Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

THE THIRD AGE, YEAR 2995.

DEEP IN THE EASTFOLD, ROHAN.

Motherhood has taught Briana to perfectly balance a chubby child on one hip and a coarsely woven basket – one of her first, crude in its shape, but perfectly functional, and Rohirric custom prescribes waste not, want not – on the other. She stands bare-footed in the grass, tall enough that the child on her hip – freckled, dark-skinned like her mother, with a tuft of shocking red hair like her father – reaches to play with each blade of bouteloua that her chubby fingers can grip. From the way her body faces the rising sun, just now reaching with pale yellow fingers over the plains of Anorien, you can tell she's waiting.

The horse-lords of Rohan hadn't welcomed Briana kindly at first. That had been seven years ago. She was twenty-seven then, and now she stands here as one of the village matrons. Seven years ago she had been taken into a saddle and ridden west. She'd beheld battlefields that reaped soldiers, and she still had nightmares from it. The memories haunted most of those that survived, and battlefields didn’t stop at fields of blood and steel. How many times had she awoken in a cold sweat, her breath shuddering in her chest? How many times had she comforted others from the same waking nightmare?

It had come at a cost no person should bear, but she'd won respect after her healing hands saved the newly crowned King of Rohan. Now here she stands, clothed in their clothes, laundry in the basket on her hip, waiting for the return of the Rohirrim.

Respect hadn't been the only thing she'd won after the Dunland battles. Her prize came in the form of Arthfael. Six years of marriage hasn't dimmed her love of him. The birth of three children and loss of one only deepens it. Aeron is six – tall for his age, intelligent, and currently with his father on his first ride with the Rohirrim. As much as Briana hates it, you can't keep a kid away from a horse in Rohan. Or a sword.

Destiny is a word that leaves a bad taste on her tongue, but she can already see Aeron's, clear as glass in her mind: to rise as a warrior, become captain, maybe even general. This baby on her hip, though… Briana won't kid herself. There are some in Middle Earth with the gift of pure foresight, whether by sorcery, some kind of blessing, or holding one of the fabled seeing stones. Years ago, she would’ve claimed that such magic didn’t exist. But things are much different here. Even the way the wind moves through the grass carries with it whispers of old gods.

She’d dreamed of Aeron's destiny when he was in the cradle, and it had come early – he'd been on horseback since he could walk – but those dreams had stopped after the death of Aeslin. For a long time, everything in Briana’s head was a jumbled mess. She wasn’t going to rely on superstition and guesswork. She'd have to wait and see what her daughter would become. Shieldmaiden, maybe? Scholar? Or the fate of too many Rohirric women to count - a housewife, one whose battles weren’t fought on a horse but rather in the childbed.

Oh, both of them would have their struggles. She'd be damned if her children received the same looks as she had when she'd first arrived… fallen, whatever you’d call it… into Rohan. She didn’t speak a word of their language, and she certainly didn’t have the features that went with it. But they hadn’t shunned her necessarily. A superstitious people wary of outsiders, not because of the color of her skin, but because she’d been found in the middle of the grasslands, dehydrated and picking fights with the Rohirrim in a language nobody understood.

That was behind her now. She wasn’t one of them, would never be; not fully. Her children were. But they were the only link Briana had to her home and heritage, and she won't easily let them forget their background. Their culture. Half Rohirrim, yes. Half Black, too. It won't be easy for them, wherever they go. She doesn't have her mom to help her braid her children's thick hair, or tell them stories, or keep Briana's culture alive around her. There's a deep pain in it – being separated from people that look like her, talk like her, understand her.

But if there's a way to go back, she hasn't found it yet.

Nor is she entirely sure she could.

Briana's dark brown eyes turn to look at her daughter, pressing a kiss onto the soft auburn hair on the baby's round head. "Look, baby girl." She sets down the basket, shifting the child in her arms to focus her attention on her. "Daddy and Aeron are almost home. You see that? That's daddy's horse. Been awhile, hm? You remember daddy?”

The old destrier that carries her husband is barely more than a dust cloud against the slopes of the White Mountains at this point, but rapidly approaching. Briana has time to finish the laundry, but she stands with her feet planted in the grass, watching.

Well, just a few more moments. Then she lifts a tunic from the basket and hangs it on the line. A row of clothes hang streaming like flags to welcome her husband and son home.

It's not long before the thunder of hooves against hard-beaten earth fill her ears, and just minutes after that, shifting leather as Fael jumps down from his massive, scarred mare and lifts Aeron down from the shaggy pony next to him. "Mama!" Aeron's all smiles, showing off his missing top teeth, and clings to Briana, speaking so quickly that his Rohirric speech seems jumbled. She laughs, tells him to slow down, shifts her fingers through his thick hair. It's braided close to his scalp, to keep the hair from breaking as well as keeping it secure while riding. Trademarks of Rohan decorate the ends of the braids – bronze caps and bands, a pewter bead in the shape of a horse head.

This is his world. She couldn't leave Aeron, nor could she take him back with her. This is where he belongs, and she'll stay here. She, Fael, Aeron, and Leoma.
Fael's calloused hand cups the back of their daughter's head and kisses her, his beard almost obscuring the baby's face as she babbles in happiness, small chubby fingers grasping at his facial hair.. "And now for you," his rough voice grumbles, his thorough kiss saying more than he can in words: I hope you're well. I missed you. I love you. I worship you.

That's why Briana can't go. She never thought she'd marry a white man, but… did she ever think her life would end up like this? Looking at Fael, she can't imagine anyone else. Nobody else could give her the gifts that are Aeron and Leoma. Nobody.

"Aeron, slow down. You can tell me about your training after you get cleaned up, okay?" She softly reminds her son - no doubt he’s covered in a weeks’ worth of sweat and grime - and leans into Fael’s side. The young boy is already being teasingly, lovingly, chided by his father for not caring for his pony properly.

It wouldn't be long before Aeron would be holding a real sword instead of the wooden one strapped at his waist. He'll leave their little village, go to Edoras. She sees it all so clearly.

Leoma burbles, and Briana leans over to wipe some drool from the corner of her mouth.

It only just now strikes her how strange it is, really, that she can't see much for Leoma. Like a twisted ball of yarn.

She really did never claim to have the gift of foresight, but many women of the Riddermark do. It was normal for mothers to have such dreams about their children, dreams that sometimes come true - a future that could be and nothing more. A bit of magic so common that most don’t even pay attention to it. The dreams she’d had of Aeron in the cradle were well on their way to coming true. And it was, after all, no unfamiliar thing for boys of his age to play at battle.

Leoma’s eyes are bright. They’re the same color as Fael’s - hazel-green, and sparkling with laughter. When she smiles, it shows that her teeth are just beginning to grow in. Her hands, small as they are, are strong enough to make Fael wince and groan when she tugs on his beard.

Briana can’t handle more heartbreak. Good things will come to her, she tells herself. Her daughter will keep that smile. Hopefully with more teeth, because gods forbid Briana will let them rot right out of Leoma’s mouth.

But the future's a long way away. Right now, she focuses on her family. Aeron, small but mighty, and Fael, carrying the little Rohirrim on his shoulders, and the tiny girl of two balanced on her hip. Stew is waiting inside, and no doubt her warriors are hungry.

Chapter Text

PART I

      TAUR NU FUIN.

Before the tongues of man named it Mirkwood, Taur-nu-fuin, the Greenwood, stretched in unbroken majesty from mountain to river. Sunlight fell golden from its boughs, where beneath them glades opened like secret chambers, and deer moved silent-footed through trees tall as towers.  

Yet the Greenwood was not a place easily given to the wanderer. Its ways are many, winding and strange, and in the shadowed places beneath the canopy, time itself seemed to falter. For in those green halls dwelt the Elves of the Wood, keepers of the memory of elder days, bound between root and leaf…

CHAPTER ONE.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY, YEAR 2021.

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - FOR NOW.

Let's be honest. "It was a dark and stormy night" is terrific prose. We've got a time, a setting, an atmosphere, and… me.

I don't belong here.

This isn't a fairy story. It's my living room. It's cramped. It smells of ramen and cheap beer - college staples. It's not bad for a three-room apartment in a sketchy area, but it's home. Actually… no, it is pretty bad. I can't believe I ever missed this place.

It's a dark and stormy night.

The weather had changed around noon, chasing away a bright sky with slate-gray clouds and a wave of humidity that made stepping outside feel like getting hit with a wet blanket. You know, standard Georgia weather. I'd barely had time to get to my apartment before the skies opened up. With the way it's raining right now, you could have convinced me I'm watching the Biblical flood. If my apartment were the ark, I’d probably have enough roaches to rival the animals on board.

My nose is pressed against the cold glass of the window. Condensation from my breath clouds against my lips, leaving them clammy. Nature's lip balm. I step away from the glass, turning and almost tripping over Opal, one of my best friends, and currently sprawled across the floor. 

She has her nose buried in one of my copies of a Ms. Marvel comic, and her feet kicking back and forth in the air. That's the thing with my friends. Give them a space and they'll act like they own it. Give them my living room and they'll camp out for a week.

Not that I mind. I love them, I really do. Besides Opal, there's Robin, who's cradling his newly-pierced ear – newly pierced as in five minutes ago, in my bathroom, with a needle – and talking loudly to Desiree. Robin's red-headed, covered with tattoos, and likes lipstick. Des has perfectly laid edges and her glossy lips smack you with affectionate kisses or some truth you didn't want to hear. She's studying social justice law, which is perfect for a girl who never loses an argument and likes to punch fascists.

We have it all! The bimbo, the catboy, woman in power, and me. Introduced in that order.

I'm Leo. Nothing special. I have a ten-step skincare routine that isn't doing me any good. I jog every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Milk gives me runny shits but I love ice cream anyway. I'm majoring in veterinary science. I'm normal.

The night is still dark and stormy. 

My friend's voices lull into a comforting background, and I'm sitting in between Des and Robin, feet on the coffee table, trying to focus on the movie. I never really liked fantasy movies, and this one is almost putting me to sleep. Robin's loving it, he's talking to Opal about this or that elf for their upcoming Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and I'm only half-listening as Desiree asks for the popcorn. How interesting could it be to watch people in cloaks climb over rocks? And that elf looks stupid. Come on, everyone knows elves are short little green guys from the North Pole.

But I guess it's hard to rip a nerd away from a movie like this. It's any dungeon master's wet dream.

"Ouch, that must hurt." I wince, a chuckle bubbling in my throat, as the guy on screen dies a violent, if not somewhat amusing, death. Amusing only in that he falls to the ground in dramatized slow-motion, arrows piercing his back. Robin, though, looks at me with burning contempt, or maybe that’s just the pain from his ear.

"You can't say that! He'd just had a redemption arc! This is an important and heartbreaking scene!" He wails, and Opal pats his back comfortingly. I'm failing all social cues at this point, slapping my knee as I laugh harder. I’m not the type to cry over on-screen character death, but Robin’s been obsessed with this movie for years. It came out the same year we were born. Literally years. I can’t help but poke a little fun at it, especially since I don’t get what’s going on.

Then a generator blows.

We can tell because of the distant boom and the entire room going dark, the image on the television fading to a faint glow and then disappearing altogether.

"Look what you did." Accusation is sharp in Robin's tone.

"Come on, Rob, you think Leo has power over the weather now?" We can all feel Opal rolling her eyes as she speaks. It's all in good fun, even though it sounds like we're fighting. Everyone we've ever met thinks we hate each other, but of all the people in the world, these are the three I would die for. Plus my mom. God bless.

"Last time I said she had lightning powers nobody took me seriously!"

"Only because you followed up by calling me smoking hot," I counter, feeling my way in the dark and accidentally placing my hand on her pelvic bone. "Sorry, Des."

"No worries, baby."

I get to my feet, stumbling a little, and her hand catches mine. "Lee, you alright?" Her voice is thick and warm in the dark, and I squeeze her hand in response. 

"Yeah, just tripped in the dark. Why?"

It was no secret that I'd looked like shit for nearly twenty-four hours now. I had never considered myself an astoundingly beautiful girl, but it's not like I made it my goal to look like I do right now. Yesterday, I had woken up from a four-hour nap and it seemed like everything had shifted slightly to the left. By this morning, I looked gray and drawn out, the whites of my eyes becoming a bit yellow, my dark skin washed out.

Maybe I had jaundice, but… maybe it was just the stress catching up to me. Yet Des and I both knew that I hadn't tripped in the dark. I'd nearly eaten concrete because my brain felt so fuzzy.

She clings to my fingers for a second more and then drops my hand, releasing a sigh. I don't know what expression she's wearing, but I bet she's disappointed. She's my closest friend – I've known Opal and Robin longer, but there's a bridge between us that they can't cross and Des can.

I skid past the couch, feeling my way down the hall to the one dingy bathroom housed in my apartment. It smells like toilet bowl cleaner – strong, chemical, making my eyes burn. Out of habit, I flick the light switch. Of courseit doesn't do anything.

Even in the dark, I can barely make out my reflection. A tall, slender girl with a good head on her shoulders, as my grandfather always says. I don’t know how right he is, since I’m the dumbest thing since the Jackass franchise. I place a hand on my clammy forehead, reaching for the washcloth draped over the sink basin, turning the tap on, closing my eyes in relief…

Cold water soaks into my socks. Is there a leak? If my water main busted… god, if I have to get a plumber out here…

I'm ready to screech for someone to get me a towel. But my eyes open and the noise dies in my throat. Silence swallows me.

It's not possible to close your eyes in your bathroom and open them in the middle of a forest.

Or it is, and I'm the butt of a huge cosmic joke.

"H-Hello?" I stammer, lifting one foot off of the ground. It's mossy, muddy from the remains of a recent thunderstorm. I don't know who I'm talking to – there's nobody around. This is a forest.

Where's my apartment ?

Have I finally gone clinically insane? Oh, god…

I'm still holding the washcloth. So tightly that my knuckles are white. Only when I realize my fingernails are digging through the cloth into my palm, I drop it. Right onto the muddy ground. I give a little whimper of disbelief, and don't bother picking it up again.

Instead, my eyes follow a straight line up. The twisted oak in front of me rises, gnarled and bent, into a canopy of thick leaves so dark I can't see the sky. My neck cranes. It's the same in every direction. These trees are so deformed I wonder how they reach the sun. Then I realize that must be why they look like this.

There is no sun here.

Panic presses against my throat. A nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. I've never taken hallucinogens in my life. This isn't an acid trip, this isn't… it can't be. It can't be real.

Tears spring into my eyes. It's cold. My eyes always tear up in the cold. I'd dressed for a warm Georgia evening – shorts and a tee shirt. When the wind whispers by me, invisible cold fingers feeling along my skin, I shiver. And after that, I can't even stop shaking.

One step has my foot skidding over a puddle of muddy water. My socks were already ruined, but it doesn't stop a hiss of disgust from leaving my mouth. Fuck – it's cold. I'm not used to chill soaking into my bones in August . In Georgia.

But you and I both know I'm not in Georgia anymore.

If only I could see the stars… maybe I could find north. Maybe – no, who am I kidding? Who am I, Bear Grylls? I don't know what to do.

I'm cold, and I'm scared.

A branch rustles, and I utter a silent scream. My vocal cords must have dried up in fear. No sound comes out of my mouth, and I feel… so defenseless. When the small bird, sparrow-sized and russet in color, flutters to a different perch – uncomfortably close to my face – I feel a bit stupid.

What other kinds of wild animals are out here?

I don't major in animal behavioral studies, but I've done enough training to know just how animals are capable of hurting you. As a vet student, I'd worked with farm animals, cows, horses… dogs.

Dogs aren't too far removed from wolves when it comes to their teeth.

I stifle a shudder. One from sheer cold, healthily mixed with fear. I haven't moved in about five minutes, so I force my legs forward, hoping to get my blood moving to warm me up. Hypothermia won't kill me – not at this temperature, not immediately, at least. But it's enough to make me sick.

I stick my hands into the pockets of my shorts, and my hand grasps my phone. I give a cry of disbelief, and a little bit of glee, too. Pulling it out, checking the time.

Five forty-three PM.

No, that can't be right.

