words. Where is it coming from?

Suddenly the word is spoken close to your ear, crystal clear.

Stay.

Out of the blue you're at the front of the bus without remembering having walked down the aisle. Someone's sitting in the driver's seat.
You were expecting it to be empty, so you're surprised. The driver is almost swallowed by the strong sunlight through the windows; allowing merely the outlines of the person to be seen. It's as if the person is painted in water colours - it's all a huge smudge.

"What are you waiting for?" A kind prompting in a female voice.

"I... don't know..." you trail off, confused about what you were supposed to be doing. "Am I supposed to get off here?" You try to look outside through the window, but can't see anything due to the bright light.

"If you wish. It is your choice to make."

"Choice?" You've never really had a choice in anything. You don't even know what you are choosing between.

There's a book in her lap. "Are you reading?" Leaning forward, you discover that the pages are blank. "What...?"

"Here, take it."

"Oh... I... I don't know what to write." You say awkwardly.

"You will," she assures you.

As you look at the book in your hands, you open the first page. At the top of the page is a word you've never seen before.

"Arina..."

Dawn is breaking when you open your tired eyes again. Most of the elves have left but Dîn is close by and she's not alone. When she sees you shifting, she quickly makes her way over to you. 'Good?' She signs. You nod, too tired to remember your signs. The guy who kept her company walks up to you both and offers you his arm, which you gratefully accept.

Your poor body is aching and you yearn to return to the soft bed of your room. But you've barely gotten on your feet when a sharp voice cuts through the air. You blink a couple of times, willing your wretched mind to focus on the advancing figure. Amroth, that's his name, right?

Dîn goes motionless beside you and you can swear she stopped breathing. The guy on your other side turns rigid as well, but he seems more angered than anything else. Okay, so either they don't like him or they don't like what he said.

The man eliminates the distance with a couple of strides. He doesn't look pleased, especially when he sets his eyes on you, and you make an effort to be as inoffensive as possible.

The tone is accusing when he speaks and he throws glares at you as he seems to argue with the guy beside you. You wish the doctor was here so he could translate. Dîn seems too frightened to sign anything and even if she did, she doesn't know enough signs to explain what's going on.

The agitation in the air turns to something violent when a hand whips out and seizes hold of your neck as Amroth lunges forward.
Both Dîn and the other guy moves simultaneously in an attempt to fend him off but Amroth's other hand shoots out to swat Dîn to the side like an annoying fly. There's a distressed cry from someone as she falls to the ground.

The other guy doesn't stand a chance as Amroth turns his strength to quell him as well. Dark spots appear in front of your eyes as you fail to drag air into your lungs.

This is how you're going to die.

Chapter Text

Eryn Galen, a long time ago

Amroth is readjusting his left armguard as he nears the gates of the palace. With a bow strapped to his back and a knife at his belt while wearing protective warrior leathers, he is prepared for his assigned patrol.
Amroth is part of the royal sentry that watches and defends the kingdom's borders, so his duty sometime keeps him away for days at a time, wandering far and wide and melding with the forest. He finds enjoyment in it. The quiet. The solitude.

Although he finds far more enjoyment in the true and affectionate welcome he is given without fail upon his return. A tiny, pleased smile curls on his lips.

The wind on his face is gratifying when he steps outside. Although he keeps rooms in the palace as do most of the king's men, he rarely stays there, vastly preferring the open sky.

His sharp eyes scout the forest up ahead. Hidden further away is the village of his people. The heart of the kingdom. And the residence of his own heart. Always, before leaving on a patrol, he would venture there. To see the smile of the person he loves the most. To perhaps touch a pale cheek and hear that clear, beautiful voice.

Before he steers towards the bridge, he throws brief glances at the guards on either side of the gate, mostly out of a curiosity to see who is filling the posts. On one side is a hardened veteran who acknowledge him with a slight nod, and on the other side is Tarhon, a man who joined the royal guard a mere decade or so after Amroth did.

Tarhon's focus is set on the forest, as if trying to penetrate the foliage with his stare. It is quite unlike him. The man naturally performs his tasks admirably and without fault, so his concentration is not abnormal, but he seems too absorbed by his own thoughts to even notice Amroth's presence. Amroth has no doubt that the man is well aware that someone is there, but obviously he has not realized who.

"Are you expecting to find an Onodrim in hiding?"

Tarhon blinks a couple of times, the only indication that he is surprised by being addressed. "I have no time for your poor excuse for humour," he sneers. He does not even turn his head when he responds, trained as he is to keep his attention outward.

Amroth walks up to him. "I will have you know that I have never been accused of having humour before."

Tarhon snorts before he catches himself and glances over to the other guard. The older man is doing them both a favour and ignoring them. Amroth stands silently, waiting to find out what is troubling his friend. He does not rush him. Instead they both continue to watch the perimeters. Finally Tarhon sighs. "Baranis leaves for her great exploration."

Amroth hums in response.

"The elven ruins of Eregion, amongst several other places of old." His friend sounds wistful. "On the morrow, she will be gone."

There it is. The reason for his friend's sadness.

Baranis takes her great interest in old elven history very seriously and will most likely be gone for many years, perhaps decades.
This is not something unusual amongst bonded elven couples, but the love between Tarhon and Baranis is young yet. Amroth can understand that Tarhon will miss her. And if this is to be their last chance to be together for so very long...

Amroth clears his throat. "Leave." Tarhon frowns and looks at him. "I will stay and take your place. Go and be with her until her departure."

Tarhon looks over at the other guard who pretends to be both deaf and blind. "Your own duties-?"

Amroth has a tendency to make rash decisions when it comes to people he cares about. It is bad for his advancement in the royal guard, but he cannot bring himself to act any differently. "The forest will still stand tomorrow."

Tarhon's face breaks out into a genuine smile. "Perhaps I should apologize for attacking your humour before."

Amroth snorts. "The day you apologize for anything you say to me, will be the day I jump into the river below."

The man’s eyes shines brightly. "I will ask Baranis to bring back an ancient stone for you to tie around your ankles."

Amroth laughs aloud. "Give me your armour before I change my mind."

The guards patrolling the palace are outfitted in full regalia as they dress partly for ceremony and partly to withstand head-on-attacks, so it is far from Amroth's usual comfortable and more flexible attire.
They go inside to change clothing, breaking the rules whilst doing so since Tarhon is not allowed to leave his post, and Amroth returns to take up his friend's spot. The older guard refuses to acknowledge that anything out of the ordinary has taken place.

"You are a good friend." Tarhon is now wearing casual clothing, his eyes shining with joy at the thought of joining with Baranis shortly.

Amroth chuckles. "Do not let it get out. I have a reputation to keep."

The veteran snorts at their exchange. Amroth and the other guard settle into a comfortable silence as Tarhon walks briskly over the bridge.

Tarhon holds up his hands in a gesture of giving up. "Do not be a sore loser!" The others jeer at him jokingly. "One more time! The dice is certain to favour you now!"

"You can continue winning against me another time." Tarhon puts his hands on his legs and rises from the make-shift table. "I will resign while I still have some dignity left." The others are roaring with laughter and he gives them a grin.

He drowns another cup of wine while roaming the clearing. The others are soon engrossed in the game once more. He stops by a tree, leaning on it, cup in one hand and his other hand searching for the knife in his belt. The smooth handle of it is familiar and comforting.
One might think he would find more solace in the thin ring on his finger, the symbol of his and Baranis union, but the knife was the first gift she ever gave him. Long before they were even engaged. It will always hold a special meaning for him.

He watches as the crowd thins out as the night begin to make way for a slowly rising sun. Elves are returning to their homes. Their loved ones.

Tarhon is suddenly restless to get away. As he is about to wander off deeper into the forest to seek solitude, he hears an angry voice.
A voice he recognizes. Tarhon does not pick up the words even though his hearing is quite excellent (which he can probably blame on the wine affecting him) but he is immediately conscious of the aggressive stance Amroth has taken.

Tarhon moves before he thinks, but he is still too far away to stop his friend from lashing out. He breaks out into a run. No one else dares to stand up against the Captain of the Guard, even if he has turned mad. Tarhon has no such qualms.

Amroth's hand curls around the human's neck trying to kill the female and Tarhon slams into his side, breaking his grip. Amroth is barely fazed by it, adrenaline pumping and anger colouring his actions.

"Have you lost your mind?" Tarhon growls. How many times must he stand between Amroth and the human?

Amroth takes a step forward as if he is about to attack once more, but Tarhon stands his ground. "If you want to cause someone harm, here I am." Amroth flinches almost imperceptibly. They have never fought in anger, only in jest, and they have never harmed one another.

Inglor is back on his feet with no visible injuries. He hurries over to the injured elf where she lies, crouching by her side and gently moving her long hair from her face. "Take her inside," Tarhon orders. Inglor frowns, clearly torn between his worry for the mute one and the human.

However, Tarhon has no intention of leaving the human alone with Amroth. "I will safeguard the human." His eyes are locked on Amroth, trying to gauge if he has calmed down. Inglor does not question him and lifts the mute one up into his arms and carries her off.

When Amroth gives no further indication of intending to attack, Tarhon grabs the human and gives his friend a hard look that says; will I have to worry about you attacking me from behind? He does not wait for a response, but simply walks past him and follows Inglor towards the palace.

He can feel Amroth's eyes stalking him. Something is wrong and Tarhon is going to find out what.

As Inglor carries Dîn in his arms, he calls out for someone to bring the healer and a figure darts away to do his bidding. Dîn moans and her eyes flutter. "You are well. Everything is fine." He says, trying to calm her.
Her eyes widen, remembering what happened. She does not have to be able to speak to convey her fears; he knows her heart well. "The human is safe. As are you."

He does not mention that Tarhon has her, because it is well known that he and Amroth have always been close. Inglor do believe Tarhon will protect the woman, but there is no reason to give Dîn any doubts about the human's safety.

Inglor brings Dîn to his own room. It is not what he would prefer, because he does not want to make her uncomfortable, but he has no other choice. He does not know where her room is. There are many rooms in the servants quarters, too many to go through them all, and he cannot simply ask her either. And he wants her to be able to rest in a safe place, so just any room will not do.