It's at least midnight. It's dark enough to be, and the sun never sets this early in August.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I unlock my phone. No signal. My battery's at 56%, and I should save it.

The relief I'd felt seconds before turns to a heavy weight on my shoulders.

After checking a fallen log – there's no shortage of that here – for bugs and dead bodies, I sit down, placing my head in my hands. For some reason, the touch shocks me. My warm palms feel like fire against my sweaty forehead. I brush baby hairs away from my face – the little strands that had become frizzy in the damp weather. The rest of my hair is braided, creating a thick shield from the wind against my neck.

"God," I whisper to myself, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand. "I'm high. I have to be."

I'm sober.

Resisting the urge to check my phone again, I glance around the dark forest. An owl hoots in the trees somewhere nearby. I used to go birdwatching with my mom, so I'm eager to pinpoint where the bird is – but it's too dark to see, and I quickly give up. It served as a distraction for all of two minutes.

When I was a kid, my mom was with me twenty-four-seven. My dad was never in the picture. Some part of me hated him for being a deadbeat, but a few times I'd been curious enough to ask. She was never straightforward with her answer. She told me tons of stories, and the ones about him wove him like he was some kind of fairytale prince.

She was just making it up to sensationalize my lack of a father figure. It’s just how she is. She's a fun-loving, kind, beautiful woman, and I owe a lot to her. But sitting alone with nothing but your thoughts can stir up deeper memories.

She used to burn small, white flowers. She'd gather a small bouquet of them, bind them together with grass, and set the stems ablaze. Then she'd breathe the smoke and mumble under her breath in a language I only barely understood. One time I'd watched her, and when I asked what she was doing, she only smiled and gave me a simple answer.

Magic, baby girl. Mama's just doing a little magic .

She treated it like it was normal. Our world was small. It was us, and we visited Grandma's house each Sunday. Mom had a large family. Three brothers and a sister. All older. They had families of their own and we spent holidays together, but there was distance. Animosity. One time I heard my uncle – my aunt's husband – calling my mama crazy. It never deterred her. We would just go back home after family dinner, and she'd tuck me in, and then I'd smell the faintly sweet smoke drifting from her room.

She loved those flowers. She had herbs hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen. She had a job, working long hours as a nurse on the graveyard shift. She'd leave after I fell asleep and be home in time to send me off to school. She was a college-educated woman, but there was something about her I'd never understood.

She acted like she was half-stuck in fairyland.

I wasn't quite a part of her world. She loves me – I know she does. But I was on this side of a garden wall, and she was on the other, and I could never find the gate to join her.

Whatever her magic was, I wish I had a little bit of it right now.

The wind rustles through the trees again. I rub my shoulders slowly, realizing with no small touch of fear that it felt about five degrees colder. How much had the temperature dropped? How much would it drop before the night was over?

That's when I smell it.

A strong odor. Cooking meat. It rushes in on a gush of warmth that surrounds my senses. I feel as if twenty years have been added to my life. The breeze doesn't have a sharp chill anymore. Instead, it almost feels inviting.

Is that laughter I hear?

I almost faceplant in my rush to stand. Before I know it, my legs are churning into a stumbling run, almost tripping over my own feet. There's one thought on my mind, and it's not food or the mud splattering over my legs as I make a landing in a puddle.

People. There are people here.

I finally see it: a faint glow that grows larger as I approach. I suck air into my lungs, peeking through a bunch of ferns. A ring of white birches – delicate, fairy-thin trees that seem out of place in the encroaching darkness – illuminated by the warm glow of the bonfire.

But more importantly…

The tall and elegant figures around the fire. They're talking and laughing, words too quiet for me to make out. The fire dances, distracting me from the tones of a language I don't recognize. I step towards them, into the ring of birches, lifting my hand and calling out a greeting.

"Hey!"

And just like that – everything disappears.

Everything.

Boom. Gone.

Nothing left but the faint, almost empty, smell of smoke on the breeze, and even that is rapidly disappearing.

I rub my eyes. It couldn't have been a hallucination – I had all but felt the warmth on my face. But… how could it have disappeared so fast?

Glancing at the ground, scuffing the dirt with my feet, sifting dirt through my socks, I realize with a knot in my throat that there are no footprints. The forest floor bears no sign of a fire, either. That's weird… I know what I saw . I fold my arms around my body, leaning against a nearby tree. It's not a birch, thin and dark as it is – the firelight must have tricked me.

I slide to the ground, my knees tucked against my chest. When the firelight beckons me again, hundreds of yards to my right, I ignore it. It's horrifying and lonely here. And cold. But I'm too tired and too afraid to chase after magic visions or hallucinations.

The laughter is mocking me.

The telltale knot in my throat tells me one thing: I'm about to cry. I haven't cried in years, but I'll forgive myself this time.

It takes all my strength not to crawl towards the fire in the distance. "Just sleep, Leo," I tell myself, letting my cheek hit the packed, damp earth, wondering if I'll get eaten alive before morning comes. "This is all a dream. You'll be fine."

I'm a goner.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO.

It's not a good morning. If I had to rank it on a scale of one to ten, this would definitely be… -11. Before I'm even fully awake, I'm painfully conscious of the dirt and moss pressed against my cheek. With any luck, I can keep my eyes closed and pretend it's the bathmat. The damp floor… that's just the pipes leaking.

I crack open a single, baggy eye. Instead of the bathroom, I see the forest – and a shoe. A black leather boot with silver buttons up the side.

Outdated, I think. By a few centuries.

I sit up quickly, my head nearly smacking against an outstretched bow. I jerk back just in time, squinting sleepily up at the person. No, people . There's a half-dozen, all in leaf-green armor – shin and shoulder guards, breastplates, helmets.

All with their bows drawn, arrows pointed at me.

Bows ? My mind reels. Mouth open, gaping like a fish, I try to find something to say. Under the scrutinizing eyes of these white people, I can't.

The one in front of me – tall, unnaturally beautiful, dressed in a white surcoat with silver filigree, his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a half-ponytail – addresses me. Though I didn't know it at the time, he was asking me this: How have you passed into the Greenwood? What is your business here ?

His voice is deep, almost velvety in its texture, and the language is like nothing I've ever heard of. Some mix of… Welsh, maybe – old English. His tone is cold – something that I ignore in favor of the sharp-looking daggers he has strapped at his waist.

My tongue suddenly feels too big and dry for my mouth. "I- I, um…" What do I even say? I'm not able to form words. The man in front of me, however, is. He tilts his head to the side, gray eyes studying me. He squats, elbows resting on his knees, face-to-face with me, and fires off another question.

I don't understand this one, either. And I'm too terrified and confused to be interrogated. Then I realize he's not speaking the same language as before. Some syllables seem harsh and guttural, others smooth and melodic. But whatever he's saying – it's nothing remotely close to English, or anything I recognize.

Almost in tears, I hold up my hands. "I don't understand. I-I'm sorry. I don't…"

He shakes his head, getting to his feet. One word to his entourage – brethren? Cronies? I'm not sure – and I make the decision to try to stand as well.

But then Ponytail pins me with a glare that could curdle milk, and I almost trip and fall on my ass. Gracelessly, I lower myself back to the ground, ducking my head so that I don't have to look in his eyes.

I can feel his gaze on me for a few more moments before he says something and motions to two of the guys behind him. They step forward, latching onto my biceps and dragging me to my feet.

Oh, my god. Oh, no. I start hyperventilating, trying desperately to suck air into my lungs. Panic causes my throat to close and my limbs to jerk as I try to twist my way free from their hands. For skinny people, they're surprisingly strong – and have no intention of letting me go.

Let me give you a scenario: you're confronted by a bunch of white guys in cult outfits. You're a mixed girl.

I think that paints the picture pretty well.

My wrists are tied behind my back with smooth rope. I struggle, testing its strength. No go. It’s not like I’ve been doing strength training, either. But I still wiggle my hands, trying to loosen the bonds. Due to either my withered, unused muscles or some unnatural magic - Ha! As if - woven into the rope, it doesn’t work.

I look up just as Ponytail beckons me forward. When I hesitate, the two flanking me give me a push. I trip, and because I'm not wearing shoes, I let out a whimper. My feet are screaming in pain, but I'm forced to continue.

It's not like I can say anything about it. 

So there we are: marching through the forest layered with thick fog. My gaze bounces from our surroundings to the barely-there path we're walking on, and then to the pair of intricate swords strapped to Ponytail's back. I'm not sure if they're replicas or if he actually knows how to use them.

What if he does…?

I swallow another panic attack. Just barely. And tell myself to focus on the mud soaking into my socks. Nothing else.

It's going to be fine, Leo. You're fine. With any luck, they're taking you somewhere with showers – and food. I've already missed my breakfast, and the empty gurgling of my stomach isn't helping my fear at all.

Finally, Ponytail stops walking. I almost run into him, but one of the men beside me grasps my shoulder, holding me back. I bark an affronted noise at the sudden contact. A) I hadn't been expecting it, and b) don't fucking touch me, white boy. He merely pins me with a silent look and slowly removes his hand from my shoulder.

Good. I was about to bite him.

So I shake the feeling of his hand from my skin and look away.

Then up.

And further up.

I don't mean to gasp in awe. The sound leaves my throat automatically. The citadel that rises before me is truly something to gawk at, which is precisely what I'm doing.

A tree had fallen across a gorge, hewn to make a walkway, which would have been impressive if it had railings, but it doesn't, and I'm pretty sure that violates at least three health and safety codes. Beyond that? Two enormous pillars, carved to resemble birch trees, entwine their branches above a gate. It's the entrance to an enormous city built in the trees: towers spiraling through the sky, arched windows and doorways bearing entry to homes within. Stone is wedded to wood. The forest effortlessly molds itself against the city. If I hadn't been looking from the right angle, I might have overlooked it altogether.

What… the fuck? 

There is nothing like this on earth, I know. I’m positive. This would’ve been in magazines, brochures. Even the ruins of it would’ve been a tourist destination. Once I swallow my dread, all I feel is fear, like a heavy stone in my empty stomach. I know, somehow, in my bones, that I’m somewhere unnatural. 

Maybe even too far from home to find the way back.

I must have been still too long. Someone behind me pushes me forward. "I'm going, I'm going!" I snap over my shoulder. Can they really not understand me? Are they just really good LARP-ers?

I can’t think about that now. One battle at a time, and right now, my fear of heights is the one contesting me. Crossing the bridge seems like a nightmare. The depth of the gorge below looms like an open, cavernous maw. And the splinters that I'm certain are destined for the soles of my feet… Jesus Christ, save me. I shuffle across with minimal damage, but I don't think my captors would have cared either way.

We cross beneath the birch gateway, then through enormous doors that lead further into the city. A corridor wide enough to be a roadway anywhere else, with other halls branching off deeper. I should be furious. Or apprehensive at the very least. But at least I'm in shelter, and out of the chilling wind. Once I'm inside, I notice the air is warm, enveloping me. There's a sweet, cozy smell. Cinnamon, maybe? Some other spice?

Ponytail distracts me as he barks an order and leaves. Most of his entourage disperse too – disappearing up stairwells, striding down corridors, going back outside – but two remain.

The girl speaks first. Her hair is a darker blonde than Ponytail's platinum, and her slanted eyes are green. She has a strongly boned face, like mine – not what most of the world would call pretty, but certainly striking. When she smiles at me, it lights up her features, and I can't help smiling back. An involuntary action, like I couldn't help doing it.

Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and my smile drops. I stare at her coldly, watching her lips move in an unfamiliar pattern.

" Lariel i eneth nín," she says, placing her other hand over her heart. When she repeats the phrase, slowly and gently, I realize she must be introducing herself. Shakily, I nod, and she beams at me.

Her companion barely lets me absorb my surroundings before he scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad, armored chest and speaking in hushed tones to Lariel. I'm not sure if I should look at him or the girl. The woman seems kind and gentle: warm, like a comforting embrace. He, on the other hand…

His eyes narrow at me. The expression alone is enough to bog down his handsome face. He looks disgusted. As a mixed kid, I take particular offense to that.

Lariel – the woman – speaks to me again. I can't understand her, but she looks apologetic, and it automatically makes me want to forgive her. But there's still that cold, horrid fear leaking into the pit of my stomach. "Wh-why? What are you doing?" I stammer, clutching at her hand when she reaches for me. I’ve had too many people grab me against my will today. Not her, too. 

She shrugs. Maybe she doesn't know how to tell me, or maybe she doesn’t think I need an explanation. Breaking free of my cold fingers, she wraps her own around my bicep in a surprisingly strong grip, and leads me down a corridor. Taken off guard by her sudden strength, I struggle to keep up with her. From the quiet footsteps behind me, her friend must be following. I try to ignore his dagger-like gaze glaring into my back and focus on something else.

Maybe, I tell myself as I stare at the dim walls hewn from stone, punctuated every several feet by a flickering torch, maybe she's taking me somewhere warm. Somewhere with food.

In my heart, I know that's not true.

"Where are we going?" I mumble, quieter than I meant it to be. Lariel throws me a surprised look. Whatever she says to me, I can't understand.

But I'm getting the idea.

The corridor slopes downward. The air becomes chillier and more stale. It smells like mold and moss, and the walls go from smooth stone to roughly carved, looking almost sharp to the touch.

Where in the fucking world am I? It should be illegal to still have dungeons . I’m still clinging to the idea that this is somewhere on Earth. Any other option would be impossible, right? 

Right?

Dear god, I want to go home.

We reach a chamber, either side sectioned into cells with iron bars hung from ceiling to floor, barring escape.

I turn on Lariel. "What the fuck is this?” Her eyes widen in shock at my vicious tone, but all the fear is starting to melt away, replaced by vicious, desperate anger. She opens her mouth to reply, but I don’t let her, jabbing my finger at her chest. “You think this is fucking funny? What fucking cult do you belong to? When I get out of here -”

The man behind her doesn't let me finish.

Suddenly I'm sitting on my ass in a cell, the bars separating me from the pair in front of me. Lariel's hand clings to the iron rod, her eyes lingering on me in sympathy. The redheaded man turns on his heel, saying something to her in that language I'm starting to hate. Then he's gone. Lariel doesn't move, her eyes fixed on mine.

I draw my knees up to my chest, dragging my eyes from her. I want to hate her. She’s pitying me. Isn’t she an accomplice? What gives her the right? Letting out a huff of frustration, I decide to keep my mouth shut. Antagonizing her will only make it worse for me. 

From the soft movement of cloth, I can tell she's crouched down, and I risk another look. Her hand reaches through the bars towards me. Clutched in between her pale fingers is her cloak – sage-green cloth, its scent reminiscent of pine forests.

I'm too cold and tired to think better of it. I take the garment, wrapping it around my shoulders. It's warmer than I expected it to be. Though it doesn't seem to be woven from some heavy type of cloth, it feels a lot thicker and sturdier than it looks.

"Thank you." I duck my head to her. She nods, seeming to understand my words. After a few moments, it's her turn to speak.

" Man eneth lín?" She asks, and I stare at her with low-drawn and tired eyes. I don't understand. I don't want to. I'm tired of asking why to everything they say.

I'm so tired.

Her sudden movement startles me. Retracting her hand through the bars of the cell, she places it against her chest. " Lariel ." Then she extends her palm to me once more. " Lín ?"

Realization dawns on me. She's asking my name. I stare at her for a beat. Should I tell her, or not? What purpose would it serve her to know my name? I don’t know why she would care. But I tell her anyway. 

"Leoma. My name's Leoma."

Lariel's eyebrow quirks upward. She says something else, but it falls on deaf ears. Shrugging, I turn my gaze away. A rustle and a few footsteps tell me she's standing and leaving. I wait for a few minutes to be sure, and then I get to my feet, rushing the bars.

" HELP ! Somebody, help me! Please! I need help!"

The only thing that answers is an echo and a roar of blood in my ears.

Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?

I don't get an answer to that, either.

Suddenly I feel drained. Sinking back into the niche cut into the wall, I pull the cloak around me. There's no way I can get comfortable here. I try using my knee as a pillow, leaning my cheek against it, wiggling my toes in the chilly air.

It only gives me a bad ache in the neck, but it can't really get worse from here.

Unless they kill you .