He lays her down on a daytime bed and brings water, which she graciously accepts. Sitting down beside her, he waits until she has drunk her fill.

"I apologize," Inglor forces himself to meet her eyes. "I failed to protect you." How can he ever hope to win her heart when he failed so miserably in keeping her safe?

He cannot bear look her in the eyes anymore and lower his gaze out of shame. She shakes her head and the soft motion catches his attention and he looks up at her again. Dîn takes his hands. It's quite the intimate gesture. Not necessarily of love, but of friendship and closeness. He is relieved that she does not chase him off.

"Do you wish me to leave you to rest?" He wishes her to be comfortable. And if that means leaving the room and standing guard outside, that is what he will do. But her grip turns tighter as she shakes her head. "Then I shall stay," He promises solemnly.

They stay like that until her eyes flutters closed and she falls into a light, healing sleep. Her trust in him melts his heart. She is still holding his hands and he does not dare move.

Perhaps... he can dare hope.

Baranis is absorbed in translating old runes when a coldness settles around her. Unused to ever feeling the chill, she is startled and draws back her hands from the scroll.

“Mistress?” The young aid looks up at her. “Is something the matter?”

She shivers as the frigid air turns warm again. The change of temperature is over swiftly, but it does nothing to reassure her. "I am weary."
She gives him a calming smile. "These days have been long. Rest and I will send for you later.”

He obeys with a respectful bow.

When alone, she paces the room. A strangeness has plagued her for many moons now. There is no sense of danger or death permeating the air, nevertheless ... something is not right. Is it a sign of things to come?

She wishes she had her mother's wisdom to consult. Or Tarhon's knowledge. Her fingers caress the modest ring she wears. It has been some years since their last meeting, when he rode out to see her. They write frequently so if anything were to happen he would surely inform her.

Even so... what if he is not aware of it?

All of the sudden the desperate need to see her home, to see Tarhon and her family, grips her hard. The abruptness of it all tells her that she cannot afford to wait.

She is returning to Eryn Galen.

Chapter Text

The necklace of bruises around your neck is purple and black.



Marks of slender fingers.



Hastily you put down the handheld mirror, hands trembling. It hurts like hell. But you're alive. You should be thankful, but you're just scared.
Why is this happening to you? You haven't done anything. You can't understand it.

Your breathing turns heavy as you fail to draw air into your lungs. It's like being choked all over again and you inhale rapidly as panic starts to overcome you. Damn it! Damn it all...

A movement in the room causes you to jerk violently, fear freezing any tears about to spill over.





Uilos.





Your relief at the sight of him is evident. Still, he keeps his distance as you calm yourself.

He's been at your side since you woke up, which in truth wasn't that long ago, only stepping out to get some of his things. He's the first and so far the only face you've seen after the attack. And you're grateful. You don't think you can stand to see anyone else.

Well... you did see one other.

Your vision was blurry at the time as you faded in and out of consciousness and you could barely see or think through the pain and shock, but you saw him. The Kind One carried you inside.



To safety.



The Kind One has earned his nickname as far as you're concerned.



You're sitting on the edge of the bed with your feet firmly placed on the floor. The doctor seats himself on a chair across from you. Giving you a searching look he offers you a cup. "You were fortunate." His tone is soft. Careful. As if afraid you're about to break out into hysteria. Maybe you are. What's happened to you... it's more than enough to make most people break.

A joyless, short laugh slices through your throat like a knife. "Really? It doesn't feel like it."

You hurt as you speak, as you move. Looking down the cup, it's a tonic consisting of mashed up herbs. The same stuff he's offered you before, you guess. To lessen the pain. Staring down at the dark-green almost blackish sludge, you realize that you don't care if it's poison, it hurts too much. Besides, if they wanted you dead they could've just let the psycho finish the job.

While emptying the cup's content you catch the surprise on the doctor's face. He had probably expected your refusal. He recovers quickly however, looking quite pleased as you hand him back the cup. "It will start working immediately. It will dull the pain and help with the healing."

He reaches down into his satchel to fetch a parcel. He unwraps it to reveal a small wooden box. It's round and fits easily in the palm of your hand.
It contains a thick cream with a flowery scent. "Put it on the affected area twice a day. It will speed things up even further," he explains.

You give an almost imperceptible nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the box.

"Is there anything else I might assist you with?" His chosen words are reserved, professional. But you can hear the concern. You can hear the real question hidden behind that sentence.



Are you okay?



You don't know how to respond to that. The easy answer would be 'I'm fine'. But you can't even bring yourself to force out the lie. He doesn't push you. He might not know everything that's happened, but he obviously knows enough.

"Dîn is recovering."

Your head snaps up at his sudden change of subject. "You've seen her?" He inclines his head. "I have."

At first you're relieved, but then you feel guilty. You hadn't even given her a thought. What a friend you turned out to be. "Where is she?"

"Resting. As should you." He gives you a faint smile, trying to brighten up your mood.

Tilting his head, as if listening for something, he all of the sudden gets ready to leave. You can't help yourself but blurt out: "Can you give her a message from me?"

His hands stills and he looks at you. "Certainly." A curious expression on his face. "What message would that be?"

"Tell her ..." Your brain short circuits. What do you even say in a situation where both of you were attacked by a maniac and almost killed?

"Tell her that I'm-" sorry.



No. It wasn't your fault. Why should you be sorry?



She got hurt trying to protect you.




The guilt is gnawing at you. "No. Never mind." You shake your head. "I'll just speak to her when I see her."

"Speak to her?"

"Sort of." You shrug. He might not have seen you and Dîn sign to each other at the party. "We kind of-"



The words die in your throat as both of you turn to the doorway.





Lord Thranduil.





The doctor gives a graceful bow. "My Lord."

Frosty eyes land on the doctor. "Is your work here done?"

Uilos replies in another language. He sounds short, to the point, but still respectful. Probably giving a report of your condition, most likely. Although he didn't really need to shut you out like that. Rude.

Foreign words fill the air between them, continuing to purposefully keep you out of the loop. With a quick glance in your direction the doctor is obviously still speaking about you. Can he really find anything more to say about some bruises around your neck? Doubtful. They must be discussing something else. Your frustration grows at the fact that you can't even guess what they're talking about.

When the conversation dies down, the doctor busies himself with packing his satchel and then dashes out of the room.



What was that all about?



It feels too intimate to have the king in your bedroom. It seems that he is in agreement, because he makes a gesture for you to follow him to the other room. Standing up, you briefly sway on your feet before steadying yourself. You also take a precious moment to steady yourself mentally as well. You haven't been face to face with him since he tried to stab you with a sword.

You wish that Uilos hadn't left.

You freeze in the doorway. He is standing with his back turned but his presence is still commanding and awestriking. You stay in that spot, too uncomfortable to take another step forward and put yourself closer to him. You haven't figured him out yet and you have no wish to be in reach of that sword of his.

You want to ask: why are you here? What do you want? But you're not as candid with him as with the doctor. You don't dare be.

"You have been assigned another attendant."

You blink a couple of times in confusion. "What?" Of all the things he could've said, that was not something you had expected. "Why?"

He turns around at your question. Even though his face reveals nothing but cool disinterest, you still get the feeling that you caught him off guard with your audacity. You figure he doesn't get challenged often.

He chooses to ignore your question. "She is highly experienced. You will not find her lacking."

There is a sort of warning in his words - for you to just be quiet and obey. And with how many times you've been close to death already, one would think that you wouldn't be that eager to put yourself in harm's way again.

But apparently you have a death wish. You blurt out: "I don't want anybody else."

And it's true. You'd rather fend for yourself like you did in the cell. Dîn is one of the few people you have grown to like and to a certain extent trust. If it isn't her, you'd rather it be no one. "I'll wait until she gets better. I don't need-"

"You care about her." His words stop you in your track. It takes you a minute to realize that he must've heard your conversation with Uilos.
Or at least part of it.

"Yes." You don't want to give him any more than that. You'll not let him use her against you. When he doesn't say anything else, you gather the courage to speak. "She hasn't done anything wrong."

You don't know why you said it. But you get the feeling that she is being blamed in part for the attack and that's why you're getting someone else. And since she can't speak for herself, you have to.

Orbs of icy-blue and grey catches your gaze. "That is not for you to judge."

"She helped me!" If she's in trouble because of trying to protect you when you were attacked- "Punish the guy who tried to kill me!"

You notice the instant that you went too far. His gaze turning to an ice-storm, furious. "You should take care with your words." His voice is hard as steel. Merciless. "Humans are too fond of meting out punishments."

Frightened, you cross your arms over your chest, as if it would protect you from his lethal wrath. You weakly stammer; "I-I'm sorry."

He doesn't acknowledge your apology verbally, but as he takes in your scared appearance as you attempt to make yourself smaller, his rage does seem to calm down. "Nothing will harm you further," he says.

You want to believe him but weren't you attacked in your sleep before? How is that for safety?

"Amroth?" You ask, knowing that you're on thin ice.

"You will not see him."

You gulp. Is he... dead? Or thrown into the same prison you were stuck in before? You don't ask, because you really don't want to know. Not right now. It's too much.

"Another attendant will service you."

It's not a suggestion. You lower your head, too scared to refuse.

"Until Dîn returns."

You look up, surprised at his concession. There's no hint of warmth or kindness about him. His face might as well have been cut from stone.
But he listened to you. Even though he didn't have to. And more importantly - he changed his mind. You're reeling from the shock when you realize that he's waiting for some kind of response.

"Thank you."

He watches you closely, as if judging your sincerity. Then his eyes trail down to your neck. You're conscious of the horrible bruising painting your skin.

When the doctor said that you were 'fortunate'... was that because you escaped death? Or was it because you avoided sustaining permanent injury? Can you be permanently injured by someone choking you?

You are so absorbed in your thoughts that you fail to notice Thranduil closing the gap between you until he's right in front of you.
Even as you tilt your head backwards to face him, you look to the side to avoid his eyes.
Your instincts are screaming at you to take a step back and create distance - enough so you can run to safety. He's dangerous and unpredictable.

And handsome, a small part of your brain offers.

He doesn't touch you. But he doesn't have to. His searing gaze feels like a touch all on its own. The pain that was still lingering after the tonic seems to disappear under his intense scrutiny. You stop breathing - his mere presence sucking up all the oxygen.
But then he turns away and you breathe, filling your lungs with air.

There are no parting-words. You stand there, shell-shocked, long after he's gone.







You might have the hots for the King of the Elves.

It seems as though it's a new elf every day bringing you food and necessities. They keep their head down and barely speak; except for expressing what Uilos says are pleasantries and greetings. At first you thought that they acted that way due to some fear that if they catch your eye you'll put a spell on them, but even the doctor seems a bit more muted in your company. You have a sneaking suspicion who is to blame.

Since you spend almost all of your time alone in your room being avoided like the plague, you live for the doctor's daily check-ups.

"These visits are becoming quite familiar," He points out one day. "You are quite the constant patient." The humour behind it startles a chuckle out of you. "Yeah, well. How else would I get you to come see me?" You jokingly reply.

"You need no such excuse," he promises. Then he scrutinizes your neck one last time. "It has healed well." That's the understatement of the century. In less than one and a half week your skin is just about completely free of any mark from the attack. And it stopped hurting after you started taking the tonic regularly. You're never declining the doctor's witch-brew again. That stuff is amazing!

"Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?"

Seeing as he was the only one who could communicate your needs to the rest of the palace staff, he had taken to regularly forward requests from you when needed. This time, however, you feel the burning need to ask him a question you haven't dared before.

"Why?"

You've waited for answers, for an explanation, but have so far gotten nothing. "Why did he do it?" The question has been burning in your mind for quite some time. Amroth disliked you from the day he set eyes on you, but you don't know why.

You don't have to clarify who or what you're talking about, he understands immediately. "That, I do not know."

You are sceptical if that's the truth, but since you lost Dîn you don't want to alienate the only friendly face left by accusing him of a lie.

"The threat has been dealt with," he assures you.

You want to snort at that. "Yeah? That's not the first time I've been told that. So far I've been pushed around, strangled, cut up -"

"You have been cut?" He interjects. Eyes filled with worry sweeps over you.

"Not now," you wave off his concern. "Before. You know, my foot? The scar I got?"

It suddenly hits you. The first attack, could that have been Amroth as well? When you were sleeping? Uilos had said it was a shadow, but what does that even mean?

"I don't why I was attacked. Not now and not before."

Uilos shakes his head. "I am afraid I have no answers to give." You try to hide your disappointment. "At least I can provide you with some comfort," he continues. "I have been informed that you will be assigned an additional guard for your personal safety."

That did not sound like good news to you. Another person watching your every move?

"I already have guards outside," you counter. And they haven't helped. The words go unsaid.

"They guard the entry to these rooms," he says, avoiding the fact that they guard you to make sure you can't escape. "This will be a guard attached to your person."

"So he's just going to follow me around?" The idea makes you uncomfortable. "I don't like this. How can I trust him? What if he tries to hurt me like Amroth?"

The doctor flinches at the mention of the man. The silence is thick between you. "You know him." It isn't a question.

The doctor inclines his head in answer. "Who is he?" You ask, almost afraid of the answer.

"Amroth is the Captain of the Guard." The doctor briefly looks away before meeting your eyes.

Okay, so you don't claim to know exactly what that means but he's obviously not some low-level palace grunt. Maybe he's even a big deal with a title like that.

Wait.



WAIT.



You gasp as reality hits you. "Captain of the Guard?" Your mouth falls open in shock. "Like the guards outside these rooms? Like the guard who is supposed to protect me?" Your voice is rising and you start to pace the room. "He can just waltz in here and kill me whenever he wants!"

The doctor waits until you face him once more. "The guards are loyal to Lord Thranduil first and foremost and will obey him."

So Amroth is not loyal, is that what he's saying? But you don't interrupt as he continues; "The man tasked with your protection has already proven himself worthy."

"What do you mean that he's already proven himself? What has he done?"

"I am not privy to all the details. I was told that he saved you."

"Saved... me?" Is he talking about the man who carried you inside? The Kind One?

"Why?" You ask into the air. The doctor waits patiently for you to continue. You look at him. "Why do I suddenly get a body guard? Why do anyone care what happens to me?"

"You are under Lord Thranduil's protection."

You want to say that his protection so far sucks, but you don't have the balls. "I just... I want to go home." Your voice is quiet.

His brows gently furrow. "Unfortunately, that is not my decision to make."

Right. Only Lord Thranduil has that power. And for some reason he really doesn't seem keen on letting you go. But you made him listen before and change his mind - maybe you can do it again?



It's worth a try.

Chapter Text

He might as well have been cut from stone - completely unmoving and soundless. He never tries to communicate and never looks at you (as far as you're aware). The Kind One only stares at a fixed spot on the opposite wall, acting more like a piece of furniture than a person meant to imbue you with a sense of safety.

Tarhon, was it? You're so used of thinking of him as 'the Kind One' that you're having issues recalling his true name instead of the nickname you once gave him. But if you can remember the name of the man who tried to kill you, you can do the same for the man who saved your life.

You're still not sure if you've earned a protector or another prison guard, but you do feel safer with him close by. Stupid. You know. He doesn't have any loyalty to you and if he was ordered to, he would kill you. No hesitation.

Or at least, you doubt he'll hesitate.

At least he acts as a buffer for anyone trying to harm you and it seems like he's always around. The only way to sort of tell the time of day is by the coming and going of servants bringing meals, but it makes it quite clear that he's here all day. So far you haven't checked if it's true for the whole night as well, but it wouldn't surprise you. Maybe elves don't need sleep? You have no idea if they function even remotely like humans do.

Your stomach growls loudly. Although the food taste divine most of the time you barely touch any of it. It's just extremely uncomfortable to sit and eat in the same room with someone just standing there.

You've entertained the idea of simply bringing the food with you to the bedroom so you can eat in peace, but you haven't dared to try.
What if you drop the food and stain the clothes you're wearing, which has probably been loaned to you by some noble elven woman?
You can barely walk in these long gowns as it is, so it doesn't seem out of the question. Or what if you're not allowed to eat in the bedroom and it pisses of Tarhon, one of the few elves you kind of want on your side? What if it offends the king and he throws you back to the cell? What if - ?

There are so many scenarios of what could go wrong and none of them have a positive outcome. This isn't your home. You can't do whatever you like here - at least not without consequences. You don't know Tarhon but he probably reports everything you do to the king, and you don't want to get on his bad side.

So instead you eat sparingly before rushing back to privacy of the bedroom. It's barely enough to contain your hunger but still a respectable amount so you don't feel as though you're starving. The borrowed dresses are starting to hang loosely on your shrinking frame.

The doctor hasn't commented on your sudden weight loss, but he's observant and you doubt the fact has escaped him. It's odd. Shouldn't he be concerned about your sudden change in appetite? Wouldn't a regular doctor pick up on it? Even more so Uilos, who always asks for your health?

There's something going on here that you don't understand. Uilos once daily visits turned to every other day and then even more seldom. Nowadays, he barely visits at all.

Sure, you're fine now. More or less. You don't need any more medicine. And sure, if his job is done he shouldn't bother to come at all, but he promised to visit and keep you company. You don't have anyone else to talk to.

Dîn should have returned by now, but she hasn't. Instead you are alone.




Isolated.










A sound in the other room catches your attention. The Kind One never moves (at least not audibly). Curious, you take a look. To your surprise, it's none other than that guy Dîn likes.

As he delivers a letter to Tarhon, you realize that you've never looked at him very closely before. He's handsome (no great shock there) and seems to drink from the same fountain of youth as the rest of the elves. There's not a scratch on him from the attack... Maybe you really did get the worst of it. But if that's the case, why haven't Dîn' returned?

Tarhon reads the letter with a stoic face and you start to worry. Is it about you? Is it an order from the king?
But then the man's face seems to soften at the words. Okay, so it's probably not about you. When Tarhon notices you in the doorway, he puts away the letter and returns to his former stony expression.

The other man turns around to greet you and you can't help but blurb out; "Where's Dîn?"

He beams at the mention of her name but doesn't even make an attempt to understand your question. Instead he turns to the stairs expectantly. A sound of light steps, the swishing of fabric. You hold your breath - is she coming?

Pristine clothing and a familiar satchel comes into view and then a warm smile. Had it been anyone else you would've been let down, seeing as you were set on it being Dîn, but the doctor could never be a disappointment.

"These rooms are attracting quite the crowd," Uilos jokes, a gleam in his eye.

Your blush and scramble for a response that doesn't make a fool out of yourself, but decide to simply bite your tongue. He exchanges a few words with the others while you wait impatiently for his focus to return to you.

Dîn's crush leaves - but of course Tarhon doesn't.

Uilos notices your glance at the man imitating a statue and gestures to the other room. "Would you prefer to -?"

He doesn't even have the chance to finish his sentence before you nod eagerly. You don't want to talk in front of the Kind One. Even if he doesn't understand your conversation, it makes you uneasy.

It's only when you're sitting down on the bed that you realize how inappropriate this probably is. You're not sick or wounded anymore and you're dragging the doctor into your bedroom? Is this the sort of thing that would make people faint in this world? Should you have a chaperone? But Uilos doesn't look even slightly uncomfortable, so you decide to just go with it.

"How are you?"

"Bored, actually." You say with complete honesty. "It's not like I have anything to do here."

He hums. "Is there anything I can have brought to you?"

Yeah, a flashlight, a map of the interiors of the palace and a stun gun. But you recognize the kindness in his question and bite down on a sarcastic response. Although he's probably thinking embroidery or whatever elven women do to pass the time, you can use his offer to your advantage.

"I'd love to... see more. Explore." You try to look as innocent and non-scheming as possible. "The village, the forest. It's so beautiful outside."
He appears surprised and you swiftly continue; "After the party- I mean, the feast, I've really longed to go outside again."