Bile rises in my throat and I lean over in case I have to vomit on the floor. But there's nothing in my stomach that could even come back up. I spit on the ground, trying to get the nausea out of my system. Once I've wiped the strings of drool from my mouth, I lean back, my head hitting the rock with a dull thump.

"Ow."

Immediately I miss my friends. Robin would be laughing and Des would have put a comforting hand on the back of my head. But I don't know how far away they are. 

Or if I'll ever see them again.

God, I'll probably get an aneurysm if I think about it too much. I sigh, rubbing my forehead. It should be a Friday morning, and I should be eating Belgian waffles from Brad's street vendor, missing my ten-thirty lecture. I should be home, in the Georgia sunshine, worrying about my next exam instead of whether or not I’ll survive.

Don't cry, Leoma. I scrub my eyes, telling myself over and over. You already cried last night. Let's try not to make it a habit.

"Leoma," calls a voice that's definitely not mine, and I sit up so quickly my forehead almost hits the stone wall in front of me. I wince, glancing around. It's Lariel, and she's holding a tray in her hands. Food? Should I be grateful? At least I’m getting food. 

I pick my way over to the bars, accepting the tray that she slips under the door. Cheese and bread. "What is this?" I mumble to myself. "The fucking… Middle Ages? Do I look like a peasant to you?"

That doesn't stop me from inhaling it. The bread might have once been soft and airy; the goaty flavor of the cheese covers up the stale bites of bread. When I'm done, I stare at the tray blankly. I want more, and I know I won’t get any. I'm so hungry. Maybe I should have savored it more, made it last longer.

Lariel makes a noise to attract my attention. I push the tray back towards her, not deigning to look up.

Then she says, "Leoma."

She's produced an apple from her pocket, and I look from the fruit to her eyes. Something glints within them in the dim light. Is she doing that fucking pity thing again? 

My mouth waters, anxious to tuck something else in my belly. I make a swipe for the apple. She holds it just out of reach, that irritating smile still stuck on her face.

"Give it to me," I snap. She must understand what I'm saying, because she shakes her head.

" I gordof ," she explains, gesturing to the apple. I'm not in the mood for games. "What? Just give it to me."

The woman points at it again. "I gordof. Se yávien – madech." She mimes taking a bite from the apple. I'm not amused. I know how to eat a fucking apple. She must see it in my expression, because she extends it towards me, repeating that word again. "I gordof."

Maybe it means eat. I obey immediately. Once the apple's in my hands, I practically inhale it. It's tart and sweet at the same time, plump and rosy and juicy. I'm only just aware of Lariel watching me, but I try not to think about her. The fresh fruit teases my senses, and for a second the dungeon doesn't seem so bad.

Then I'm finished and everything falls back into place. I wish I had more. If not to eat, then at least to forget about the cell again.

Lariel picks up the tray and gets to her feet. She's taller than I am, but she moves soundlessly, almost like a cat. She steps away, her green eyes resting on me until she finally turns and leaves.

My mouth goes dry. But I don't want her to come back. I'd rather be alone than with… these people. Whoever the hell they are.

"You're going to be fine, Leoma." My voice echoes in the cell. It only makes me feel more lonely. "You're going to get out of here, yeah? Just hang in there."

...If there was a prize for lying to yourself, I'd win it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE.

After four days, I've given up hope that I'm getting out of here anytime soon. After a week? I wonder if there's even a search party. 

It’s not just that I’m stuck in a cold, damp room where the only thing I can do to pass my time is sleep or pace back and forth. I’m alone. Utterly alone. And a search party? Who am I kidding? My friends, my mom, they don’t even know where I am. I could be dead to them. 

But I’m not dead. This isn’t hell, is it? Definitely not a fire and brimstone type of place. More like mold and stalactites. 

I’m not that into philosophy, or whatever type shit Alighieri was on. I just want to go home. If not for the people holding me captive…

Either they were really committed to their roles as cultish cosplayers, or… or this was all for real. I'm not even sure what comes next after jail. What could I even stand trial for? Breathing? If I committed a crime, nobody seems to want to tell me what I did. 

Not that I would understand them if they tried.

When Lariel stops by, she always brings food. And a book. This isn’t a goddamn classroom, but I can’t tell her to leave, and I’m not sure I want to. She’s the only thing that keeps me company here. I don’t know why she cares about me, or what her endgoal is, but she'll sit with me for a while, reading aloud, while I eat what I can only describe as gruel. The stuff you hear about in history class but never actually thought you'd have to experience, right? I shied away from the food at first, but before long, I got too hungry to ignore it. Then the food started to taste good, and I wondered if I've lost my mind.

I probably have.

The days are long and monotonous. When Lariel comes, it’s a change from staring at a craggy stone wall or, worse yet, closing my eyes so I don’t have to stare at anything. She begins to teach me her language – bit by bit, word by word – and calls it Sindarin. I'd never heard of it before – but I'm not going to argue with the woman who holds the keys to my cell.

Does that even exist, though? I find myself wondering whenever she leaves. Where even is this place? Why wouldn't it be more well-known? Am I dead? I keep asking myself if I am. I’m not, right?

The bruises and scratches from the rocks prove that I'm not dreaming, at least.

It would probably make more sense if I was.

And when Lariel isn't around, there's not much for me to do. My mind feels numb. There's a rock I use to scratch meaningless symbols onto the rock walls – sometimes names, sometimes faces, sometimes dick graffiti. Anything to pass the time.

Other times, I'll sleep, or sit curled in the rock niche, telling myself stories about the guards to whittle the hours away. One's going through a rocky marriage, the other's one-half of a set of twins that switch every day. Yes, I get weird looks from it; I’d probably get the same treatment if I kept silent. 

And then there's Daelen.

If you asked anyone else, they would probably tell you he's handsome. Flawless skin, long and glossy red hair that's usually pulled away from his face, accentuating his cheekbones. I’ve become familiar with the animosity in his hazel eyes whenever he glares at me. His mouth seems permanently set in a straight line. I'm not even sure if he could smile.

Once I asked Lariel why he hated me so much.

She'd given me a sad look and reached through the bars to touch my shoulder. You are human, she tells me, and I barely understood. To the old ones like Daelen, you do not belong in the wild, Eledh places of the world.

Eledh…

I don't know what she meant by that. It was something she was a part of, something Daelen was a part of. Something the whole city seemed to live and breathe. I could sense it even from my hole underground.

The longer I stay here, the more I know Lariel's right. I'm an outsider. You're right, I'd told Lariel after that. I belong somewhere else. I didn't yet know the word for home. But I think she understood me anyway.

✦

Time feels fluid here, trickling by as slowly as the condensation drips from the rock-studded ceiling. I'm not sure if it’s day or night. The guards change every four hours or so, and that's my only timepiece. 

I'm sitting in a dry corner of my cell, gazing at my shins. I wonder how long my leg hair can possibly get. It's something I've been studying for a week now; my mustache is already pretty impressive. The bottom of my feet are filthy, but I've long since stopped asking when I could have a shower. My skin is greasy and sallow from lack of soap or light, and my locs desperately need a proper retwist.

At least they let me out to go to the bathroom.

At least. This is hell.

Heavy footsteps descend the earthen staircase and I look up just in time to see three guards approaching. Daelen is in front; two others are behind him, one I barely recognize, and the other I'm sure I've never seen before.

The redhead unlocks the cell door and I get to my feet wearily. "Sin manalár?" I ask. It was one of the first phrases I'd learned. What is happening? Or, when said with a bite to your tone, like I have now, what the fuck do you want?

Daelen clicks his tongue against his teeth in disapproval and tells me to turn around. I do so, facing the wall and presenting my back to him. Thank god he can't see the face I'm pulling.

My name's Daelen and I hate women! Neener, neener, neener.

God, I hate this guy so much.

He binds my wrists with a quick knot and I face him again. Though he seems a bit taken aback by my sweet smile, I'm completely undeterred. "De aphed?" I ask, prompting him to answer my question. Lariel wouldn’t do me like this.

Daelen just doesn't want to talk to me. He looks towards the ceiling for a brief moment. I can practically see what he's thinking: get me out of here.

Yeah, me too, pal.

When he answers, I catch one word that I recognize: Eldatár.

Realization dawns on my grubby features, and I wonder if I should be afraid.

I'd heard the term thrown around by the guards before. It was always spoken with reverence, with quiet respect.

Before I can speak, Daelen grasps my bicep, leading me out of the cell. One of the guards standing there gives me a look. I stick out my tongue. A smile twitches at his lips, and he unclasps the cloak around his shoulders, throwing it over mine.

It smells reminiscent of pine needles and dirt. But it definitely smells better than me. From Daelen's expression, I'm pretty rank. I mumble a thank-you to the guard and snuggle into the warmth of the cloak.

The stairs I'm ascending are the same ones I came down a few weeks ago. I'm grateful to see the light from the torches, even if I'm not too happy about my close proximity to Daelen – or the weapons that the two men behind me are bearing. Seriously. Who even uses spears anymore?

The Eldatár – as far as I can figure – must be the leader of this freaky cult. With each climbing inch, I feel more and more sick to my stomach.

This has been a long time coming. Bile swells in my stomach from the nerves. 

But I’d do anything to get out of the cell.

Indescribable happiness washes over me when I feel the sun bursting on my face. We'd finally emerged from the staircase corridor and into a bright hall. I ignore the chatter and stares of green- and gray-clad people as I take a step towards the beam of light streaming between two pillars.

Daelen pulls me back. I utter an affronted squeak, and give him a rude look. "Give me a minute," I snap at him in English.

The male doesn't listen. I knew he wouldn't understand. And I have to force myself to walk away from the sunlight.

Daelen's tone is enough to keep my feet moving. He's never liked me, but now his voice is as sharp as a knife as he heeds me to keep moving.

This guy… I really don't like this fucking guy.

The first time we stop is in front of a huge pair of ornate wooden doors. Four guards stand here, backs straight and chins jutting forward. None of them look at me. I'm not sure whether it's by choice or duty. The doors are pushed open with an ear-shattering creak. I would cover my ears if my hands weren’t restrained.

The room I step into is breathtaking. A floor carved of green marble, imitating a forest pool, stretches before me. Light bounces off of it from a massive, arching skylight sixty or seventy feet above our heads. A staircase leads the eye from where we stand to a pedestal.

My lips part in shock.

They gave this guy a throne.

The Eldatár is sitting on, I shit you not, a throne that imitates tree limbs twisted together. When Daelen moves me forward, I pick out more details: the silvery fabric draping his lithe body. The way he lounges with one leg crossed over the other, his ringed fingers tapping against his cheek. Those gray eyes that seem to pierce directly into my soul.

I don't even have to be told to drop to my knees. My legs seem to give out. This, I know, is the man that holds my life in his hands. Even with my head bowed, I can feel his eyes on my neck.

I'm scared to breathe as I listen to Daelen speak. The man on the throne gives an answer.

I don't want to look up, so my eyes stay focused on his boots. After a few moments of baited breath, I realize that the room's gone quiet. The atmosphere presses down on me. My heart skips a beat; I glance to Daelen. He's the last person who would help me if I needed it, but it's a force of habit. I don't know what to do. He stares back at me, arms crossed. I search his face for any sign or hint of command and find nothing.

Oh.

Was I supposed to say something?

This is my karma for not listening. I gather the courage to speak. My voice cracks in the middle of my question. "Please. Repeat?"

God, they're going to think I'm so stupid. I feel like crying. From fear or frustration or both.

At least crying is better than shitting my pants, right?

Daelen reiterates the question, slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a child. "Ammanech imi Taur-nu-fuin?" His irritation is more obvious now than ever.

Taur-nu-fuin – that's this place. Not the city, but the forest that surrounds it. Lariel had told me that. She thought the place was beautiful. I think it's a dumpster fire. 

He asked me why I was here, and I don’t know if they’ll believe me. I shake my head. "I don't know." An easy, simple phrase. I shift on my knees. The rustle behind me tells me that the guards are reaching for their daggers, but Daelen stops them with a look. "Boom. Here." I shrug, my voice quiet as I continue.

The Eldatár leans forward slightly. I don't look him in the eyes, but my spirits soar at even just a little hint of interest. Because that means it's not the end of the road for me. Please, god, you'll let me live, right?

I need to see my mom again.

Daelen fires off several more questions. Navanech tomo? Ammanech ava-ephed Westron? Carissech Mithrandir?

The last one catches me off guard. I'd heard his name before, carelessly tossed around by the guards outside my cell. I still have no idea who he is – if he’s a god, or some higher power than the Eldatár sitting before me, or what.

He seems important.

I waste no time.

"Yes," I blurt out, and for the first time since I'd met him, Daelen seems floored. He turns to the Eldatár, and they have a quiet conversation in voices too hushed for me to hear. When he turns back to me…

"We will see," he says, tight-lipped and unamused. "If this holds true for you."

The Eldatár flicks his wrist.

A guard steps up from behind, lifts the edge of the cloak, and slices the rope binding my hands together. I rub the sore skin, not yet understanding what's going on. I'm scared to stand, and my only option is to listen to Daelen's debate with the man on the throne. Hesitant and questioning on the former's part, steady and sure on the latter. It ends with the guard from before – the one who'd given me his cloak – grasping my shoulder, giving me silent permission to rise. I do so, nodding my head to him in thanks.

Daelen inclines his head to me. "Lariel will take you to i glûdhsam." Before I can ask him what he means, he's leading me towards the door, and once he's dumped me outside, he's gone.

Lariel's waiting there, though. She has a soft smile on her face when she sees me, and I can’t help myself as a similar grin of relief spreads over my lips. She takes my hand, rubbing her thumb over my knuckles. "Ai, Leoma. Are you alright?" "

No," I say quietly, avoiding her gaze. I don’t like the way they’re filled with mirth, as if she’s laughing at me for my tears. Her pale hand squeezes mine in response. "You will be soon. Come with me." 

I don’t want to follow, but I have little choice. As we walk, I realize that this corridor isn’t familiar. And it’s clear we aren't going back to the dungeons.

The hallway she leads me down angles upwards, and as we walk, the atmosphere seems to become brighter. It seems warmer and more welcoming, like the torchlight itself is dancing on the walls. I peek into a few of the rooms that we pass. One shows a group of armored individuals talking and laughing; there's beer and cards involved. Another reveals a small office, where a woman is observing maps. She looks up and smiles, inclining her head to Lariel.

Then Lariel turns another corner and pushes open a door. I take a step back as steam – very, very hot steam – billows in my face. I'd been cold for so long that goosebumps pop up on my skin and I shiver out of shock.

"Welcome to i glûdhsam," she says with a smile, ushering me inside. "You may use it whenever you wish."

It's a sauna, or maybe an indoor pool, or both. Then I see the women lounging in the pool of water, clad in towels or barely masked by steam, and I realize what this is: a bathhouse.

Bathhouse.

I try not to get choked up. I'm not used to the whole public showers thing, but I'd been in locker rooms before. I'm not going to be picky.

After a few awkward seconds of standing there, I rid myself of my filthy clothes. They're left in a sad pile at the edge of the pool. I slide into the water, biting down hard on my lip to keep from sighing with relief. It had been so long… so long since I'd felt this warm. I'd almost forgotten how good it feels. Compared to the cold and the filth of the dungeon… this had to be the garden of Eden.

The water envelopes me up to my shoulders, but I duck my head under, leaving myself fully submerged until I was sure the prickling goosebumps had entirely disappeared.

It takes me a few minutes to break from the reverie the heat has me in. I have a lot of work to do. There's a fine layer of dirt on my skin which I meticulously scrub off until every inch is flushed and clean. My hair… is an entirely different matter. Wet and thick, it hangs heavily around my shoulders. I can't use soap on it, and the bathhouse is entirely filled with white women. There definitely aren't going to be any specialty products here.

One of the girls must see me hunting for some shampoo, because she paddles over and presses a bottle into my hand. Normally I would be a little shocked if a naked woman gave me something, but I give her a quiet thank you. Uncorking the bottle, I conduct a quick sniff test. Smells like hibiscus – strong and acrid – and something I can't place. Once I massage it through my thick curls and rinse my hair clean, though, I'm pleased with how my hair feels. Fresh and damply tangled, thick, lustrous. Beautiful.