He nods slowly. "I will forward your request." He seems confused about why you'd want to go outside and you briefly wonder if their women just sit indoors all day. Well, with the kind of dresses they wear, they probably do...

"- for now?"

You blink. You were so distracted you missed his question. "What?"

"If you wish to wait until your attendant return-" he starts but you shake your head. "No! No."

He nods. "In that case, allow me." You take his offered arm with no idea where you're going. But anywhere is better than here.

Unfortunately, there's no shaking off the guard dog. Tarhon follows as you leave. Sure, that's the point of him (you guess) but you would've preferred to spend some time alone with the doctor.

As you walk down the very long stairs, you fumble after a topic of conversation. "That guy before, who is he?"

You're too concentrated on not slipping on your dress or the stone that you miss the doctor's facial expression - but you feel his gaze. Mentally, you berate yourself. Don't say 'guy'! Using too modern words have already made him suspicious and you can't afford him turning on you.

It's been a while since you saw him last so you struggle to get back to the more reserved headspace you've tried to adopt around him. Think unmodern things! The plague, bloodletting... uh, the Titanic? God, you're bad at history.

"Do you speak of Inglor? He is one of several who serve the king." Finally at the bottom of the stairs, you ease the sweaty grip on your dress and his poor arm. He gently puts his other hand on top of yours, stopping you from withdrawing completely. "He is not a guard." His tone is serious and when you look up, he's watching you. "He performs many tasks of importance, but never of violence."

Your heart skips a beat when you realize that he's trying to soothe you, as if you were asking out of fear. You nod, not trusting your voice.

When he is content that you're sufficiently calmed, your walk continues.

He has no idea how wrong he is.



You're not calm. Not at all.







After all that's happened, you shouldn't be at ease walking around in the palace. Even if you've been told that Amroth is gone (or at least not a threat anymore) how do you know that's really true? How do you know that there's no one else out there wanting to attack you? Being with Dîn and that guy, Inglor, didn't protect you from Amroth's wrath. So why should you feel safe with Uilos?

Throwing a brief glance over your shoulder, you see Tarhon still trailing you closely. Okay, so you do have some protection this time. He did help you before, after all. And with the doctor present he can't really skirt on his duties as your body guard even if Amroth shows up and orders him to, can he?

The palace seems to be quite buzzing today - everyone seemingly on a mission with no time to spare. "Is something going on?" You ask.

"A congregation of merchants are to arrive in less than a fortnight. There are many preparations to be made."

"Merchants?"

He hums in confirmation. "There are talks of a trade agreement. Lord Thranduil has invited them for negotiations."

You frown as you see a couple of elves rolling large barrels on a pathway beneath you. Are they bringing out the Elvish wine? Are they going to wine and dine the merchants?

"Who are they?" You ask, more out of politeness than any real curiosity, since whatever names he'll reply with will mean nothing to you.
They'll just be more subjects of the king, you guess. Or maybe the merchants are elves living outside the king's borders? That might be why he's pulling out all the stops. At least their welcome will be better than mine, you think sourly.

Uilos leads you through an unfamiliar entry hall where the walls are decorated with paintings depicting buildings of white; trees with golden-coloured branches and graceful elves. He doesn't seem inclined to answer and you have no interest in pushing the subject.

You're about to ask him something about one of the images you're slowly passing, when he finally replies. "The merchants come from a nearby human settlement."

Legs lock up and your grip on Uilos arm breaks as your hand falls to your side. "Human?" To mask the shock that's probably evident on your face, you make the snap decision to turn towards the painted wall, pretending to study it. Don't elves hate humans? What's going on?

You struggle to calm down and keep your voice level. "They're coming here?"

Do they know that the elves might just throw them into the dungeon if they mistrust them? Even though you don't know these merchants you want to warn them. Or maybe ask for help. You're not sure.

Uilos remains silent, as if suspicious of the reason you're asking these things. Damn it. You probably came off too eager and need to do some damage control.

Then he utters two words that freeze the blood in your veins. "My Lord."





You don't want to look over your shoulder. You really don't.



You can't stop yourself.





Thranduil is standing in the opposite doorway of where you entered - tall, dignified and with a gaze that cuts as it sweeps over you. As usual his beauty shines so clearly that it puts everyone else in the shadows. If anyone would question your use of 'beauty' to describe a man, you'd dare him to meet the Lord of the Elves and find a more suitable word.

You're so preoccupied just staring that you don't notice Uilos slipping away like a scolded child. All of the sudden the hallway is empty. Even Tarhon made himself scarce. You shouldn't be surprised - Thranduil has a habit of scaring off everyone.

Should you say something? Is he expecting you to bow before him? You fidget underneath his heavy gaze. You didn't expect to be facing the king today and are woefully unprepared.

"Come." He commands, retreating to the room. You gape in shock for a few seconds as if your brain can't comprehend what's going on, before realizing you better obey.

The room holds a modest library with rows and rows of shelves filled with books and papers. It's almost a bit chaotic, as if the owner hates having things organized. It's obviously not the king's library. He doesn't strike you as the messy type - he's probably never even woken up with a hair out of place.

You look around. There's a daybed and a couple of chairs in one corner, hinting at more than one person visiting at the same time. Is it a public library? Was Uilos about to show you this? You're not much for reading, but his consideration makes you warm inside.

As you near a shelf you see the writing on the spine of one of the books. The letters almost look Arabic but you don't recognize it. Is it Elvish?

"Do you read?"

You shiver as his voice washes over you. Although he stands a respectable distance away, he is too close. Or maybe the room is too small.
It's almost suffocating. Trying to calm down and get your emotions under control, you re-focus on the text. It's not as if you can read it, but it's pretty to look at. Then you remember he asked a question and that he hates to repeat himself.

You nod as you gather your thoughts, buying yourself some time. "Yeah, sometimes." You don't dare look in his direction.

When the silence stretches out for too long, you're starting to wonder if he just up and left. Maybe you should've continued staring at the books, but you feel the need to make sure he's still there.



Your eyes meet.



"I don't have much time to read anymore," you babble on, fighting down the nervousness. "Work and chores and all that. But I did when I was younger." You don't know why you feel the need to explain yourself -maybe you just don't want him to think you're uneducated.

"Is that so?" His facial expression and tone of voice are neutral, almost too much so. Doesn't he believe you? Does he think you're lying?

"Yes. That's right." Irritation bubbles up inside. "When I was a child I loved stories about adventures."

"Adventures?"

"Mm. Travels. Quests. Exploring. I've read a lot - actually." Just because you don't really read anymore, doesn't mean you never did.

He doesn't seem offended or amused at your defensiveness. You're not even sure he's noticed it, instead appearing deep in thought. You're beginning to think that maybe he wasn't trying to trip you up.

You look at him with a slight curiosity. "Don't Elves have stories?"

There's a solemn air about him when he replies. "We live so long... our history becomes our stories."

"Oh."

You don't know why that makes you sad. There's something in his eyes that makes you think he's been through a lot. You've no idea how old he is but you know how much sorrow and heartbreak a human lifespan holds, and can just imagine how much he must've experienced up to this point.



"You speak of travels," he redirects the conversation. "Do you journey frequently?"

"No. I've mostly just read about it." There's a touch of regret in your voice. Not that you necessarily wanted to travel more in life to be happy, but the thought of being trapped here means you might never have the chance to.

You can almost see him wanting to ask about the places you've seen and you intercept before the conversation can turn into an interrogation.
"In school there was this teacher... she made us read, like, a new book every other week."

"You must have been a diligent student," he surmises. "What did these books teach?"

You think of all the boring, long-ass books you were forced to trudge through back in school. "I... uh... they were just... you know, mostly, just... stories."

You cringe, hoping he won't ask if you really spent all your time reading fiction - which, in your defence, was mostly based on real events. So when he asks "Myths?" You decide to just nod and keep your mouth shut.

He sits down in the chair closest to you, managing to come off as regal and as threatening as he did when you first met him. You squirm as he studies you with a glint of interest in his eyes. "What myths do your people speak of?"

It seems as if he's fishing for something. Is it more talk of stars? But you don't have anything more to say about your star sign! What else can you talk about that isn't screaming 'I'm from another reality'? You could make something up, but your imagination has abandoned ship.

His stare doesn't let up and you squeak: "Dracula!"



Kill me now.



He quirks a brow but doesn't ask you to elaborate. Maybe that's your downfall, because you start to offer details yourself. "You know... vampires." When you can't see any recognition on his face, you know that you've messed up.

Of course they don't have vampires here. You idiot!

You laugh nervously as you make a nonchalant gesture with one hand. "Not that people believe they exist today! But a long time ago, some did."
You start to sweat. "I-it's just made-up. It... it isn't real. I read stories about them sometimes. But it's... it's nothing."

"Vampyre?"

"Mhm. They're... undead."

"Undead?" He leans back into the chair slightly, one leg crossing the other. Your eyes are briefly drawn to the movement, before you catch yourself. "I have never heard of such a thing."

"Uh, t-they usually died but were kind of... resurrected?"

He hums, as if it's totally natural. "They were reborn."

"Not really..." You frown. You're not a fan of the horror genre, but who doesn't know the basics about vampires? Only, you're not knowledgeable enough to argue semantics. "They are dead, kind of, but moving around, and... talking."

His brows furrows.

"They are just stories!" You hurriedly add, not wanting to give him any reason to label you as crazy and have you thrown in the loony bin.

"A child's fantasy then."

You snort. A child's nightmare, maybe. "No, definitely not. They are used in horror stories and are very scary." Your thoughts wander to the fad of sexy brooding vampires. "Well... some are. But the stories are definitely for adults." You motion to your neck. "Vampires kill people by seducing them and drinking their-" You stop with a blush when you realize what you're saying.

His eyes travel down your face to your exposed neck, lingering on the skin. You're sure he can see your pulse jumping. Your cheeks redden even further. "They drink blood," you murmur, suddenly shy.

"They drink from the neck?" He rises from the chair and smoothly moves closer to you. "Why is that?"

You take a step back. And then another. "Uh- I... I don't know. A major artery, maybe?" You squeak as you walk into a sturdy bookshelf. He halts just out of touching-distance. All of the blood in your body has rushed to your face.

He hums. "It is difficult to get so close to someone," he speaks softly, "exposing your weak points. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable." You blink and look up at him. It almost sounds like he's -

This is too much. He's handsome, he smells so good, he's close enough to lean down and - you can't continue that thought. You have to create some distance between you. Desperately you grasp after something to say. "T-they don't have to bite the neck," you stammer, trying to steer you both from the ledge and keep on topic. "They c-can bite somewhere else," your voice is barely more than a whisper.

His facial features appear to soften slightly. "I am sure they can." Is that amusement glittering in his eyes?

"You know, I thought you were a vampire at first."

Please, please, shut me up!

You've never wanted someone to interrupt you as badly as now. Even Amroth would've been a welcome sight. (Okay, probably not, but at least he would only serve as a distraction and not a threat as long as you're with the king.)

"You thought me a monster?" You don't know if he wants to strangle you for the offense or laugh at your stupidity.

"Uhh... I... no, not like that!" Panic creeps up your throat and makes your voice a bit higher and filled with worry. You start to backpedal hard before he reintroduces you to his dungeon. "They're beautiful. Perfect, even! Like really pale and flawless and that's what draws people in. Everyone wants to -" Do not finish that sentence. Your sanity returns, making your mouth snap close with a loud clank when your teeth smash together.

"Beautiful." He murmurs so quiet you almost don't believe your ears. Again you think he might lean down to kiss you and you can't even bring yourself to try and stop it.

As if possessing telepathic abilities, Inglor enters at that exact moment - interrupting the tension. You reel back, as if caught doing something you shouldn't, but he doesn't look even the least bit surprised to see his king in such close proximity with his once-prisoner, and a human at that.

At first you think it's a stroke of luck (good or bad) that he showed up right now. Then you realize how unlikely it is that he would appear without prompting. He's here to take you back. Inglor is an errand boy and you're an errand.

You're almost disappointed that Thranduil is dismissing you like this. And then you're even more disappointed in yourself because you promised yourself not to develop some kind of Stockholm syndrome with your capturer.

Like a rebuked dog returning to it's owner, you walk towards Inglor chagrined.

"I look forward to it."

You turn your head to look at Thranduil questioningly. He appears infuriatingly calm and unaffected. You almost want to snap: 'what?' Then he continues and this time his amusement bleeds out into his voice. "To learn more about these creatures."

Stunned your mouth falls open, and you don't know if he's being mocking or flirtatious.

Flustered you pass by Inglor, not even bothering to wait for him. If you didn't know better, you might've thought you heard a low delighted laugh as you ran away. But that would've been impossible, right?

Chapter Text

Eryn Galen, a long time ago

Amroth stops Finwë with a gesture of his hand. The boy crouches down behind him, readying his bow. They have kept themselves upwind, making sure the scent of them will not forewarn any prey.

Finwë follows his every move without question, just as he did as a small child. It makes Amroth proud that he has managed to turn the boy into a rather decent hunter again, although he no longer shares quite the same affinity to weapons as he once did.

Hidden in the greenery, they wait patiently for their quarry to reveal itself.

There.



Amroth spots it first, Finwë's intuition not as finely tuned yet. To his surprise, it is not an animal.

"You see her, yes?"

Amroth grits his teeth at the whisper. They both know that there is no possibility of missing the human ploughing her way forward like a herd of ennebyn.

Finwë relaxes and even goes as far as lowering his bow, but thankfully remains in his position so they continue to go unnoticed. Amroth does not share Finwë's charitable view of strangers and keeps his weapon pointed at the woman. Are there more of them, or merely one?

His sharp eyes surveys the area as he replies in an equally quiet voice; "We should return."

Finwë frowns, displeased by the response. "The woods are not safe, and it is far to the nearest settlement of man."

Do not say it, do not-

"We cannot leave her on her own."

The human stops walking and exhales deeply, still unaware of being watched. Amroth can see every detail of her exhausted face quite clearly, whilst staying out of range of the human's very limited sight.

She sits down gracelessly, her small frame supported by the trunk of a young tree. Drawing her knees to her chest, the woman wraps slender arms around her legs, boots peeking out from beneath tattered skirts. She curls in on herself as if preserving warmth, although the weather is not cold.

He sighs internally. Finwë is too stubborn to leave the human and Amroth, as cautious as he prides himself to be, can see that she poses no threat. When he reluctantly drops his aim, Finwë knows that he has won.

Amroth puts away his bow and arrow, not wanting to scare the woman, and takes the lead, keeping his young companion safely behind him.
He is surprised by how swiftly she turns her head in their direction, well-aware that she cannot have heard or seen them with her inadequate human senses. Is she expecting someone?

When certain that her ears will pick up the sound, he speaks. "Do not fear. We will not harm you."

Her facial expression does not reveal if she understands him. She slowly rises to her feet, hands kept visible and in front of her, clearly showing them she is unarmed. She is tense, but show no outwardly signs of fear.

Her eyes flitter over his ears when he is close enough that the pointiness of them are unmistakeable. Her arms eases back to her sides, as if recognizing what they are makes her sure that they are less of a threat. So, she has experience with his kind. That might mean that she has enough grasp of his language to understand him.

"Who are you?"

She tilts her head a bit at his words. Then she opens her mouth, perhaps in reply, but the words are indistinguishable to his ear, coming across more as the horrendous croaking of a craban.

Amroth is not lacking in experience with humans, both those living within Eryn Galen and without, but he is not accustomed to speaking with them directly. He has mostly familiarized himself with their race through scouting and translating texts; and their written words are nothing like their speech.

As predicted, Finwë responds swiftly, excited at being granted the opportunity to use his skill in linguistics. He steps aside, letting the boy forward. Surprise flitters over the woman's face, acknowledging the rarity of an elf learning to speak in a human's native tongue.
It comes to no surprise to Amroth, however, aware that the boy has so far dedicated this life to learning, soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

As they speak, the apprehension in the woman's voice diminishes until it has completely faded. He will most likely be a fine diplomat one day, Amroth muses, seeing as he possesses the useful ability of putting others at ease.

Finwë then marginally turns his head to him. "She does not speak our language," he explains. "However, her dialect is a familiar one. She most likely hails from one of the settlements at the edge of Eryn Galen, by the river Celduin."

"If that is the case, she is quite far from the rest of her kin." That unnerves Amroth slightly. Why has she left her people? Is she an outcast? Is she fleeing from some danger? "Ask her purpose in entering the domain of the Elven King," he demands.

Finwë and the woman speak back and forth.

"She tells me she left home to - " The boy frowns and rapidly throws out a question to the human, receiving a reply that he does not seem to fully understand, "- pick mushrooms, I think? I am not familiar with that wording. Then she got lost and cannot find her way back."

Amroth hides his disbelief with a blank expression. A human, who most likely comes from a village living off of fishing and trade, has rowed a boat across the river, alone, wandered for stars knows how long, going further and further into woods - to pick mushrooms?

"I can act as her guide to make sure she finds her way back," Finwë offers.

That will get her out of the woods and far away from their village. The solution should please Amroth - but it does not. The human appears at the end of her rope so she will likely not be able to travel far before nightfall. She will need to sleep at night and eat and rest regularly during the day, which will prolong the journey back.

His family might not worry at first when they do not return before dark, seeing as it sometimes takes them more than a day to succeed in a hunt, but going at a human's pace will slow them down enough that it will be noticed. Amroth has no wish to cause them any unnecessary distress because of a stranger. However, if they leave her behind, she will likely end up wandering around aimlessly until her death.

Amroth could let it happen. He contemplates it. She is not his to care for - to protect.

The image of tears on the cheeks of a loved one, mourning the death of kin, is enough to halt the path his thoughts has taken. The woman is someone's daughter and perhaps sister, and is doubtlessly missed by her family. Though he has no obligation neither to her nor her kin, he does not revel in the pain and misery of others.

"In that case, we should leave at once," Amroth replies briskly, already mapping out the fastest way to the river in his mind. The quicker they set off, the quicker they will be back.

"There is no need for both of us to accompany her." Finwë shakes his head. "You are the better hunter. If you bring meat to my father's table, I will make sure she is safely returned back."

Amroth pushes down the 'no' ready to leave his lips. Although he continues to think of Finwë as a boy, he is in reality no longer a child and fully capable of handling himself. So he makes a reluctant nod of agreement instead. "If you are certain."

Finwë's smile is a bright thing, and Amroth turns away before he can change his mind. "See you back at the village." He throws the words over his shoulder as he quickens his steps.



The boy will be safe. There is no danger here, no battle.







He will not die again.

Amroth drags a hand over his face, overcome by exhaustion. His people have no true need for sleep, but they do require rest at times to function optimally. He sits down with a heavy sigh. He cannot remember the last time he took any rest for himself.

His hand brushes the rough surface of the table in front of him; fingers catching on the uneven wood.
He made this furniture in his child-years. When he earned his own room in the palace, his father had brought the monstrosity as a reminder that 'what you do will always follow you.'

He remembers how young he was back then, and how the other guards had subsequently laughed at the sight. After both his father and mother left Eryn Galen, the table has become a rather fond memory of their affection.

They write sometimes. The letters are steeped in a father's pride and a mother's love for their only child.

He wonders what they would make out of all of this?

Perhaps he should go them? It has been a long time since they last saw each other. Either way, he cannot stay here. The king has chosen not to have Amroth apprehended for the attack on the human, but he did strip him of his position as Captain of the Guard.
He's thankful that his own men were not forced to act against him, even though that's only due to Lord Thranduil showing mercy. By the king's own law, he should be in the dungeon at this very moment.

He knew, of course, that there would be consequences if he dared touch the human again. Lord Thranduil made it quite clear that he has some... fondness for it.

When the king had swept into his chamber, where Amroth had waited to receive his punishment, the latter had been surprised that the swift judgement he had expected didn't come. Instead he had demanded to know why Amroth had gone against his explicit command.



He opens his fist, displaying a torn necklace of hemp. "This." His voice is gruff. "It does not belong to the human."