I discover that, once I've left the pool, Lariel laid out a fresh set of clothes for me: a tunic, pants, and leather boots. The soft fabric slithers over my skin, and I cinch the leather belt around my waist. It's thin but warm, and above all, clean. I don't even miss my booty shorts at all. Lariel's waiting outside. When I join her, she gives me a kind smile. Those seem to come as naturally to her as breathing. Though somewhat hesitant of her intentions, I return her smile, showing my thanks. "How do I look?"

"Clean," she responds, her laugh tinkling in the corridor. "Now, you must want sleep?"

In a real bed? With covers? I dare not hope. But I nod vigorously, and follow her once more down the hall.

The room she gives me is tiny. Really tiny, with a bed pushed into one corner, a small wardrobe against the wall at the end of the bed, and a window above a table beside the bed. She stays long enough to ask me if I'm comfortable here.

I think I say yes; I'm too busy kicking off my boots and grasping at the blanket covering the bed. She's gone before my head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR.

If my mother were here, she'd be shocked. Her only daughter, dry heaving on the ground as I recover from what a five-mile run through dense forest. You'd think I had been chased.

No, I wasn’t chased. I was just trying to keep up with them. There's something otherworldly about their stamina, keeping up their speed as they run - like deer - through barely-there forest paths. They know their way back like homing pigeons, whereas I... it's only a matter of time before I get lost on one of these morning runs. And knowing them, they wouldn't bat an eye.

This is what they call training?

These were the conditions of my release from the dungeon: I'm under the watch of Taur-nu-fuin's guard. If they're trying to be lowkey about it, it doesn't work very well. I feel eyes on the back of my neck wherever I go. Lariel's kind as ever - keeping pace with me on the morning run, giving her regrets when she has to leave, and catching up with me in time for meals. The rest of the elves..

Oh, yeah. About that.

I feel more nauseous as I remember. It was when I'd asked Lariel why everyone's ears were pointed, and she'd looked at me in disbelief for a few minutes. Then she'd explained what she was. What everyone here was. Immortal. Undying. The word for their species was edhel. She had told me the difference between us: I was fíreb - human. That’s why everyone treats me with suspicion, like I'm an intruder. Why I'd had bows drawn on me that morning, weeks ago, when I'd opened my eyes in this forest.

Even the forest seems to be pushing me out sometimes, as if it knows I don't belong here. Like I'm breathing the wrong air. Just this morning, I'd come back - maybe the better term is stumbled back - to a few elves sticking around in the training yard, giving me condescending looks. It was like they'd expected me to get eaten back there.

Or worse.

There's always a worse in situations like this.

I avoid the judgmental gazes of the elves as I wipe sweat from my brow and push myself to my feet with a grunt. "Don't talk to me," is the first sentence out of my mouth.

Ettrian, whose mouth gapes like a fish and then slowly curls into a smile, dips his head towards me. "You must have the ears of an owl if you could hear me approaching, Leoma. Are you walking away from me?"

I am. Ettrian is... it's hard to explain Ettrian. He's tall, handsome in the annoying way that ellyn tend to be. His shoulder-length, burnished auburn hair is tied back behind his pointed ears, and his glittering smile betrays sharp, white teeth. Green eyes twinkle with mirth at my expense.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say he likes me. He's always following me around. Something about fíreb - about me - is funny to him. Why else would he always be laughing at me?

You know it's rough when this guy and Lariel are the only two people who talk to you.

"Yeah, I am," I say over my shoulder. My thighs burn from the exercise, but I force myself forward. The power of my thirst is quickly overcoming the weakness in my legs. 

The fountain of bubbling spring water we use to drink is surrounded by a few elves in armor. All of them are pretty, but one stands out with brilliant golden hair and a thin circlet resting on his brow.

Legolas. He's always hanging around, so I've gotten used to him. He's kind - his blue eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles - but... he's still the same man who'd pointed an arrow at my throat the morning I arrived here.

I square my shoulders and march towards them. I would normally be shy around them, but I refuse to show any signs of weakness in front of Ettrian. It's like the advice for bears: just slowly walk away.

I know he's following me, though, because after I push my way through the ring of elves and dish a ladleful of water, he sits on the edge of the fountain, hands resting against the rim, and face tilted up towards me. "You shouldn't ignore your golodh, Leoma. What would our prince say of this behavior?"

The son of the Eldatár - Legolas - doesn't seem to be paying attention to us. My eyebrows crease, and I cast a brief look to Ettrian. "He'd probably say you're being a.. an ass." I say, the latter part in English. Nobody's taught me Sindarin swear words yet... which is probably good. Could delicate Elvish ears even handle the sordid bog-water I spit half of the time?

Probably not.

From the way Ettrian is looking at me, I think he's understood my meaning. He opens his mouth to speak, then appears to rethink his decision. And then, after a few seconds: "I'd think he'd rather suggest you wash your mouth. Let's ask him."

"No!" I fling my hands towards him, as if that'll stop the redhead from speaking any further.

It doesn't.

"Legolas!" Ettrian calls, dodging me, his own hands cupped around his mouth. The prince is standing just feet away, and hesitates a few minutes before turning to us. My gaze immediately falls to the ground - focusing on the toes of his shiny boots. It's a habit; I don't like looking him in the eye.

It's not that he's unkind, or even ugly. God, the opposite. He has the handsome, chiseled face of an actor - angular and masculine - but that's what makes him intimidating. His body shadows the pair of us - Ettrian and I - as he approaches. I'm not small by any means, but like most edhel, he's over six feet.

I bend my torso forward. A bow is the common form of respect here - although not everyone gives Legolas that privilege. Ettrian doesn't. But as he's said to me, the pair of them have run around together since they were kids. Two thousand years ago, or something.

If he really expects me to believe that.. no. It's too much.

"Is training faring well?" Legolas asks Ettrian, the braids in his hair swinging slightly as he looks at me. "Leoma, are you alright?"

"Yes," Ettrian says impatiently, clapping his hand against my shoulder. I emit a noise somewhere between a squawk and a sob. "She always looks like she has a toad stuck in her mouth. Unfortunate, isn't it?"

I want to hit him back, but that probably wouldn't be a good move in front of the prince. As painful as it is to admit, Ettrian's probably right. I'm not happy here, so why would I look like I am? I just know that my expression has turned even more sour, and I give him a glare evil enough to kill. He doesn't shrink back. I'll have to work on that.

The look Legolas gives him, however, does make him shut his fat mouth. I find a newfound respect growing in me for the prince, but not enough to make me forgive him. He glances back at me, his pale eyes meeting mine, and offers me an apologetic smile. It falters when I don't return the expression. "I am glad you summoned me, though, Leoma," he starts, and I say, "But I didn't," and Ettrian holds back a snort. Legolas takes it in stride. "Having spoken with Daelen and the guard leaders, we have determined you will be quite ineffectual in the field. Until you are more proficient in weaponry, you will be assigned to stable duty."

"Perhaps you will be of use then," Ettrian chimes in, and Legolas doesn't correct him. Why would he bother? I am pretty useless. "But I doubt it. If you are incapable with a mock sword, how can we trust you with our horses?"

The prince turns on his heel, not unlike the queen bees of my high school, and returns to his group from earlier. I'm flooded with relief: both that he's gone, and that I don't have to deal with sword practice this afternoon.

"Did you even understand what he said?" The redhead next to me asks, reaching for the ladle to scoop water out of the fountain. I sit on the rim, placing my head in my hands. "You're still here?" I grumble in English. I can just tell Ettrian is rolling his eyes. He has a talent for annoying me even when he's out of my line of sight.

But, yes - I had understood what the prince said. There isn't much to do in my free time besides study, and Lariel is a good teacher. I spend a lot of my evenings in the library, poring over books that I can barely read. I had a scrap of paper translating the Tengwar alphabet into English sounds. If I tried hard enough, I could usually get through one chapter a night before bed. I'm glad my speech is improving, because it gives me a chance to tell Ettrian to stick it up his ass.

"Do you want me to go?" Ettrian feigns shock. "It is almost time for me to take up sentry. Shall I show you to the stables before I go?"

I wave him off with a flop of my hand. "Don't bother. I know the way - Lariel showed me."

When I look back at him, he's giving me a lopsided smile. "Be good. Remember, you can only get away with trouble when you're with me."

"Because you're the one causing the trouble," I reply, and he doesn't argue. With a last wave in my direction, he trots off, and I hope I don't see him for hours. Days, if I'm lucky. But I know that won't happen.

After a few more moments of rest, I force myself to stand. My calf muscles ache in protest, but I keep moving, past the elves speaking in low tones, past the training field, and, taking a sharp turn, I enter a deeper part of the city that I'd only been to once.

The stable houses around forty horses, and from what Lariel told me, these horses were only used on expeditions out of Felegoth. Since the city-state didn't trade much with fíreb settlements - part of the reason everyone was so wary of me - the steeds were kept for hunts and for the use of long travel. I knew I was close when I could smell it: the comforting, earthy scent of manure and hay.

My mom had kept a few horses when I was growing up, so I'm glad to be around something familiar. Barns are like my second home. Legolas probably didn't assign me here on purpose, but I thank my lucky stars he did. I'm walking into the warmth and the low rumble of content horses. A few look up at me curiously when I enter. There's nobody else here - just me and them.

I approach the nearest stall slowly and gaze in wonder at the creature within. When I had come here before with Lariel, she'd rushed me through, not given me time to properly say hello. Now I extend my fist towards the mare, admiring her powerfully arching neck as she extends her head towards me. Nostrils expand and warm breath puffs against my skin.

I wish I had a treat to give her. When I mumble, "Sorry, girlie. I'll bring one next time," her eyes gleam with an intelligence not usually found in animals. I rub my hand under her mane one last time before assessing the stables. In the back, I could hear quiet Sindarin and the scrape of pitchforks against hay. I'd later learn that the groom was a man of few words, respectful but not friendly, by the name of Haldôr. I would be his second apprentice - the first being what passed for a teenager in the Edhel species, Gwedhion, a smooth-skinned boy unfairly taller than myself.

Haldôr's way of bossing around was to bark orders at Gwedhion and wait for the boy to pass them on to me. I caught onto this pretty quickly while helping the kid - I could only guess he was somewhere in his two-hundreds, despite looking fifteen, which made me vaguely uncomfortable - and quickly built up a camaraderie with him. Maybe he's scared of me - haven't quite figured it out yet - but he patiently stands there and listens to me coo and gush over the horses that I'm brushing. Haldôr even has to break up a game of flick-the-hoof-clipping between us at one point.

By the time we're dismissed, it's well after sundown, and my feet ache from standing on them nearly all day. I wave goodbye to Gwedhion - he's not a member of the guard, and lives with his parents, which I think is kind of cute for a guy one-hundred and eighty years my senior - and make my way back to the barracks.

Today... I'll be honest. Today wasn't so bad. Compared to yesterday, and the day before - the events of which are proven in the bruises on my arms and shins - I actually.. maybe... had a little fun. Would I let myself admit that? Or maybe the better question was, should I?

As a general rule, I don't really like having fun among people that don't like me. You wouldn’t hang out with someone who had MAGA stickers on the back of their pickup truck and wouldn’t shut up about gun laws, right? Same basic principle. 

But... these people aren't like that. When I enter the dining hall and Lariel sees me, beckoning me over with a gentle wave of her hand, I can admit that much. They're not all that bad.

"Well? Tell me how badly you failed!"

Okay, Ettrian is definitely that bad.

As soon as I sit down across from Lariel, he squishes in the chair beside me, plunking his plate of food down with a thump. Lariel ignores him, bless her heart, and I've already gotten used to doing that. "Good evening, Leoma. Your day went well?"

I pile some food - roast boar, apples, flaky herbed bread - onto my plate and nod. "It did, actually. I enjoyed it." I send a dirty look at Ettrian. He grins through a mouthful of food. This guy must have missed the memo that elves are supposed to be ethereal and polite.

Or maybe he's half Goblin? I haven't figured it out yet.

"Judging by your head on your shoulders, I'd say you impressed Haldôr, too," Ettrian says, picking at his food. Between the two of them - Ettrian and Lariel - I wonder how I ended up attracting them both to me. Kind, pretty Lariel and... this guy.

"Don't listen to him. He's a goat," Lariel says quickly, which sums up my feelings of Ettrian exactly. If there was a more egregious word for him, we all know what I would say.

"Excuse me, I'm right here," Ettrian butts in, waving his fork at us. I wrinkle my nose at his leer. "You're disgusting, you know that?"

From his expression - a closed-lip, smarmy smile to hide the mouthful of food he’s chewing - he does know that. I debate asking Legolas for a new archery teacher, but then I remember how nervous I get, and... maybe that's not a good idea.

So, stuck with the rat it is.

Mealtimes and training aside, I don't have to spend that much time around him. I'm able to fall into a routine: as I build up my endurance on the morning runs, I'm able to get to combat training faster, and then munch on some fruit as I head to the stables - suffer a few hours of Haldôr's drunken, bossy stupor - and, if I have a little time, practice archery before dinner. Then study before bed, and wake up the next morning to do it all over again.

I'm not a girl that likes repetition. But the days dragging by gives me less and less of a chance to think about my circumstances. Sure, the fuckers still exchange bets on whether or not I'll make it back from the morning run. And, yes, I do get into trouble for nailing Ettrian in the butt with a mock arrow.

The horrible truth remains: weeks pass by and I'm no closer to getting back to my family. There's only enough time for me to think about that in the few minutes between my head hitting the pillow and my brain shutting down for the night.

And, sometimes, I'll allow myself to forget that these people aren't human, and that I don't belong among them.

It's easier that way.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE.

I stare at the wooden sword as it arcs through the air and lands in the dust at my feet. Then I look up at the elf who tossed it at me. Tall and muscular, with dark blonde hair pulled away from his face, and green eyes that stare back at me with thinly veiled contempt. 

“Next time, you will catch it.” He says, his voice a deep and authoritative monotone. His name is Curunír, and he doesn’t look happy to be partnered with me. I try not to make a face as I bend down to pick up the wooden hilt. The makeshift blade, crudely made, is light, and when I stretch my arm out to make a playful jab, it adds twenty inches to the length of my reach. 

Curunír smacks the wooden weapon from my hand with his own mock sword. The movement is so fast that I didn’t notice him moving until my sword is in the dirt once more. 

“Hey!” I pick it up again and face him. He begins to circle me, his sword arm stretched downwards, the other folded behind his rigid back. 

“Tighten your grip. Next time, your fingers come off with it.” Curunír responds. 

That seems a little harsh. I turn in a circle, following his movements. My hand grips the handle of the mock sword. “So, what? Do I stab you?” 

“You can try.” Is that a hint of a smile I detect on his lips? 

Challenge accepted. 

I surge forward, thrusting my weapon towards his belly, and he sidesteps. I run right past where he stood, my balance going off-kilter. It’s all I can do not to keep from landing on my face. 

“You are not strong enough to overpower me. Don’t even try.” Curunír says, and I spin to face him, lifting my sword in protection, but he doesn’t attack. “Use your feet, not your arms. Always be aware of the distance between you and your opponent.”

“How much distance?” I’m already winded. 

He chuckles. “If I was you, I would put myself as far as possible from the end of a sword.” As if to emphasize his point, he smacks the flat side of his wooden sword against mine. The impact sends shock down my wrist. I yelp, trying not to drop my weapon. 

“And if that is unavoidable, be quick. It’s harder to hit a moving target.” This time, he hits my ankle. Right on that funny little knob - the one that hurts the most. Tears spring to my eyes and I hop on one foot. “OW! Motherfucker! You fucking… fuckstick!” Every word was in English, but there’s a glint of understanding in his eyes. English or Sindarin, a swear is a swear. 

“Both feet, Leoma. Keep them moving. You are not a tree. Don’t plant roots.” 

I try to follow his movements, dancing from one foot to another. Curunír stays relaxed, his sword arm down. But when I try to hit him, he jabs me in the shoulder, pushing me back. 

“By the gods, Leoma. You block with your sword, not your body. Are you trying to die?” 

If it were a real blade, I would be skewered. I lift my arm limply and bang my wooden sword against his, trying to - unsuccessfully - remove it from my shoulder. “There’s a reason you’re teaching me.” I respond. “So maybe you should do that a little… I don’t know… better?” 