Thranduil steps closer and looks it over. "She had it?"

Amroth nods.

"It looks to be made by humans."

"It was," Amroth agrees. "A long time ago. And I have kept it in my possession," he puts a hand on the table. "Here, for decades. How it found itself around the human's neck, I do not know. But there is a power here, working in the shadows. And it all comes back to the human."

His king's face is impossible to read, but he listens carefully. "Who does it belong to?"

Amroth swallows. "It belonged to Finwë."

Understanding washes over Thranduil's face, along with something that almost reads like pity. "You have kept it ever since?"

Amroth nods. "It reminds me of my failure, and where my duties lie."

Thranduil shakes his head. "He lived two lives. One as a warrior and then as a scholar. Both were cut short. There is nothing you could have done to stop it from happening."

"It broke his family." He does not mention the fact that it almost broke him.

"Not all is broken, Amroth. And sometimes, what is broken can be mended." Thranduil looks him over. "There is a power afoot, I am aware. You cannot remain in the palace, but I will not banish you from these lands. Take heed of my final warning."

There is a small concealed hollow in the underside of the table. As a child he thought it neat. As an adult, he has used it to hide away what he cannot bear to look at.

His hand finds the small bundle hidden there and carefully pulls it out. It's covered in a fine layer of dust. There is a pain in his chest when he holds it in his hands.

He is so tired. He feels much older than his years, as if his life has been stretched over all the ages, back to the very beginning. He never understood the lure of travelling to the West; abandoning this creation and everything and everyone in it. However... perhaps he does now.
He is spent. Anger is the only thing that has kept him going so far, but now that ember has flickered out - leaving him with nothing.

He brushes off the dust and unfolds the package. Inside, a ring of silver glimmers. He raises it to his lips and kisses it for the last time.

Eryn Galen, a long time ago

After Amroth was finally relieved from guard duty, he removed the additional armour and ran in haste across the bridge. He barely managed to get to their spot before he saw her waiting. Had she been sitting here the whole time? The rest of the shift he had taken from Tarhon?

If he had not been so thoughtless, he should have asked his friend to deliver a message to her before he went to see Baranis.

"You are late."

He fumbles for the right words to say, but finds that his quick wit has abandoned him. "I apologize. I will not leave you waiting again."

He walks closer and she stretches slightly as she rises from her spot. "I went looking for you. Then I saw Tarhon on his way to Baranis. He seemed pleased."

He keeps his face neutral, although he is a bit startled. Her tone suggests that she knows what happened. No, her tone is not suggesting anything - it is telling him that she knows. Thankfully, she does not appear angry in the slightest.

A smile plays on her face as she watches his confusion. "You are quite incurable." She closes the distance between them. "But it was a kind thing to do, letting him see her before she goes."

He takes her into his arms, their embrace familiar and comforting, but still tinted with youthful fervour. She presses a cheek against his chest with a content sigh, allowing his chin to rest upon her head. "Can we stay like this until the end of our existence?"

"We can stay for as long as you wish," he promises. "Or until your father comes in search for you."

She withdraws and playfully smacks his arm, then gently caresses the spot as if worried that her feather-light touch might have actually harmed him. "It might be that Finwë comes in search for you first. He is fond of you."

"He is fond of trouble," Amroth pretends to scowl but she sees through it immediately.


They are silent for a moment, finding comfort in each other's arms. Public displays of affection amongst their people are rare, so they seek out these moments to be alone whenever they can. The air around them is charged with their combined feelings of joy and contentment, until it gradually dims, as if words have been spoken aloud.

"What is wrong?"

She burrows her head into his chest, as if hidding, voice quiet. "My family has been made whole again. I never thought..."

He caresses her cheek as he waits for her to continue. Even with the wars over at last, even with her family now safe and prospering, she cannot let old sorrows go. Her pain has always been his, her grief still fresh in his mind. It is difficult to shake off the despair of losing a loved one, near impossible to mend the wound of having one's family torn apart. He cannot make agony disappear, cannot shield her from the torment of knowing.

She pulls back slightly to look at him. Those eyes of hers, brown as the coat of a woodland deer, holds no hint of sadness. He is surprised to see that they are instead glittering with exuberance.

She holds up a loosely closed fist, eyes firmly on him, watching for his reaction. "My heart lies with you. Always." Her hand unfolds and the sight makes his heart soar.

No answer is needed. They are as one, their happiness bound to each other. With a certain reverence, he lets her push the slender ring of silver onto his finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does. He would expect nothing less from her.

He captures her lips in a tender kiss. "I will present you with a ring of your own," he promises. "As soon as possible." Her smile goes straight to his heart, to his very core. "Írimë, my love."

Chapter Text

Although not certain of what time it is when you awake - not that time necessarily means much at present - you get the impression it's late at night. Curled up beneath the covers, you strain to catch any sound that might've disturbed your sleep. Failing to hear anything, you groggily open your eyes. The faint light in the room appear dimmer than usual - a balm to your stinging eyes as you take in your bedroom with a squint.

Finding the room empty of any crazy elf hiding in the shadows (and by "any" you definitely have one particular crazy elf in mind), you release a relieved breath. Maybe you just had a nightmare. It wouldn't be anything weird considering everything you've been through.



It's been about two months now.



Probably.



Maybe.



Frankly, you have no idea. But it's been long enough that you're having difficulty remembering how nights used to be back in your apartment. There were always noises. That much you do remember.

The city wasn't made for the night-life, but there were still people milling around - going places. Cars sporadically driving by outside your window, a dog barking and a car door closing, loud drunken conversations from people returning home from the bars downtown.
Inside there would be the refrigerator humming. The clock ticking. The whirling of the fan working overtime. The buzz of the laptop on stand-by. Water rushing through the pipes as someone flushed in a neighbouring apartment.

But here... here it's deathly quiet. You're not sure if you like it.

Rolling over to the other side you try to go back to sleep, but as minutes pass by it appears impossible. Your whole body is starting to ache from lying down and you can't find a comfortable position. Flipping onto your back, fingers raps over the mattress in restlessness as you stare at the ceiling.

Giving up with a exasperated sigh, you sit up and drag a hand over your face. The blanket falls down at the movement and folds into your lap. The freezing air forces out a gasp as you scramble to pull up the blanket to your chin. Was it the cold that woke you up? Whatever it was, you're too awake to go back to sleep now.

Refusing to touch the cold stone with your naked feet, you stretch out from the side of the bed to reach the slippers. Wrapped in the blanket you shuffle your way to the doorway and peer into the other room. Tarhon is still standing there, his gaze briefly jumping to you before returning to stare right ahead.

The man must be bored out of his mind. Retreating to the bedroom, you're growing bored as well. Pacing back and forth, you try to come up with anything to occupy your mind to make time pass. That's until you realize Tarhon is hearing every step you take and you being up this late might make him suspicious enough to send someone to check on you.

Having made up your mind you throw off the blanket on the bed, shivering at the loss of warmth, and rush towards the sunken-down bath hidden behind the tapestry. You disrobe quickly, allowing the beautiful clothing to fall to the floor. Naked and quivering you hurry down the steps into the water.

It takes a while to get warm, but it feels heavenly. Sinking down until only your head is above water, you close your eyes in pure bliss. Carefully moving towards one of the sides of the bath, you relax against it, using it as a support as you find a comfortable position.

There haven't been many baths since you moved into your new rooms. You've mostly just washed off sitting on the stairs, trying to be as fast and efficient as possible. The lack of a real door - and a lock - to keep anyone from intruding is really keeping you from taking your time and enjoy it. But seeing as it's in the middle of the night there's no need to rush.

Watching the water shift around you, flowing through the small holes in the stone you know is there even if you don't see them, you feel as though your mind is floating - exiting your body and watching from the outside.

Sitting in the bath of your luxury rooms in the underground palace of the Elven king in some strange other world, you're baffled by how calm you are. Why aren't you freaking out? What you've gone through is insane. Almost getting killed - twice- hurt more than once, kidnapped, threatened, imprisoned... the list goes on. It's enough to keep a therapist employed for decades. You should be a nervous wreck!

Well, to be entirely truthful, you have been a nervous wreck on more than one occasion. But shouldn't you be traumatized? Is it some kind of defense mechanism? Maybe that is what Stockholm syndrome is - getting used to your situation, sympathizing with your kidnappers, losing the will to fight back - after all, you've never really looked up the definition.

Maybe some parts fits, but you're definitely not siding with your kidnappers. Sure, Uilos has been kind and helpful. His medicine has done wonders to lessen the pain and hasten the healing process when you're been hurt. You're thankful for that. He's also pretty charming when he's not arrogant and you'll admit that you're a bit attracted to him. He's handsome, kind, easy to talk to and kind of flirty.

On the flip side, he's clearly under Thranduil's thumb and you still have your suspicions that he's basically a spy for the king, reporting back every word you say. You can't help but worry about exposing too much of yourself and allowing him to figure out that you don't belong in this world. You don't know what will happen if he succeeds but you're not willing to take the risk.

When it comes to Dîn, she appears more beholden to you than to anyone else, and she seems to genuinely enjoy your company. But she can't protect you. She can't even protect herself. Nevertheless, you've grown to like and trust her and she's the only one you'd classify as a friend in this place. If you get back - when you get back - to your own world, Dîn is the only one you'll actually miss.

Sure, Thranduil is hot. Stunning. Attractive. You might even have the smallest, tiniest, little kind-of crush. But being around him is so damn stressful. The infernal chatter about stars like some unhinged astrology-fan and every conversation a landmine threatening to go off - it's exhausting.

You wish you had the guts to stand up against him, demand to know why he's keeping you here. In the cell it was easier to justify your situation. You've seen enough TV shows and movies to kind of know what's it like being a prisoner; you keep your head down, do as you're told, suffer through verbal abuse and punishments and get thrown into isolation and avoid picking up the soap - okay, so it might be an exaggerated view of daily life in prison, but still. There's a clear line between prisoner and jailer.

But what are you? At times they're treating you almost like a guest, even inviting you to a party! You don't know how to act when you don't even know your own position. If you were Belle in Beauty and the Beast you'd know that you're taking your father's place to save him, striking a deal with the beast to stay forever.