“Yes, and maybe you should try to learn.” Curunír sheathes the practice sword, its blunt edge scraping against the worn leather casing. He holds out his hand expectantly for mine; I pluck the scabbard from the dust and shove the sword into it with some difficulty. “Am I free to go?” I ask sullenly as I wipe my dry palms on my pants, trying to get rid of the gritty feeling that clings to my skin. 

He turns away, giving me a grunt of acknowledgement. I don’t understand Sindarin well, and mediocre groaning noises even less; so I take it as a yes, cut my losses, and leave the training arena. 

After training, I usually wind up in the stables. Not that I mind much. Out of all the places in the citadel, the stables are, as I'm sure I've mentioned, my happy place. It's not like the horses cared what I look like or if I'm an elf or not. They only care whether I'd brought apples with me. 

This time, my hands are empty. Ettrian's are not. 

He stands leaning against a tack wall, munching happily on a bun of some sort, and my stomach grumbles as the smell of fresh-baked bread tickles my nose. I try not to show my jealousy and shoulder past him. "What are you doing here?" I grumble, keeping my voice as deep as I can to hide the tremor of hunger. Those pointy ears hear better than most, though, and I guess he heard enough, because he breaks off half of the bun and hands it to me. 

"Oh, yeah, because I totally want something you slobbered all over." That was in English, and Ettrian cups his ear as he crows, "What was that? Are you complaining, Leoma? I've never been anything but nice to you." 

A baleful look tells him that's a lie and he knows it. I'd use my mouth, but I'm too busy cramming the bread in before he decides to take it from me. You never know with him. 

When I swallow the chunk of bread, I ask again, “What are you doing here? I have to work.” I grab a pitchfork, its handle carved of wood so smooth it never seemed to splinter or depart blisters on my delicate palms, and point it in his direction until he moves out of the way. 

Ettrian spreads his hands, ever the amiable figure. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” 

I lean the pitchfork up against a pillar as I unlatch a stall, leading the horse inside out by her rope halter, murmuring platitudes in her ear as she seems reluctant to leave her stall. Within moments she’s tied outside and I get to work mucking out her box, throwing Ettrian a sullen reply over my shoulder. “How does it look like I’m doing?” 

Training had definitely begun to have an outward effect on me. Besides the muscle gain in my biceps - both archery and stabling had contributed to that - exhaustion hung heavy on my features, my eyes baggy and shadowed, a permanent downward curve on my mouth. I hadn’t been this tired in ages. I don’t think they knew, either; they never seem to get tired. 

But when I glance over at Ettrian again, he doesn’t have a mocking smile on his face. Instead, I see something like sympathy. Wordlessly, he grabs a pitchfork to help me; I don’t try to stop him, pushing my pride away in favor of help. 

For a few minutes we work side by side, scooping the muck into a wagon, replacing her manger with fresh hay, trough with clear water pumped from the river that ran through - underneath? - the city. Once I lead the mare back into her stall and move to the next, Ettrian speaks again.

“I’d like you to come with me tonight.” 

“Where?” I say warily. The work moves much faster when I have someone working beside me; Ettrian isn’t lazy, either. He seems to pull his weight. He didn’t make it a contest, either. For a man who knows how many centuries old, he seems to have grown up a little in the past few weeks. Even so, I’m not too excited to run off with him. 

“A bânruist,” he says, and I falter for only a few seconds before returning to my work. That’s an unfamiliar word. Of course I want to know what it means, unless it’s bad, in which case ignorance is most certainly bliss. 

But Ettrian is perceptive. He stops raking, leaning on his hayfork, and lets out a huff. “How do I explain this?” he mutters under his breath. “I’m not a teacher.” 

“Don’t bother, then.” Wooden wheels creak and scrape against stone as I drag the muck wagon out of the stall, before filling my arms with hay and dropping it in the stall. 

“No, no, I must. You must - come with me, I mean.” Ettrian moves out of my way, bless his heart, and grabs a bucket of water. “A bânruist is a gathering of friends. We build a great fire, where we sit and sing songs, eat and drink. Merry-making, really. Quite exclusive.” 

I only knew that word - exclusive - because I’d heard it before, been teased with it before. Now I have the decency to flush. “Then why are you inviting me?” 

“Because you’re my friend, Leoma.” 

I turn away so that he can’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. I don’t even know why he was drawing this kind of reaction from me. He’d never made me feel like a friend. He’d always been hanging around me, making fun of me, making fun of my human-ness. For all of that, he has the good graces to look guilty, waiting there for me to answer. 

“Fine.” I say, focusing on the horse I’m working with rather than looking at him. Out of everyone, I don’t want him to see my red, wet eyes. “Where is it?” 

He waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, you would never find it without me. I’ll be waiting when you’re done here. Sunset. Meet me?” 

I only nod - reluctantly, feeling as if he’s dragged me into some sort of cannibalistic ritual - and wait until I know he’s left the stable before I bury my face in Calroc’s bushy mane and take several deep breaths. Whatever happened, I would be fine. I wouldn’t let him - them - get to me. 

And no matter how badly I want to go back to my room, I’m at the door of the stables when the warm yellow light of the sun disappears behind the thick, towering trees, casting shadows across Felegoth. Ettrian is waiting for me, no longer wearing the green uniform of the guards but a light-colored tunic and dark green surcoat over breeches that bespoke warmth and comfort to his irritatingly shapely legs. I begin to feel self-conscious about my own uniform - and the reek that accompanies it. 

“There you are.” he says, sticking his elbow out. Trying to be gentlemanly, I guess. I ignored his proffered arm and fall into step behind him. “Is it far? This bânruist or whatever?” I try not to sound too interested. He’d mentioned food, and I’m always hungry. 

“A short walk,” he promises, looking rather embarrassed as his arm straightens and returns to his side. “Just outside the city.” 

We’re walking through the open-air corridors now, and as we approach the outer gate, my heart rose into my throat. “Out there?” I remember, all too well, my first night out there in the woods. I’m not too eager to return. I’d heard - more than once - that there’s more than just wolves in those woods. I’m not sure what, but I don’t want to be stuck there, especially with this guy as backup. 

“Are you scared?” He taunts, and then, seeing my face, drops his smile. “It’s not far, Leoma. Look, you can see the fire.” 

He’s right - there’s a glow through the trees, and with the wind comes the scent of cooking meat. I still feel uneasy. It’s almost too much like that night. The phantom fires, the faint voices and laughter. Except this time, when I enter the circle, it doesn’t disappear. 

Firelight dances merrily on many faces - some I recognize, most unknown to me. There are logs stacked high in a bonfire half as tall as me; a pig is roasting on a spit and elves are passing around wine to drink straight out of the bottle. The warmth of the fire brings with it a comforting embrace, and I sit down on a log next to Lariel and an elleth that I don’t know. 

“Drink for the newcomers!” The elleth shouts, and Lariel nudges my shoulder. I glance over at her as she says quietly, “Welcome to our ruimen, Leoma.” 

“Ruimen?” I repeat, returning her smile tentatively. A jug of wine is thrust into my hands and I raise it to my lips. It fills my mouth with sweetness - almost like corn syrup - and then burns like hellfire down my throat. I reel back and start spluttering. The elf-maiden who’d handed me the alcohol starts pounding my back with her fist, her laugh joining the many others. 

“Ceuránsuc! Your first taste of many.” She winks at me. Red-faced and dazed, I shake my head, passing it along. “Th… thanks. I think.” I have the urge to rub my tongue to try to alleviate the burning. “Who.. who are you?” 

“Rovain, wife of the wilds and lover of wine,” she crows, looking quite amused with my reaction to the drink. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the taste. More?” 

“No.” I shake my head. Fervently. Then I ask Lariel, again, “What’s a ruimen?” 

Her green eyes dance, and she points at the fire. No, not at the fire itself, but at it all. The elves, the merriment, the… whatever ceuránsuc is. “This. Friends sharing food and drink. The ruimen is our safety, and we are each other’s protection.” 

Something settles in my chest. For once, not a bad feeling. I try to shake off the chill tickling at the back of my mind - I’m always anxious these days - and the next time the bottle of ceuránsuc is passed around, I take a full draught. In the absence of Friday night ragers back home, I might have become a bit of a lightweight. 

The pork is carved over the fire and, paired with the drink, tastes succulent and sweet, with hints of onion and wild herbs. I eat more than my fill of it, and when all that remains on the spit is bones, I lean back, settling all my weight on my elbows. The conversation is now dying down to a hush. Rovain had vacated her seat next to me to sit head-against-head with another elf, and Ettrian takes her spot. 

I try not to look at him, but a small smile tickles my lips. He’d pretty much ignored me the whole time - until now, when the embers are dying low and a tall blonde named Fierdan settles a harp on his knees. 

“Are they going to start singing?” I ask in a hushed voice, trying not to disturb the delicate elf ears that seem to pick up a pin drop in the middle of a forest. Ettrian nods, leaning forward until his elbows rest on his knees. “Trading songs around a ruimen is a very old Elvish tradition. Listen.” 

Fierdan plucks a few mournful strings on his harp, and then the song begins. First it’s only his voice, orotund and ringing through the trees. It’s almost like I can see the notes of his words mingling with the smoke as it floats high, higher, and disappears into the night sky. 

Oh, moon of silver light, high up in the sky tonight, gazing upon us from above. How far can you see from the sky?

Other voices join, deep, high, low and gravelly, clear as a bird’s song. Ettrian doesn’t, but his eyes seem lost in the dull red of the coals. I follow his gaze, but I can’t see what he’s seeing. 

Can you see the forest of Neldoreth, where I once danced to a flute unseen? Can you see all of Doriath where Thingol once was king? 

It doesn’t feel like a song . No, it’s deeper than that. They sing with the reverence of having lost someone, or some place , and yet it’s not a hymn. It’s a history - their history. 

Can you see all of Beleriand? From green Hisslum to cold Ossiriand? From east to west, from north to south, what do your eyes encompass? 

And can you see, o trusted Moon, across the sea, into the West? The land to where my people go, the land in which the Deathless go ?

Ettrian drags his eyes to me then, as they sing of Lorien and nightingales and twilight trees. I have a pit in my stomach. Deathless. It’s still so hard for me to believe that this man in front of me, with his idiotic smiles and stupid jokes, hasn’t aged in centuries. Would never age. 

To him, I’m no more than a blip in his life. 

I shouldn’t care about that. About how long it would take him to forget me. 

Amidst the trees and Irmo’s bloom across Lorellin ever-sweet, her singing sounds forever there. But not to me, o Moon so fair.

One by one, the voices fade off as the elves drop their singing, and Fierdan’s fingers pluck another, more upbeat tune. 

Ettrian chuckles and lifts his thumb to the corner of my eye, rubbing away a stubborn tear. I’d tried - and obviously failed - to keep them from escaping. “It is not so mournful as that, is it? It’s a love story.” 

“About who?” I keep my voice even - try to - as I swat away his hand and rub my eyes myself. Ettrian laughs at me. Again. “It is the song of Thingol and Melian. Melian was a Maia - “ “A what now?” (He ignores me.) “ - whose singing was renowned in Valinor.” “Where?” He pushes me a little at that, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Quiet. Let me finish.” Ettrian’s eyes dance with amusement. “Her singing was renowned in Valinor, and she filled the silence of Middle-earth as she taught the birds to sing.” 

“Sounds like a great lady.” 

“A great king, Elwë, entered the enchanted forest where she dwelt, and, enchanted by her voice, he became forgetful of his purpose. When he came upon her, he took her hand, and a spell was set upon them so that he forgot his people, and he abided by her for many years. When he finally returned to his people, he found that many had sought Valinor in his absence, but those who stayed built the kingdom of Doriath and became the Sindar of Middle-Earth. And Melian became his queen.” 

Sindar. Sindarin. I stare at my hands, then at him. “Was he your king?” 

Ettiran’s somewhat wistful look drops from his face and he lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Gods! No. Do you think me that old?” 

“I don’t know,” I mutter in response, kind of embarrassed now. A light punch on my shoulder shows me he means no harm. Well, maybe no insult. Now I’m sore, and I stick my tongue out in distaste as I rub my shoulder. “So what’s a Maia?” 

He pauses, as if finding the words. “Someone who came before the elves. Ancient and powerful. Helped shape our world.” 

Like a god? I’m not sure. Does that exist here? I should take it with a grain of salt, but then again, I was in the presence of immortals. 

Then he claps his hands, a sharp noise that causes me to jump in surprise, and stands, offering me his hand. “The hour grows late, and you have training tomorrow. I’ll walk you back.” 

“I don’t need help,” I grumble, but take his hand anyway, and our shoulders brush as we leave the circle. “Ah, but I can’t have our little human getting lost in the woods and getting eaten by ungol , can I?” 

“What?” He’s too busy laughing as the color drains from my face and, impatient for an answer, I push him. “Ungol? What the fuck is that?” In the absence of Sindarin swears, one must use English. I’m pretty sure Ettrian’s clued in on its meaning by now. 

“Nothing, it’s nothing. You’ll likely never see one.” He wipes tears from his cheeks and deposits me at the wooden door of my room. I’d barely even noticed we’d walked that far until now. My cheeks are still dusty pink from the bonfire and Ettrian’s relentless (read: very stupid) teasing. 

“Well, here I am.” I fiddle with the knob of my door, palms just a bit too sweaty to get a good grip. A slight whisper of cloth, and his hand rests on top of mine, opening it. “There you are,” he confirms. “Good night, Leoma.” 

I hate him. I hate him, more than anything. He acts like a total dick, every time I see him. And he made me blush . Fuck that guy. 

He’d already turned to leave, so, gods be good, he doesn’t actually see the rush of blood to my face. I wait until he’s turned the corner and is out of sight before I slam the door of my room behind me and rest against it with the sagging shoulders of someone who’s lived a hundred years. 

The moon is especially bright tonight, casting its beams on the wooden floor and edge of my bed. Robotically, systematically, I go through the motions: undressing to the light undershirt and knee-length pants that passed for undies, running a cloth over my face from the basin in the corner, brushing my teeth with rough linen bound to a wooden handle, then collapsing on my bed.

I fall asleep dreaming of enchanted forests and an Elf entranced by a song.

Ai Ithil! Or chîth hwiniol
vi Menel i thamas haered
bo vâd uial athradol
man hae pelil ennas cened?

Pelil cened an Neldoreth?
Lilthassen nef i hîr glavrol ...
Pelil cened na Doriath,
i arnad i Elu Thingol?

Pelil cened Beleriand?
O Hithlum ring na Forodwaith?
Na nan galen, Ossiriand:
pan i ennor in Elenwaith?

A cenil aen, Ithil sadar,
athan aear, ned Annûn fain?
I vardor idh rodyn aglar
a dhôr edhil telyg ammain?

Ennas dhôr hen, mellon anann,
vi Lórien, gelaidh olthar
vi 'wath ferin ah mallorn brann
lastol i merilin linnar?

Ae linnar aen, si hain linnar
na Melian, i rîn aglar?
Udul he ad na Valimar
ab Thingol gwannas i amar.

Min gelaidh ah lyth olthiel
merilin linnathar ammain,
or nen Lorellin miriel:
úlastathon, a Ithil vain.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX.

"Ugh," I groan, and it's about the only sound I can force out of my deflated lungs. My sparring partner, Curunír, is crouched near me. I can feel his bemused stare, but I don't really want to pay attention to him right now. As soon as I show signs of life, he'll probably force me back into training. That's the thing with elves: they think everyone can swing a sword for three hours and like it.

I'd been in melee combat for exactly that long, right after I'd dragged myself from archery - and the morning run before that. Less than ten minutes ago, I'd decided to collapse in the middle of the training field and wait for death to take me. It didn't surprise Curunír - the swordsman I'm learning from - although as the seconds tick by, I can tell he's getting annoyed. Elves have a vibe. It's like pheromones - but instead of the sexy kind of fuck you, it's the asshole kind.

"Will you be sleeping there, too?" Curunír asks me, his voice droning from three feet away and still, somehow, too loud. I raise myself up on one elbow, cocking my eyebrow at him. "Why? You think that's a good idea?"

He wrinkles his nose and doesn't answer. Another thing about elves: there's no middle ground with their humor. Either it's nonexistent, or you get... Ettrian. And I don't even think Ettrian is trying to be funny half of the time... he's just like that.

Everyone needs a flaw!

I haul myself to my feet. My knees crack in protest, despite my tender age of twenty-three. I stagger a little, ignoring Curunír's extended hand. I'll be dead before I accept help from an elf.

No, that's not true. I'm way too self-preserving.

"Give me a minute," I tell him, holding up my hands in surrender. "I just want water. Then I'll be back."

The water fountain is pretty popular today. There's a hierarchy within the guard: the nobles - those that stand at the helm and order you around - and then the captains, then the senior members, and then the recruits. And then you have me. The token human. The pincushion.

The people here today? I don't recognize them, and I don't care to get to know them. Elves come helpfully color-coded. Those from around here tend to dress in greens and browns - natural, woodsy tones that seem to fade into the background. Today I see something new: dark blue, silver, white. Robes more refined and elegant, suited for courtrooms rather than training fields.

I don't want to stare too long, so I avert my gaze and reach for a dipper. The clean water slides down my throat, moistening my dry tongue. I smack it against the roof of my mouth in satisfaction. I'll say what I will about Felegoth, but god, the water sure is crisp.

"Ah, Leoma!"

Oh, no. Do I still have time to run away? I try to savor another dipperful of water, but there's only so much you can do when the prince is calling your name. Legolas, yes. He's here again today, and when I look over, he has his arm raised, hailing me towards him. I hesitate a minute too long and the mild blue-gray of his eyes begins to harden like steel: a clear warning to me.

With a sigh and dragging feet, I cross over to him and the circle of edhil around him. There are five in total, two blonde and three with dark heads of hair. A pair of them are obviously brothers, given how they're identical. "Yes, ernil vuin?" I tilt my torso forward in the barest minimum of a bow. It's good enough. I'm not doing anything more than the bare minimum for a white man.

"This is the hiril firya our guard boasts of," Legolas tells his friends. I don't think boast is the right word. With creeping horror, I realized it was meant in the way of possession, not pride. It was easy to forget that. I can see the sunshine now, I'm not stuck behind bars - but I'm not free.

I suddenly felt very sick. Racial bias had long been a part of my life. I was a young mixed girl in the South. I hadn't been lucky enough to avoid racism there. And I'd read the history books. What does that make me? They don't force me, really - I haven't had a weapon pointed at myself since day one - and nobody's ever made a comment on my skin color. Just my species.

One thing is certain: I'm not going to let myself play this game and lose. I won't be a victim.

But I still find myself bowing in the direction of the five other elves. "It's an honor to meet you. I am Leoma." I keep my voice level, but I'm afraid it comes off more monotone and disinterested than anything else, because Legolas shoots me a concerned look and then finishes cheerfully, "In the short time she has been training under our guard, she's advanced well in archery and language."

What is he trying to say? Now I'm confused. Everyone knows I'm not great at archery. He's... oh. He's trying to make us both look good. I'm not so sure it works. One of the dark-haired elves says, "Then perhaps she would be better suited to bookkeeping than patrol." He glances at his friends. "We all saw her on the field just now, yes?"

I step forward, proverbial hackles raised. I might not have been the best on the field, but for the past month, I'd worked too hard to be blindsided like that. Legolas puts a hand on my shoulder. It's not very comforting, but it succeeds in pulling me back. "My captains and I will be the judge of her ability," he replies, his voice none too curt. I might have thanked him, but we're not best friends, or friends at all for that matter. I still haven't decided yet if I like anyone here.

"Then, tell us," the blonde insists. "Where did you find her? What value does a human have to the Elvenking?"

Wouldn't I like to know, buddy.

"Nauthril, shut up."

That was one of the brothers - once again I'm assuming they're brothers, since they have the same face - and his tone carries more authority than I'd given him credit for. "Can you not hear yourself? You sound hedge-born. If you're going to speak to the Prince in such a manner, at least do it where nobody else can see him strike you."

That is the absolute hardest insult I'd ever heard in Sindarin, which is, by default, a very elegant and respectful language. I'm speechless for a few seconds, and I think Nauthril is, too. The dark-haired male steps towards me, extending his hand. "Forgive me. I am Elladan, son of Elrond Peredhel. Some elves cannot help but be curious of mortal folk, and they often forget they have ears, too."

Still speechless, I grasp Elladan's hand in greeting. His father's name - Elrond Peredhel - I know what that means. Half-elven. It doesn't slip past me that this man might have human blood in him. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. He doesn't seem any different from the other edhel I know, or am currently surrounded with. But something about his grip sends warmth into my bones. Assurance. Maybe even a sense of fellowship.

His brother reaches past him, grabbing my other hand enthusiastically. "And I am Elrohir. It's an honor to meet you, Leoma."

"Are you twins?" I ask curiously, and the pair share a look. They must have gotten that question a lot in the past several centuries.

"No relation," Elrohir replies as they step back, sliding his arm amicably around Elladan's shoulders. "I do not even think we look alike. Do you, Elladan?"

I glance at Legolas for help. He purses his lips in a thin line. "When you are done with your little jokes, we still have the matter of the hunt at hand."

That's my cue to leave. Hunt is a familiar word, and I don't really care to stick around to find out what the prey is. Unfortunately, when I turn, someone's hand snags the back of my tunic. I shriek, curse in English, and catch sight of a rather guilty-looking twin. Elrohir or Elladan, I couldn't tell you which.

"You are leaving?" He sticks out his lower lip in a poor imitation of a pout. "I thought you were rather the center of attention. Besides, what would your prince think?"

I didn't think I had to ask to be excused, but I roll my eyes and turn to Legolas. "I'll let you get back to... uh, the hunt. May I go?"

Bless his heart, Legolas gives me a terse nod. He's kept his arms crossed over his chest. Usually a pretty easygoing guy, I can tell his patience is wearing thin. Elladan and Elrohir seem a bit too... peppy for the shadowed, somber forest and the elves that dwell within.

That makes them okay in my book. But not enough for me to stick around. And I definitely don't want to be here when Legolas blows his top. I've never seen it in person, but the horror stories Ettrian gives me? It's enough to curdle milk.

I trudge back over to Curunír. He's tying his hair back, ready to get back in the thick of it. Handing me my wooden blade, he commands, "Stance one." I shift my weight on to bent knees, feeling more like a refrigerator than a person.

The leather grip of the pretend weapon feels clammy in my hand, but I parry a strike from the elf. It leaves me stumbling, my sword arm drooping like a limp noodle.

"On your guard," Curunír reminds me. His left arm is behind his back, like this is the easiest thing in the world for him. God, what a show off. I sweep my sword in a wide arc in front of me. Mistake one: losing my balance and falling on my ass. Mistake two: grabbing Curunír on the way down.

With a heavy grunt from the elf and a pathetic little shriek from me, we land on the ground in a tangle of limbs. My cheek is pressed into the dirt, and the heavy weight on my ribs must be Curunír, if the colorful swearing from the region between my shoulder blades and my tailbone is any indication.

"Maybe that's it for today..." he mumbles, almost to himself, picking himself up and dusting sand from his collar. Of course he does. It's not like my company is sought after around here. But I couldn't be happier. My smile - probably an insult to the juxtaposition of Curunír's disgruntled frown - is offered along with my hand for him to shake.

"So, I'm free, then?" I ask, grasping his wrist and shaking it vigorously. It's an elvish gesture that means, good game. You've done well. In my case? Not so much. But Curunír, his grasp rather limp, doesn't seem to want to argue.

"Yes." He slides his wooden blade in the sheath tied at his belt and holds his other hand out for mine. I respond in kind, handing him the weapon, and turn around to leave.

"Wait, Leoma."

I look over my shoulder, flashing a toothy smile in the direction of my teacher. "Yeah?"

"You did well today." He's not looking at me - instead dusting off his hands, gathering the mock weapons we use to train with, fixing his hair. He’s stingy with his compliments - actually, I can’t remember the last thing he said something nice about me. Why, I’m practically giddy with excitement.

"If you say so, Curunír." My wide grin hasn't disappeared. I wipe a bead of sweat from my temple and offer him another bow. He only gives me a glance in return, and a nod that signifies I can leave, before I turn around - again - to leave.

I stuff my hands in the deep pockets of my trousers. Thank fuck for medieval pockets. They're roomy, creating a deep cocoon for my sweaty palms. Stable duty's next - which I look forward to, even though Haldôr will be there... and I'm not eager to get yelled at... again.

So I take my time, walking rather slowly along the familiar path, soaking up the miniscule amount of sun that makes it through the tree cover and letting my bones rest. But as soon as I'm close enough to smell the stables, I'm also close enough to hear the clamor inside. Many voices messily entwining Sindarin into something that I couldn't possibly understand. I hold back for a few minutes, and then brace myself to enter.

It’s loud. There must be… over a dozen - twenty? - elves moving around the stable, tacking their chosen horses, chatting loudly with each other. I pick up the words the hunt and something about favorable winds and realize this is what Legolas had been talking about. Nobody bothered to tell me about it, though (cough, Haldôr is a bad boss, cough). 

What am I even supposed to do? There’s barely enough room to maneuver through the stable, with all of the horses and people blocking my way, and I’m starting to feel nervous, because only one thing is worse than the Greenwood elves - and that would be strange elves. The ones that I don’t know. The ones dressed in silver and blue, like that asshole Nauthril from earlier. 

“Stable hand!” Someone calls and I twitch, realizing they’re hailing me. A tall, dark-haired elf hands me the reins of a stallion called Gwaedal. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? He gives me a strange look. My bad - I didn’t mean to give him the stink eye, but I’m not his servant. 

“It grows too loud here. Tie him up in the yard,” he explains impatiently. “Can you hear, girl?” 

I smile at him so hard I think I might pop a vein. “Yes, hîr nín.” 

The stallion follows, demure as a puppy, as I lead him outside, both of us thankful for the chance to escape. There are a number of posts in the grassy area outside of the stable, ornate wooden pillars with iron rings to tie reins to. I stop in front of one, and Gwaedal nickers softly, tossing his head. 

“What’s up?” I ask him, placing my hand under his mane and rubbing vigorously. “You didn’t like it in there, huh? All those stinky Elves? I’ve got you now, bud. It’s okay.” 

You know this by now. It’s not that I hate them; it’s just that the vast majority of them... have me on my last tender straw. 

Gwaedal seems to agree with me. His fuzzy lips nudge my shoulder, searching for food. I’ve gained a reputation for bringing snacks, I see. “Goof.” I mumble in english. “I’ll have something for you when you come back from the hunt.” 

The hunt.

A chill shudders up my spine and I look back at the door of the stable, where Elves are still gathering within. Then at Gwaedal, who stares at me expectantly with docile eyes. 

It takes two seconds for me to place my foot in the wooden stirrup and swing up on his broad back. 

How long had it been since I’d been on horseback? Doesn’t matter. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. I lean forward, pressing my heels against his flank, and give a low whistle. The stallion springs into a brisk trot, then a canter, then a full gallop. 

He knows the path well. Better than I do. One hand grips the pommel of the saddle in front of me, the reins clutched between it and my palm, the other hand wrapped in wiry tendrils of mane; but I don’t have to lead him. He knows exactly where to go. The gates are already open - as they usually remain during the day, allowing the elves to come and go. I’d passed through them just that morning on the daily run. 

This is different. This time, Gwaedal carries me past the trail entrance that curves back around towards the training grounds and into the unfamiliar forest beyond. 

The stallion seemed to be excited that he was able to stretch his legs. As far as I knew, the horses in the stable were used for forest patrol, and that was rare. In any case, it takes a firm tug on the reins to bring Gwaedal to a halt. I don't know how far I am from the gates - probably not far enough.

But now the reality of my decision is catching up to me.

The first night I was here, the forest felt dark and claustrophobic, the very air of it heavy. Now doesn't seem much different. The branches overhead weave a thick cover, and I can barely see the path in front of me. Gwaedal shifts his weight with a soft, impatient huff. I think he's right - we shouldn't stop here. "On, boy." I command, nudging my heels against his sides. He starts again, this time at a slow walk, the only sounds that surround us being his hoofbeats and my shaky breaths.

And the wind whispering through the branches. It sounds like a quiet voice, a hiss on the air, and it smells like mold and foul things.

How could Felegoth be so warm and happy when it lurks at the center of such a terrible place? If I look closely enough, I can see the forest decaying around me. A dead tree here, mushrooms sprouting over its ashen branches; underbrush so thick you can barely step through it. The path only grows thinner and more twisted, and so do the trees, closing in around me.

Gwaedal is restless. I don't blame him. I would be too, if I wasn't consumed by the need to - get out get out get out.

What even am I doing? It's not like I can go home. I don't remember where I... fell through. Or whatever you call it. That was months ago - and the forest looks the same in every direction. I don't know what I'm hoping to find. A door in the middle of the forest, leading to my bathroom?

To be honest with you, I'm not even sure if I can remember what is left for me back home.

There would be a new tenant in my apartment, for sure. My name would be on missing persons' lists, but people would have stopped searching by now. Call it a fruitless attempt to get back, but why would I want to be stuck here? Surrounded by people who, at best, tolerate me and at worst show their hatred at face value?

The trees stop moving past and for a brief second, I'm confused.

"Gwaedal," I murmur, my voice so quiet it barely reaches my own ears. "Why'd you stop?"

His ears swivel, and I strain to hear what he does. A faint sound above us. Click-click-click-click.

Okay, what the fuck?

It gets louder, ever so slightly, a soft, rapid chittering like someone clacking acrylic nails together. Click-click-click-click.

I look up. Something gleams among the branches. Eyes? No. Can't be. What kind of thing has eight eyes?

Well, yeah, spiders, but spiders don't get that big.

Something roughly the size of a Doberman drops to the ground in front of me with a dull smack. Gwaedal rears. I say some choice words.

It's a mess of a situation, really.

Within seconds I'm on the ground, ass in the dirt, and Gwaedal, panicked, turns tail and bolts. I barely avoid being trampled, but that's the least of my worries.

Click-click-click-click. A spider as big as a dog advances, two spindly legs by its face waving in the air. I get to my feet, almost tripping over myself. "What the fuck are you?" I ask in disgust. I'm not above kicking wildlife; when it gets too close I thrust my leg out. It's a lot bigger than a football, though, and I only succeed in pissing it off. The creature shrieks - I didn't know spiders could do that - and, as I start to back up, skitters towards me.

Smack. A thud behind me announces the arrival of a second one, and I'm starting to regret not stealing weapons as well as a horse.

If you know me, you know that I'm not one to sit around and wait to die. I've made it this far. I'm not going to let some overgrown bugs take me down.

Just as one of the spiders springs forwards, propelling itself off of the dusty ground with pincers aimed at me, I dive to the side. My leg muscles contract in protest as I tuck and roll - or try to - into the brush, but this was a simple dodge that Curunír had been trying to instill in me for the last two weeks. I get to my feet, leaves in my hair, and I hear chittering behind me. Not wasting time, I jump over a fallen log and sprint through the dark forest.

God, I can't be too far from Felegoth. How far had Gwaedal carried me? I couldn't even follow the path, since I'm now running full-tilt away from it, thorns scratching at my skin as I tear through the woods like a crazy person. The forest seems to swallow me, and maybe it's because I'm only focused on right foot, left foot, breathe - but I can't hear the spiders anymore.

It might be five minutes, might be ten, but I burst back out onto a worn path, ignoring the warm blood oozing down my arm from a slide on my bicep that had ripped right through the fine green cloth of my uniform. Pausing for a moment - flinching at every little crunch and crackle of the leaves - I reach down to grab a moldy stick roughly the size of a golf club.

Click-click-click-click. They hadn't given up the chase.

I step backwards, drawing a shaky breath. Is it the adrenaline? Somehow, I don't feel tired. Fear? That's another story. I'm feeling a lot of that right now.

Pale eyes reflect in the darkness and in a split second, a bulbous, hairy body bursts from the treeline. I screech, "Not today, fuckhead!" And swing with wanton abandon. I can almost hear my friend Robin's voice: Improvised stick weapon? Nice. Roll 1d4 bludgeoning damage.