But you haven't made a deal. Thranduil hasn't even given you a speech about this being your new home or tried to interrogate you again. Most of the time he seems perfectly happy ignoring you. In all honesty, you're not even sure he necessarily wants you here. He could've taken it upon himself to show you around the palace, have dinner with you, show you the library - anything! Instead Uilos ended up doing most of those things, even inviting you to the party.

And you have the sneaking suspicion the meeting outside the library was pure coincidence. After all, the promenade was an impulsive decision made because you brought up being bored. You doubt Uilos knew the king was there and you highly doubt Thranduil somehow managed to learn about your destination and pre-empt the pair of you. So the meeting, you talking and sharing that... spark, all of it occurred because of happenstance.

The flirting might've been a mind game or just an amusement. He did laugh when you ran off, didn't he? Elves and humans have a strained relationship, if they're not in all-out war. At least, that's what you've gathered. Sure, human merchants are supposed to be coming here soon, but money can easily buy temporary allies.

Maybe that's why you're still here. Thranduil did get the impression of you being a merchant in one of the interrogations. Are they going to use you as some kind of bargaining chip in negotiations, thinking that the other merchants will recognize one of their own? Or maybe they want to put your knowledge to the test, hoping for a better deal?

Or perhaps Thranduil considers it too risky to let you go. What if the palace and the village in the forest is a secret and he's worried you might run off and blab about the location?

The water doesn't get cold, keeping a steady temperature as you sit there deep in thought. Your head throbs as a growing headache demands your attention. You sigh, gently rubbing your temple, the pruned tips your fingers feeling odd against the soft skin of your face. Although loathing the idea to leave the comfortable warmth of the bath, you know you can't stay here forever.

It's even colder than before when you leap up, gathering the dress off the floor and bundling it against your chest. It's a flimsy shield, doing little to hide you from prying eyes, but the bedroom is thankfully still empty. Rummaging around in the large chest by the end of the bed trying to find something to dry off with, you end up finding nothing but a few items of clothing. Not about to jump into bed wet, you dab the gown against your dripping skin, drying off the worst of it.

After putting on a fresh change of clothes you hang the now damp gown over the back of the chair, the skirt pooling on the floor. You grimace, feeling guilty for using the beautiful dress like that.

Scurrying back into bed, you drape the blanket around you. Still not tired enough to go back to sleep, you just sit there, waiting to hear the sound of breakfast being served. Tendrils of water run down your back and you sigh, pulling your soaked hair out from under the blanket and letting it lie on the outside, the fabric thick enough to protect you even as the surface turns wet.

Time passes by extremely slowly and your stomach makes loud sounds of discontent.

It takes subjectively forever (objectively a few hours at least), and then a sound in the adjacent room catches your attention. There are steps, a clinking of a platter and glass being placed on the table. Finally, you're starving!

As you walk into the other room prepared to see the face of some new elf serving the breakfast, you stumble into a halt. As you stare stupefied, you briefly worry that you might've fallen asleep and this is a figment of a dream. The shock and subsequent rush of joy must be evident on your face as reality sinks in.



You gasp aloud.



"Dîn!"

Chapter Text

Dîn awakens in Inglor's care. The man is disquiet. A crease between elegant brows, eyes down-turned and lips set in a firm line. Settled on the floor next to the daybed, his own comfort clearly discarded, his hand still clasps hers - as if loath to disentangle himself while she rested.

Or, perhaps, it is the other way around.

A gentle squeeze and she instantly catches his attention. He gets up on one knee and leans closer. "Dîn?" A sense of urgency creeps into his voice while his hand tightens around hers. "Are you in pain?"

Taking the time to assess the damage her body sustained from Amroth's abuse, it is unsurprising when she finds that the injuries are minor, most of them already healed. He expels a relieved huff when she shakes her head. "I am glad."

Contemplating their intertwined hands, he swallows. "I ... as I waited for you to wake, this... sense of dread came over me," he confesses. The way he holds himself speaks of how tense he is, but he displays no doubt laying his heart open. "A fear that -" He licks his dry lips, "have hitherto been unknown to me." Those beautiful orbs of his are fixed on her. She is unable to face the emotion swirling in them, but does not retract her hand. "The fear of losing the one I care for the most."

She ought to cut off his words - by deed if nothing else. Letting him continue unimpeded, dangling the possibility of a bond between them, is unkind. She considers, not for the first time, that he deserves better. But she is selfish. She does not stop him.

"Dîn..." A small unsure smile, eyes gleaming with fragile hope. "My heart belongs to you."

At his earnest declaration, she cannot withstand the desire to give in and reciprocate in whatever way possible. Positioning her free hand upon theirs, his breath hitches. This is where she has to make a choice - to allow him to court her or let him go.

Her hesitation is not caused by unrequited feelings. The tentative friendship Inglor offered when she first entered into Lord Thranduil's service, the encouragement and constant companionship when few others would bother with 'the mute one', made him earn her gratefulness.
Exactly when it shifted into tenderness and admiration, she is unable to pinpoint. Discovering how her heart sang at his presence, how the stars invariably shined brighter whenever he was near, she recognized what it had evolved into.

She has accepted Inglor into her affections, knows that for her there will never be another. Even so, she wavers. Love is neither flimsy nor fleeting among elven kind - a union is customarily for life. She is too broken to admit his attentions, to allow him to be tied to her. At least, that is what she constantly tells herself.

It would be easy to refuse him and allow this frail thing blooming between them to wither and die. He would not pressure her to reconsider nor let a sense of obligation force her to accept. She knows his character well enough to be certain that he would bear a rejection with grace.

As the moment drags on without an answer, the light in Inglor's eyes dims. The anticipation of her consent and the elation of professing his love dwindle into nothing, a mournful acceptance taking over.

"I apologize. I should not have added to your burdens at such a time - "

You only ever think of others, never yourself. Her mother's words surfaces in the sea of her indecision. My sweet daughter, you are as deserving of love as anyone else.

Dîn cradles Inglor's hand in hers and leans over it before she can second-guess herself, lips pressing down to the smooth skin in the barest of touches. His words die out and he waits with baited breath, as if he does not dare trust the meaning of the gesture. Her action is impulsive, but her decision less so. She loves him too much to ever allow such a heartbroken expression take root.

Now when she has made up her mind she wants there to be no doubt. A slow deliberate movement decreases the gap between them, and when he utters no protest at her advancement, she boldly captures his soft lips in a kiss.

Blood rushes to paint his pale cheeks at her daring behaviour, and the tell-tale burning reveals her own state to be no better. Then a blinding smile breaks out across his handsome features, glimmering like a thousand stars, and she basks in the radiance of his unrestrained happiness.

She may be broken, but with Inglor she feels just a little bit more whole.

"Dîn! You're back!" Your voice cracks, the relief and joy staggering. You've no idea how much time has passed since last you saw each other, and maybe it hasn't been long enough for you to miss her so immensely, but it's been lonely.

The sudden urge to hug her flares up, but you squash it just as quickly. You see her as a friend but you don't know her well enough to gauge how she'd react to physical affection. Casual touching isn't really a thing here, at least not to the extent you're used to from back home. It's probably more of a behind-locked-doors occurrence due to propriety or something.

Maybe no one would bat an eye at a friendly hug under these circumstances, but you don't want to cross any boundaries. And in any case, Dîn can clearly tell how happy you are at her return, displaying a small delighted smile.

When the surprise dies down, the reason for her absence creeps back into your mind. You look her over in search of lingering marks - even though there shouldn't be any. Uilos told you that you got the worst of it and your bruises have almost completely faded.

"Are you-?" You stop yourself, having momentarily forgotten that she doesn't understand. Taking into consideration it's been a while since you communicated like this, your movements are slow; 'You okay?'

Dîn tips her head in answer and you let out a breath, the guilt easing up. Clearly having retained at least some of your teachings, she signs back, 'And you?'

It was bad. You're not going to lie about that. You're definitely not over it, but you're handling it - surprisingly well in fact. It's like your mind is too deep in denial to realize how much emotional turmoil you should be in.
There's no way you can put all of that in words though. How can you describe the current strange landscape of your mind when you don't even understand it yourself?

Your shrug. 'I'm fine.'

The sceptical look is well deserved. You're about to force out a small smile in the hopes of coming across as reassuring, but think better of it. It would probably come off as too strained. And besides, Dîn deserves more than mere platitudes.

'For now,' you add, trying to convey with your eyes what you can't with your hands. It's only then that you take notice of Inglor behind her, watching with clear curiosity. Oh, right. He's never seen the two of you sign to each other, has he?

A delicate frown rests between Dîn's brows. You're about to ask what's wrong when her hands flows once more. 'I will bring food.'

Your eyes stray to the table, certain you heard her readying breakfast before. There are two pitchers together with a lone cup sitting at the usual spot. Normally she'd only bring water and very rarely wine. Maybe there's a special occasion?
You're about to ask when you see her gaze roam briefly over you in clear concern. Ah, well. You clear your throat, suddenly self-conscious. Recent weight loss combined with very pale skin due to lack of sunlight must give you a rather sickly air. Half-dried, unkempt hair falling messily over thin shoulders probably doesn't help matters.

Dîn wavers, possibly conflicted between providing you with nourishment and keeping an eye on you so you don't collapse the second she takes off. A few hushed soft spoken words from Inglor, as well as a side-glance at Tarhon standing sentry, is sufficient to put her mind at ease.

'I will return,' she promises.

Inglor trails her as closely as a guard dog. In actuality, maybe he is. You got a guard - why shouldn't Dîn have one as well?

Peeking over at your own protector in an attempt to gleam any reaction from the stoic elf to Dîn's appearance, you find none. Did he already know she'd come today? He's clearly receiving information; you've seen at least one letter being delivered.

She looked healthy and well enough with no visible injuries, so she might've been recovered for a long time now. Except if that's the case, why has it taken so long for her to come back? Why hasn't she at least visited or let you know somehow that she's okay? Your mind spins.