The spider lets out a faint hiss with each wallop. What did Teddy Roosevelt say? Speak softly and carry a big stick. Well, I have one half of that down.

"Leave! Me! The fuck! Alone, you fat bastard!" I scream, smacking the stick across its head to punctuate each word. The stick, not being built for repeated blows, doesn't like that. It splinters, splits, and hangs limply from a couple pale wooden fibers.

Fuck. Well, fuck is an understatement. I'd forgotten all about the second spider, having been too preoccupied with the first. That is until I feel a prickle on the back of my neck, and turn to see my face reflected eightfold in the eyes of the monster.

I've never seen a spider mouth up close before. The shiny black fangs gleam and part, revealing a frothy, spitting mandible ready to suck up my liquefied insides.

"Ungol opo! Rochben, póna as-nalanta!"

The shout comes through the trees, but is loud enough that it reaches me through the pounding of blood in my ears. The spider in front of me draws back, spitting in fury, just as an arrow sprouts from its cephalothorax; it slumps in front of me. Two riders approach - I can see more behind them, but the path is only big enough for two abreast - and I might have been impressed if one of them wasn't aiming his next arrow at my chest.

"To the side, girl!" The other, a helmet obscuring his features, commands and I obey, tripping over one of the furry legs of the dead spider. The surviving one skitters down the path, and a horse breaks away from the rest of the riders to pursue it. The adrenaline pumping through me slacks off and I feel a wave of exhaustion pass over me, my knees buckling. Somehow I keep myself from crumpling. Maybe to save myself from the embarrassment?

"Move aside." The prince's voice is unmistakable as he guides his horse to the front, dismounting in front of me. Of all my luck - it had to be him. His jaw tightens as he looks me up and down, eyes lingering on my bloodied arm. Defeated, I hold out my wrists to him. It reminds me all too well of the first time I saw him - the morning I woke up here.

"Lower your bow, Urúvion, she is no threat." Legolas holds up his hand, signalling the archers to stand down. I'm not sure if I should feel relieved, and my arms are beginning to feel stiff from holding them out. "Ernil nîn, I-"

"I did not give you leave to speak."

His tone, so matter-of-fact it sounds like he's talking to a child, throws me off. I flush in embarrassment, cowed under the gaze of so many people, but especially his. When he motions for me to lower my hands, I do so, even when all I want is to hide my face.

The prince turns, mounting his white horse in a smooth move and speaking in a low tone to the guard next to him. I don't know what they said; if it's even about me. Then he barks an order and a dozen horses thunder past, leaving me shell-shocked and standing in the dirt.

Only one rider remains.

"You're a stupid girl." Ettrian isn't smiling. He holds out his hand for me to take, which I don't. Hot, angry tears well in my eyes as I stare up at him.

"You've never been hated, have you?" My voice chokes on the question.

The red-headed elf holds my gaze steadily, neither of us wavering. I swallow around the knot in my throat, hating the tears that bear evidence to the shame welling up inside me. Shame that I'd been caught, shame that - somehow - I'd disappointed someone other than myself.

"I don't hate you." Ettrian says. I want to believe him. "Let's go home, Leoma."

I pause - ever so briefly - then take his hand and let him pull me onto his horse.

✦

The ride back is... for lack of a better word, quiet. Ettrian is rarely quiet, so you can see why I wouldn't like that all too well. He sits behind me on the back of his horse, his arms encasing me as if he thinks I'm going to jump off and run into the woods.

When we finally return to Felegoth, I wonder if I'm going to be allowed to go anywhere without his escort. But after we dismount and I hang around awkwardly for a few minutes while he puts away his horse, he finally says, "You should see to your arm."

I'd almost forgotten the dull pain. The cut wasn't deep, the blood had dried, but it still hurt. I glance at it, uncomfortably. "Um... am I allowed?"

He closes the door to the stall, turning to look at me. "You're not a prisoner, Leoma. You can walk freely, wherever you choose."

"As long as it's within the city," I counter, my blood rising in anger. He approaches, his footsteps loud and heavy against the wooden floor of the stable. I back up a step, but all he does is take my arm in his hands, turning it over to look at the scabbing wound.

"After today, do you not understand why that was for your protection?" Ettrian's forehead creases as he frowns at me. "You know nothing of this world, Leoma."

"Maybe if you explained -!"

He gently pulls on my arm, leading me towards the door, and declines to respond to me beyond, "Follow me. I'll show you to the infirmary."

I'm angry again, and sullen, but I follow him, probably because the area around the shallow cut is turning red and tender and, ow, I'm not particularly known for a high pain tolerance. The infirmary is inside the citadel, but not too far from the gates or the training grounds; they'd likely seen their fair share of wounded riders or brawls in the midst of training. My arm is certainly the least of anyone's worries, including my own.

But, thankfully, the infirmary is empty, save for a woman in blue turning down sheets on one of the many beds. The windows are open, letting in warm light and the faint forest scent that smells, also thankfully, less like mold and more like cedar.

She straightens when she sees us, dusting her hands on the sides of her dress. "Ettrian." Then she looks at me. "I do not know your name."

She'd probably have heard it sooner or later. How many people would be talking about me now? "Leoma," I respond, dipping my head in a habitual show of respect, and wait for her to introduce herself.

She doesn't, though; she takes my arm and peers at it, scoffing under her breath and saying something to Ettrian in rapid-fire Sindarin that I can't quite understand. Something about unnecessary and silly and I'm starting to dislike her. Ettrian rolls his eyes. "Leoma, this is Nestariel. She means well."

With a tight-lipped smile from her, I'm not reassured. Nonetheless, I let her clean the wound and wrap it in a cottony gauze. She doesn't question how I got it - which I'm glad for. I really don't want to explain that to anyone. Yeah, I stole a horse, got attacked by some absurdly large spiders, and nearly got killed in your hellscape you call woods. I love it here.

"There. You will live." Nestariel sits back, pleased with her work, and presses extra gauze into Ettrian's hand. Is it just me, or did her hand linger for a bit too long? "Now, I don't want to see you again unless you've lost a limb." Maybe that was a joke, but it didn't really sound like one.

"You're too kind, Nesta. Leoma - it's time to go."

I was already getting up, and I throw Ettrian a dirty look. He's treating me like a child, which is really rich for someone with a toddler's sense of humor.

When we leave the infirmary, he passes me the gauze. I take it, stuffing it in my pocket, and my mouth runs a bit faster than my brain does. "She likes you."

"What? No." Ettrian's ears are tinged red, a shade not far off from his hair. "She's a friend, nothing more."

"She could've given me the gauze," I point out. Maybe we aren't close enough for me to bring this up, or maybe I'm already on thin ice from the whole criminal act I recently committed, but his expression starts to get more closed off.

"You're imagining things." Ettrian turns down a corridor, one I hadn't been down in a very long time. Since the first time I'd seen the city, really. After the cells. A shiver runs down my spine. He better not be taking me back down there. "The prince will want to see you."

Not the cells, then. Just Legolas, which isn't much better. I balk, my feet starting to drag. "Really? He's back already?"

"I would imagine." The red-headed elf stops in front of an ornate door. The emblem of the guard is carved on the wood: a wide leaf-shaped shield over crossed lances. This is, no doubt, the office of the commander of the guard. Before I can say anything, Ettrian pushes open the door and immediately bows as he steps in. I do the same, though I'm more reluctant to raise my head. I don't want to see the prince's face.

Legolas stands in front of a table, on which his hand hovers over a map. Still dressed in hunting leathers and a smear of black blood across his cheekbone, it's obvious that he's only just returned. He glances over at us - at me - and lifts his hand, beckoning me forward with two fingers. "Leave us, hestir."

I'd never heard Ettrian referred to as anything other than his name. I look at him - pleadingly, for any sign of help - but all he does is meet my eyes and give a little nod. It doesn't leave me reassured. He closes the doors behind him and I stare at the floor, a knot forming in my throat.

Legolas is kind, everyone always said; they praised him for his sense of humor, his good nature, how different he was from his father, the ever-distant king of the Greenwood. He was the commander of the guard more than he was a prince. People wanted to follow him; I respect him for that. But the first time I ever saw his face was when he pointed an arrow at me, and I've never forgotten that.

"I'm -"

"You're sorry?" He cuts me off, not even giving me the dignity of looking at me when he speaks.

"I... yes. I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say.

"For which crime? Stealing a horse from our stables? Disrespecting the hospitality of our house? Or endangering the life of our ward?" His hand covers a swath of the forest, marking out an area with black pins.

"I never endangered anyone's life!" My fists curl into the edge of my tunic, my voice cracking slightly. I couldn't deny the other accusations, but I never hurt anyone.

"Your life." He says, and the knot in my throat seems to fall into my stomach. I try to speak, but he holds up a hand to silence me. "You are a mystery to me, Leoma, to all of us. But you are under the protection of the Woodland Realm, and here you shall stay."

"As a prisoner," I point out. I'm on the verge of tears.

He smiles, or maybe he doesn't; his eyes are deep and knowing and sad, and though his lips turn up a bit it's not really a smile. "Come." I approach slowly, and he beckons me to look at the map. It charts the entire Greenwood; but then he pulls it away, and underneath is an atlas, covering the whole table, of continents I've never seen before. My eyes struggle to decipher all of the names.

"Point to your home. I will arrange a full escort to take you there within the week."

He waits for me to do so. But I can't. I want to cry. "I.. I don't know. I don't know any of this. I'm not from here."

"A mystery," Legolas repeats. His finger rests on a smudge near a mountain range. "The Greenwood, here. Where we found you. You, a human girl who cannot speak any known language, a human girl dressed in clothes not from any kingdom of Ennor. You, who cannot hunt or fight, slipped past our borders, undetected by our guard, surviving the orcs and ungol with not a weapon on your body. Either you are an astoundingly good actress, or you are..." He pauses, trying to find the words. "Something else."

"I told you," I say, meeting his eyes. "I'm not from here."

He holds my gaze for an uncomfortably long time. "And I believe you, Leoma. But you do not know the ways of the Greenwood. You could have been killed today with your foolishness."

My foolishness? It wasn't exactly like I was expecting spiders. But my only excuse is, "I wasn't... I just wasn't thinking."

"Mm. Common among humans."

And that's why I hate Elves. "So everyone keeps saying, ernil nîn."

"I did not mean to offend, Leoma." His eyes, which had softened, grow serious again. "But I cannot allow you to treat the Greenwood as your playground, and your crime cannot go unpunished. You will be accompanied by a guard at all times. And I hold you responsible for the cleaning and maintenance of the training field, on top of your regular duties."

My shoulders become tense, as if anticipating the exhaustion that I'll be feeling by the end of the week. I bow my head. "Yes, sir. Am I free to go, sir?"

He nods and turns back to his desk. The last thing I see of him is him pulling the map of the forest closer, his fist balling against the table. Then the doors close behind me and I'm faced with an elf I've never seen before. "Are you going to follow me?"

He opens his mouth to speak. I shake my head. "I know the answer to that. I'm going to my room."

I stride down the corridor, a secondary set of footsteps never too far behind me. Don't let him see me shaking, I tell myself. Please, whatever god exists.

And I manage to hold it together until I make it to my room.

The poor elf standing outside my door has probably never heard anyone cry that loudly.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN.

All things considered, having a constant presence shadowing your every move isn’t that bad. Well, it depends on who you’re stuck with. Today, it’s Eruest, an elf with fluffy brown hair chopped short in a cloud-like shape around his head.

Eruest is part of the usual rotation. It might be a punishment for him, too, or maybe some way to get him to take more responsibility, since in my time getting to know him - which, over the past few weeks, has been a lot - he seems more inclined to turn over logs hunting for mushrooms or whatever the fuck rather than actually keeping an eye on me. 

I’d just finished my morning bout with Curunír, who’d assigned me homework. This involved him tossing the pair of sparring swords at me and Eruest, who was lounging on the sidelines, and saying, “Get up, wineg. Your instincts grow weaker by the day.” 

Eruest stares at the wooden sword lying in the dirt, then at me. I could take him, for sure. The young elf raises his eyebrows at Curunír. “I trained yesterday, sword-master.” 

“Not long enough.” My teacher turns away from us, his calloused hand sweeping through long blond hair to pull it away from his face as he does so. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Eruest pushes himself to his feet, letting out a groan that sounds like a ninety year old man. 

He couldn’t be older than three hundred, honestly. 

As he leans down to pick up one of the swords, I snatch up the other, slicing towards his wrist. With a surprised grunt, Eruest jumps back, parrying my attack. “You cheat - ! I wasn’t ready.” 

“Does that matter?” I might not have built up enough skills to beat Curunír, but I’d never seen Eruest fight. He always seems to be more preoccupied with his little leather sketchbook filled with drawings of snails. And I’m thinking I might have a leg up on him. 

Curunír always tells me to stay focused. In the split second you have before your blades meet, know your opponent. Find his weakness, guard yours, and only play the moves that you can. Don’t get confident. Being confident gets you killed. 

Eruest didn’t come here expecting a fight. I don’t think he knows, right now, that I’m fully intending to beat him. In a real fight, Curunír says, it’s about survival. I’m not strong enough for a shield, so the only protection I have is the sword in my hand and the knowledge of how to use it. 

Which, at the moment, isn’t too impressive.

Eruest, though, is no sword-master. He’s a trained guard, but I can tell that he’s fallen behind on his practice. Curunír stands on the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest, watching us, but I’m less focused on my teacher and more focused on glancing at Eruest’s feet, catching a stumble and using that as my in. 

I lunge again, this time aiming for his thigh. Taking out a leg can stun your opponent enough for the killing blow. The shortsword wouldn’t have enough strength, enough leverage behind the blade to take a leg clean off, but with a well-aimed cut, it could do some damage. Eruest parries - or tries to - and spins away from me, but not before the edge of my false blade grazes his thigh. 

“Ow!” The elf complains, his tone shrill with indignity. I can’t help but grin in response, circling him slowly. He turns on one heel, keeping his eyes on me, sword outstretched. 

“What, you mad you’re getting beaten by a human?” I taunt, my tongue flicking out to lick a bead of sweat that was part of a slowly-forming mustache on my upper lip. Eruest squints at me. 

“You haven’t beaten me yet.” 

Maybe I’m over-confident, or maybe I’m just confident enough that I’ll win over him. I’ve lost my element of surprise, though, and he’s gained his footing, so I have to be on my toes, too. He’s hundreds of years my senior - I can’t forget that. 

As Curunír said, everyone that I would meet with a sword in hand would be better at it than me. And more often than not, would know seven ways to kill me before I could blink and gargle for help. The best thing to hope for, anyway, is surviving long enough to run away. 

I get the feeling that he doesn’t have much faith in me. 

Eruest’s eyes follow the movement of my body just as I do his. When he attacks my right shoulder, swinging down in a move that would separate a good portion of my head from my body if the swords were real, I side-step to the left and turn, bringing my sword up to block his and pushing it away from my body. The impact of wood against wood sends shocks up my arm. 

My opponent lets out a frustrated growl as I elbow him in the gut, going after his sword-arm with my blade. With enough force I could’ve - in theory - taken his off at the elbow. As it were, the blunt side of the practice sword connects with his funny bone, and he yelps. 

“By the light of Eru and all the- Leoma!” He swears, and I’m not stopping. Using my blade, I wrench his from his grip, slam my shoulder against his chest and stand triumphantly over him as he lands in the dirt. 

It lasted… what, two minutes? Curunír’s beaten me in twenty seconds. This is a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I look triumphantly at the sword-master, whose scowl has lessened somewhat. 

“That was… better than anticipated.” He concedes. “On your feet, wineg, you give no pride to your station by being bested by -”

“What, a human?” My face falls immediately and I can’t help but snarl a bit as I say it. What, I get nothing around here? Not even a little “good job, see you tomorrow”? 

“By a trainee.” Curunír gives me a look that clearly says, I’ve had it up to here with you. Eruest gets to his feet, dusting off the seat of his tunic and picking up his sword. He extends his hand to me, and we grasp forearms. 