In Dîn's absence you grab the opportunity to dash back to the bedroom to make yourself presentable. You drag a brush forcefully through your hair until it's tamed enough to attempt a relaxed braid. A critical eye in the handheld mirror shows that any vain effort to enhance your appearance has failed; the lengthy neglect of your health and well-being too evident to hide behind a sloppy hairdo.

The sound of footfalls draws you out. It isn't Dîn, but a welcome sight nonetheless. "Uilos?"

Well-dressed as usual, with his trusty satchel thrown over one shoulder, he bows politely. "I hope you have slept well?"

A bob of your head. "Yeah." Eyes briefly dart to Tarhon, fleetingly contemplating if he has enough grasp of the language to call out your lie, but coming to the conclusion that even if he did, it's debatable if he'd care to contradict you. He's a guard - not a nanny. As long as no one tries to kill you, your lack of sleep and food very likely doesn't faze him at all.

"I am glad to hear it. You look well." Uilos chuckles at your incredulous expression. "Perhaps I should say more at ease," he clarifies mildly.

Your lips curve up. "Mmm."

"I presume the cause to be, at least in part, the reinstatement of your former attendant. I am aware that you have missed her company."

"You knew she-?" You trail off. Did everyone except you know that she was coming back?

"I met your attendant on my way to see you, and spoke briefly with Inglor."

"Oh." That makes sense. "Well, you're right. I'm happy she's back."

"Her presence reassures me." His eyes soften. "To know you have someone to care for you."

Cheeks burn at his admission. Lips part, a reminder of how well he's taken care of you on the tip of your tongue, when a movement behind him draws your attention. You're startled to see Tarhon monitoring the both of you closely, eyes narrowing. What the - ?

Having grown accustomed to the man's impassive ways, the unexpected show of emotion makes your heart beat faster in alarm. Eager to escape the suddenly heavy and watchful glare emanating from the corner of the room, you make a vague gesture towards the bedroom.

"Maybe we should-"

Uilos interrupts and takes a calculated step towards the table. "Shall we sit?"

Apprehensive about acting in a way that will set Tarhon off, following the doctors lead in this is probably wise. "Sure..."

You're very aware of Tarhon standing stiffly along the wall as the doctor chitchats about all manner of things, so focused on his glare that you wouldn't be able to retell a single thing Uilos says.

When Dîn returns with a tray of food-items, your attention shifts as you survey the spread being placed on the table; some sort of stewed spinach sprinkled with roasted nuts, a plate of yellow fruit cut into the form of a flower resting on green and blood-red leaves, and a platter of grilled fish garnished with an array of colourful vegetables. Your stomach rumbles loudly at the delicious aroma and you shovel food on a plate without any prompting.

The yellow fruit has the consistency of a pear while the taste is sweet and aromatic. You bite into it, relishing the flavor. You know your dad would've sneered at the "rabbit food" you're being served, and once upon a time you might've agreed, but trial and error has left Dîn with a great insight in the kind of flavours you prefer.

Though you still miss some kind of foods (especially fast-food when you're really hungry) you have been living on the bare minimum for years, money barely covering groceries on a weekly basis, and definitely nothing as high-end and high-quality as what's being served here. You can't even remember the last time you could afford buying fish that wasn't a bastardly version like fish sticks or the like.

Uilos carries on a one-sided conversation as you eat and it takes a while before you notice he's not touching the food. There's not even a plate set out for him, although Dîn was gracious enough to bring him a cup and pour some wine. Frowning, you try to recall if you've seen any of the elves eat.

"Is something the matter?"

"Uh... no. Not at all," you say. "I was just... thinking."

"If you do not mind me asking, what about?"

It seems rude to ask about their eating habits. After a friend went through a rough period in your teenage-years, you've made it a point to always be conscious about not making careless comments that can spiral someone into dangerous behavior.

"The food is really good," you settle on. You take another bite, as if to demonstrate your point. "The best I've ever had, truth be told."

"You sound surprised to find it so? Naturally only the most competent and accomplished would ever find themselves in Lord Thranduil's employ. The palace kitchen is no exception."

There's a kitchen? Well, that answers the question about them eating.

"Perhaps your astonishment is not wholly without merit," he muses. "I suppose most meals you have sampled in life must have been deficient in taste and imagination. Even in the most cultured of homes belonging to man I have found that there is often a distinct lack of true desire to develop refinement and skill."

You repress the urge to roll your eyes. God, he's so arrogant at times. "Uhuh. So why are humans coming here if they don't have anything you want?"

"I did not mean for it to come across as though humans have nothing to offer," he claims. "In Eryn Galen there is very little opportunity to cultivate the land or keep animals. We mainly live off the bounty of the woodlands - hunting and foraging. Anything else, we acquire by trade."

"So... you're already trading with others?"

"There are agreements in place," he agrees. "Not with this particular settlement in question, but with others. Chief among them Khazad-dûm, providing minerals and precious stones."

Having so far only seen land belonging to the elves, it's a bit odd when other places are mentioned while not having the faintest idea where they're located or what they're like. You don't know if "Casad-doom" is a place belonging to elves or humans. You have no idea if it's a city or in the forest, or what have you. Seeing as minerals and stones are involved, it's probably a cave somewhere. Is that common - elves living in caves?

"The merchants are supposed to come soon, right?" You attempt to sound indifferent, but you're on edge waiting for his answer.

"Exactly so." The doctor appears conflicted, as if the subject is something he'd rather not talk about.

You want to learn more about the people coming here, seeing as it might give you the chance to get help. When he doesn't continue, you scramble for something to say. "Are they staying long?"

"It depends on the success of the negotiations, I suppose," he supplies vaguely.

There's obviously something he's struggling with, but you can't even guess what it is. When the silence drags out it's starting to feel uncomfortable. "Erm... so... will there be... like feasts and stuff while they're here? You know - to welcome them?"

He blinks. "I... have heard nothing of the sort," he admits, clearly confused by the direction the conversation is taking. "The dealings of the court are beyond my knowledge."

"So, does that mean... you won't be here when they come?"

Again he looks bewildered. "Not unless summoned."

"Oh, okay. I just thought... since you know the language..." You turn flustered under his examining look.

"The shore-language is wide-spread and common enough, that is true," Uilos concedes. "Yet it is a speech rooted in the Westlands and not the native tongue of most beings living east of the Misty Mountains. To assume otherwise would be erroneous."

How would you know! It's not like you have any idea where you are or any concept of the different countries and people living within!
Even though it's unreasonable to be embarrassed about something you couldn't possibly know anything about, you're still frazzled by it.

"O-oh, right, I-I didn't think-"

He gingerly interrupts your stammering, "I apologize. My words were not meant as a reproach." There's a suggestion of remorse as he speaks. "Many, if not all of them, most certainly have a firm enough grasp of the shore-language to speak and understand it passably," he clarifies. "Nonetheless, you should keep in mind that not all easterners wield it as easily as you."

"I-I didn't kno- I mean sure, I mean - of course!" You correct yourself. "Even if we can't fully understand each other, maybe we still - " You come to a stop at his perplexed facial expression.

His words are carefully chosen. "Unless someone has indicated otherwise to you, I doubt there will be any meeting."

"... What? I ... I won't get to meet them?"

"I fail to see a reason why you should." He's not unkind, merely curious.

"T-they are... human. I just thought... I wanted to- to-" You trail off.

"Them being human is enough for you to wish to speak with them?"

"I... guess? I mean, I'm human, so I kind of thought it would be - ... I don't know." You sigh, frustrated at your inability to explain. "If it had been elves wouldn't you have wanted to see them?"

"Ah. To provide an answer is a complicated matter, I am afraid."

"You're not getting along or- ?"

"It is not as straightforward as that. Elves are a scattered people and not all of us have dealings with the rest of our kind. Although when the Sindar came, they were welcomed and became our brethren."

"The Sindar?" The name rings a bell, but you can't place it.

"They hail from the once-venerable kingdom of Thingol," he says, as if that would explain anything.

"They? Not... you?"

"No. I am an Silvan Elf." He doesn't clear up what that means and instead immediately steers the conversation away from that topic. "The merchants we were discussing are the reason I have been instructed to speak with you."
Instructed? Uh oh, it basically means ordered, which means it must've been by Thranduil. That can't be good news.

"These chambers are intended for the highest ranking person of visiting parties. Therefore, they will be requisitioned for that purpose."

"Oh." You don't know what to say, scrambling for something to ease your growing anxiety. Are they throwing you back into a cell? Is that why he seemed so uncomfortable?

"Therefore, you shall take custody of another set of chambers."

"I'm... moving?"

"That is correct."

"Why?" Not that you're unhappy about getting other rooms instead of the cell, but why aren't they just letting the merchants stay in that room instead?

"It is not my place to question," the doctor says kindly, the unspoken and not your place either hanging in the air.

"Okay. So....where....?"

A shadow moves over his face, almost too quick to catch. "Quite a trek across the palace, I am afraid."

You frown. Is there any significance to it being on the other side? Is it closer to the prison? Closer to the exit? Before you can ask, Uilos hastily continues. "Your attendant will help relocate any possessions you might have. She will of course accompany you and continue to serve you. Tarhon will however no longer be acting as your guard."

As if he can sense that you're about to inquire about it, he cuts off any attempt with a "He has been assigned other duties" said in a tone that discourages you from probing.

"So Dîn is staying with me and Tarhon is leaving?" You clarify, glancing at the man in question who doesn't even flinch at the mention of his name, "And I'm getting other rooms?"

The doctor nods slightly apprehensive, though you're not sure why. Nothing really sounds bad so far. Maybe it has nothing to do with you but with the other humans. Are they planning to do something to them? Is that the reason they need these specific rooms? Because they're isolated? Easy to guard? And what if they're moving you to the other side of the palace to keep you as far away as possible so you can't warn them?

"When they leave, am I going to move back?"

"No." His smile is tight and there's a strained quality to his voice. "These chambers were always intended to be a temporary residence, or so I am told, pending the finalization of permanent lodgings for you."

A chill runs down your spine.



Permanent.



Are they planning on keeping you indefinitely?