“You did well.” He says simply, with a nod of his head. I shake his hand, dipping my head as well. “Thank you. You were a…” I’ve lost the word. What’s Sindarin for formidable? “Good opponent.” 

With a chuckle, Eruest shakes his head. “Not good enough. May I go, swordmaster?” He directs the question to Curunír, who hesitates for a beat before nodding his head once. The master catches Eruest by his shoulder before he leaves, saying something in quiet Sindarin that I can’t quite catch. Then Curunír claps Eruest on the shoulder - the latter grunting a little in protest - and sends him on his way. 

“So? Any other comments, or just that I ‘did well’?” I prompt, stretching my arms above my head and feeling my spine pop. Curunír jumps at the opportunity to criticize. 

“As always, you are too slow. You could have bested him the first moment you lunged, if your feet were placed solidly, like so.” He uses Eruest’s practice sword to demonstrate, keeping his center of balance low to move lightly and swiftly on the balls of his feet as he lunges forward. “This, simple, yes? You could have knocked his blade free, then put yours through his throat.”

I blink at him. “Well-” 

Curunír straightens. “In a true fight, at least.” He holds out his hand for my sword, and I present it to him hilt-first.

 “I don’t know if I could… do that.” I feel weak for saying it.

“What? Use your blade to protect yourself?” 

“I don’t know. Kill someone. Seems a little… extreme.” We’re walking towards the edge of the arena now, and Curunír chuckles. 

“You will not think so when you see an orch’s blade coming down on you, to split your skull open and feed on your raw flesh.” 

Oh, wow. He really didn’t hold back. “What’s an orch?” I’d heard the word before. In passing conversations among the other elves, when Ettrian gives me an excuse to disappear for days on end, and several times with the sort of tone that made me think they were some kind of bogeyman that eat children at night.

“Orch - the great enemy. The scourge on our borders.” Curunír says, somewhat dismissively. He still doesn’t understand, or maybe just doesn’t care enough to remember, that I speak no language known to them. So, to me, the word means nothing.

“Okay, so what is it?” I ask persistently. My teacher puts the practice swords back in their place, a collection bin at the edge of the arena, and cocks his eyebrows at me. “You truly do not know? You are lucky to have never seen one.” 

So I keep hearing. The forest was already infested with giant spiders, and now I have to worry about yrch as well. I cross my arms, impatiently waiting for Curunír to actually explain it to me. “How am I supposed to fight one if I don’t know what it is?” 

“You should hope you never have to.” Curunír pauses for a beat, pursing his lips. “But in the rare case that you happen to cross swords with one… it is a savage beast that serves dark masters, and one will stop at nothing to spill elvish blood. Or mannish.” He looks at me briefly, then away, raising his hand to hail someone. “But you should never have to fight one - as long as you don’t take it upon yourself to run away again.” 

“Okay, moving on,” I say sourly, but, realizing that the person he’s hailing is Lariel, my expression brightens. 

“You won?” Is the first thing she says to me, a smile on her face. News travels fast - I can’t help but be a little cocky. 

“Yes -”

“Against Eruest,” Curunír cuts in mildly, and we both send him a look. His lips form a thin, unamused line. “I must go. Duty calls, and so on, and so forth.” 

I’m not sad to see him go. Turning back to Lariel, she gives me a warm smile and lays her hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, my friend. You improve every day.” 

Since my harrowing escape, or my attempt to, I had actually been trying harder. I’m stuck here, so I might as well learn to swing a sword. And it’s been going… well, you know. As for archery? Lariel is usually my instructor there, and under her more gentle direction, I’ve been improving wildly. The bowstring isn’t nearly as difficult to pull back anymore, and the arrow finds its mark more often than not. 

Still targets, that is. I’m trying not to advance too quickly, because then I’m supposed to learn to start shooting moving targets.

Lariel loops her arm through mine, talking about odds and ends as she leads me back towards the barracks. Sometimes I feel like she sees me as a child she has to look after, some sort of pitiful creature… I don’t want to be seen that way, but when she looks at me and smiles - a genuine smile - I remember that she’s the first person here who showed me kindness, and she’s cared enough to stick by me these past few months.

They’re definitely not all like her. Even now, I get looks from the other guardsmen as we walk, a quiet side-eye that ranges from she’s still here? To why is Lariel with her? 

I ignore them with as much grace as I can muster, and resume my conversation with Lariel as we walk through the arched doorway and into the barracks.

The barracks are less crowded today. Usually, it houses rooms for the trainees, who are required to sleep there, storage and meeting facilities for the captains, and a banger mess hall. Most other guardsmen - like Lariel - don’t live there. They have their own homes or families to return to. 

“You don’t have to walk with me,” I give a soft, somewhat embarrassed chuckle as we round a corner in the corridor. “I know the way.”

Lariel shakes her head, eyes wide. “I wanted to show you something, actually, but… it’s rather a long walk. I thought I would, at least, let you put your things down?” 

We’ve reached the entrance to my room, and I unlatch the door, swinging it open to reveal the small room I’ve come to know. The woven green bedspread is rumpled, the archaic mattress bearing a dent in the middle from my tossing and turning these past few nights. There’s barely enough room for Lariel to stand next to me. 

“Sorry about the mess.” I swing the guard-issued leather bag from my shoulder. It really doesn’t carry much - a water skin, a couple bruised apples, and my cloak stuffed in a ball on top. It’s always cool in the mornings, but with the sun beating down over the training grounds, I never need the cloak as much as I think I do. 

“I remember my days here,” Lariel says warmly. “It’s charming.”

“Good memories?” 

“Ah… yes and no. The bed gives way to sore bones, which makes it all the worse to train the next morning, doesn’t it?” 

We share a small chuckle, somewhat awkward on my part. “So, um… what did you want to show me?” 

At this, Lariel’s face brightens. She looks ageless, and I know she’s seen centuries beyond my reckoning, but when she smiles like that, I feel like she’s my age. 

“Come with me - I want to take you to my home.” 

“Oh,” I say, blinking rapidly as she loops her arm through mine again in friendly camaraderie, taking me back into the corridor and away from the barracks. It’s rare that I leave - not that I’m stuck here, just that I really have nowhere else to go. From the training grounds, I can see the expanse of Felegoth, a city built into the trees, connected by bridges of living branches that arch up and away. But I’ve never walked on them - only watched the tiny, little people from a distance. 

Wide open-air corridors take the place of what would be roads, branching off into stairs or other paths that lead up, down, and around. We pass collections of rooms - buildings? At this point, I’m unsure whether Felegoth is one big interconnected palace, or a true city, or maybe both - that seem to function as shops. Books sold in this one, maps in the one next to it, a shoe-cobbler with leather boots displayed in the arched window, and one with the inviting smell of bannocks wafting out from it. 

“This way,” Lariel tells me, amidst anecdotes from all of the shops and people that we pass, and leads me up a set of stairs that curl among the tree branches, sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. Her home is built on a small platform over a thick, sturdy branch, neighbored on both sides by similar houses, ascending or descending around the tree. 

I’m a little astounded. From where I stand, I can see the horse stables, the great gates to the forest beyond, and even the river that thunders underneath and past the city. “It’s beautiful,” I say after a beat, and Lariel nods, no small amount of pride on her features. “Yes, isn’t it? When the sun rises, I feel as if I’m basking in the light of the first trees.” 

I don’t quite know what she means by that, but I don’t question it. She opens the door to her home, leading me inside. It’s… small, but surprisingly spacious. About the size of a college dorm room. There is a hearth, with tall shelves built into the wall bearing jars and crockery, and a long table set before it, three stools pulled up haphazardly on either side. The beams that hold up the ceiling are carved with vines and leaves, and as I look closer, I see that her furniture bears the same carvings. Opposite the hearth lies what looks like a chaise lounge and an ottoman, over which she throws her cloak, and turns to me. There is only one other door, which I presume leads to her bedroom.

“Welcome,” she says brightly. “I know it is humble, but it is mine. May I offer you something to drink?” 

Slowly, I nod, my eyes caught by a wide bookshelf built in to the wall behind her lounge. “What are these?” I ask, running my fingertip along the scrolls stacked there. Most of them are marked by a seal at the end of the central baton, written in Tengwar or, more rarely, another script. I struggle to comprehend it. 

Lariel steps up beside me, handing me a steaming cup of an herbal tea. “Thank you,” I say gratefully, lifting it to my lips. It’s incredibly hot, but not scalding, and soothes my throat. She follows my line of sight to the scrolls and chuckles softly. “Stories, mostly, and great songs of the First and Second ages. And these…” She points to the ones marked with that unrecognizable lettering. “These are written in the tongue of Man.” Her eyes search mine. I give no response. What else could I say? 

“You may borrow them sometime if you wish,” Lariel continues, maybe saving the awkward air descending on us. “But that is not why I brought you here. Do you know of teluyavië?” 

I wrack my brain. Telu means “last”, but yavië I had never heard of, or at least never remembered. It was similar to one of the first words I’d ever learned - yávien, or fruit - but not quite the same. “The last…?” I finally conjure up, to Lariel’s approving smile. “Yes - and yavië means, hmm…” She looks around for props, and plucks up an apple from the table. “The gathering of plants. This is the month of Yavanna, the goddess of all growing things. In two days, the whole of the city will gather to celebrate the last yavië of the year. There will be a feast, and song, and much joy.” She looks at me, hope dancing in her eyes. “I would like to see you there.” 

I hesitate. Is it really my place to accept? If the entire city would be there, and I would be alone in the barracks - I would be miserable. Not to mention whatever poor sod had to watch over me, since I was still under the prince’s punishment. 

And, for some reason, I keep remembering the banruist that Ettrian brought me to, and how, for the first time since I’d come here, that was when I felt safest. 

“Thank you for the invitation,” I finally say, my speech somewhat stiff and formal, but my smile reflecting my genuine thanks. “I would love to come. But -”

Lariel tilts her head back slightly, letting out an exhale - of relief? I didn’t realize that she was so intent on me coming. And… really, all I have to wear is the issued uniform for the guardsmen. Is it so vain of me to be concerned about that? 

“That is good, because what I wanted to show you would be irrelevant if you had said no.” Lariel chuckles, sounding somewhat embarrassed, and opens the door to her bedroom. Draped over the end of the bed is a dress - a swath of fabric that shimmers like raindrops on leaves. A deep green, seemingly woven with silver, and when I touch it, it feels like air. 

“Oh, my god,” I utter. “It’s beautiful.” 

It is. Lariel holds it up by the shoulders, pursing her lips as she raises it against my body. I’m flabbergasted. Actually, that falls short as a descriptor. This looks as if it were made for a princess. “I-I can’t take this!”

“Why not? We are of a similar build. It will look beautiful on you.” Lariel raises her eyebrows at me. “You cannot go in… well, that.” 

I look down at my clothes. The green tunic is a little worse for wear, and bears the distinct smell of day-old sweat. Both the knees and the seat of my pants are scuffed with dirt. I feel like a little goblin in comparison to her, who, despite wearing the same thing, carries herself with such grace and confidence I think it must scare dust away. 

“Hey,” I say in weak protest. “It’s not that bad.” 

We look at each other for a moment - it is pretty bad. 

“Take it. And wear it well.” Lariel says firmly, folding the dress up and handing it to me. “It is my gift to you. As a friend.” 

The way she emphasizes it - god, I’m going to embarrass myself. Don’t cry, Leo, I tell myself firmly. Don’t you dare cry. 

Instead I take a swig of the herbal tea she’d handed me before to cover up my hiccup, and cough loudly as it goes down the wrong pipe. Tea sprays onto the dress. 

“Oh, no.” Tears well in my eyes. I don’t know whether I’m about to laugh or cry. “I’m sorry, Lariel.” 

✦

The tea stain came out of the dress fairly easily, and Lariel doesn’t hold a grudge, bless her heart. I hang it on the back of my door and stare at it as I loosely comb through my hair. I’d spent a great deal of time in the public bath earlier that day, loosening my braids. Maybe I had left them in a little long, but hair’s the least of my worries. Until today. 

I’d never braided my hair completely on my own, and, being a little intimidated by the idea, I decided to forego the protective style for today and worry about that another day. My hair’s grown, I realize, as I peek into the small looking glass hanging over the washbasin in my room. Before I’d left home, the last time I got my box braids installed, my curls had barely reached my jawline. Now they brush my collarbone.

A rusty-red color. My mom said my hair is almost the same color as my dad’s. Just a little darker. And curlier, of course. I’m a little shocked, almost, at my appearance. I really hadn’t spent all that much time looking at myself - ever - and I feel like I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. 

My dark auburn coils frame a face that looks older, as if I’d aged five years instead of two or so months. The starkly high cheekbones, austere nose and sharp jaw are all my father’s features, but the long-lashed dark eyes that blink at the looking glass, and the frowning lips, are from my mom. 

I miss her, more than anyone. 

Pinching the skin of my forearm to draw me back to reality, I braid four small plaits at my temples, twisting them and drawing them around the back of my head to secure my hair. It’s a style I’ve seen many elves wear, but as I turn my head from side to side with a frown, I’m not sure if I like it on me. I miss my box braids - and that’s something I’ll have to figure out later. 

“And now for you,” I say out loud to the small room, directing my gaze to the dress. The Elvish underclothes are scant - a bloomer-like cotton garment that falls to my upper thigh and nothing for my chest - and as I pull the dress over my head, it feels like water flowing over my body. It’s made of an altogether different material than the uniform I wear everyday: that one’s a warm, tightly-woven wool, and this one feels like a fine silk. 

It drapes over my upper body, cupping the slight curves of my chest and hips and then cascading down my legs to the floor. The neck of the dress gathers at my shoulders with long, sweeping folds of cloth that reach the hem. I turn my head to examine the back of it, or the lack thereof - the fabric hangs elegantly at the base of my spine, exposing my entire back. 

Oh, my. I wince to myself. I’ve never worn anything like this, and it probably wouldn’t have been my first choice if Lariel hadn’t given it to me.

But it is beautiful… stunningly so. It might not have been meant for me, but the deep green of it compliments my skin. I let out a satisfied exhale, picking up the edge of the dress so that it doesn’t trail on the floor as I walk. The scuffed leather boots underneath won’t be seen - and they’re the only pair of shoes I own, so it doesn’t matter, anyhow. 

With that, I throw open the door. The steady stream of elves through the corridors tells me where to go - them in all their finery, grouped together and talking in low-toned Sindarin, laughing amongst themselves. Me, alone, holding my chin up rather stiffly and gripping my gown. 

If they look at me, if they laugh at me for fooling myself into believing I could actually enjoy myself, have fun, I swear -  

I reach the end of the corridor. Before me stands a great set of doors. I’ve been here before, I realize, or at least past it; the first time I left the dungeons. Beyond lies a cacophony of noise - music and the chattering of every elf in Felegoth.

“Leoma!” 

I turn my head abruptly.

Lariel is… I almost don’t recognize her. Her blonde hair is down, flowing down her back in rivulets, and her head is crowned by a white-gold circlet that looks like interwoven branches, loose bundles of hair wrapped around it. The cut of her dress is similar to mine, but rather than the sleeves gathering at the shoulders, hers fall to her elbows and then flow to the floor, and the fabric is a sort of whitish-silver like the bark of a birch tree. Many others filtering through , I realize quickly, are also wearing colors that reflect that of the forest: burnt gold, russet, deep mahogany, reds and browns and greens. 

“It fits you well.” She beams, holding out her hands. I drop my skirt and take them, a smile threatening to take hold on my lips. “Really? I’ve never really…” I chew on my lower lip, trying to think of the right word. “Worn something like this.” 

“They don’t have festivals where you come from?” 

I bark out a laugh. “Not like this.” 

“Ah, well. If this is your first, I am glad to be a part of it.” 

With that, she gives me a gentle tug, pulling me through the doors into the hall… and the word barely suffices for it.

Hall - no, it’s a great hall. The ceiling arches high, a hundred feet or more, and iron candelabras hang from the far-away ceiling, casting a bronze light over the feast below. Long tables stretch the length of the hall, weighted down with cornucopias of food. On a far plinth, a group of elves pluck harps and play flutes, the music rising over the dull roar of many, many conversations. And, at the head of it all, seated in the middle of the highest table, is the Elvenking himself, seeming to tower over everyone even from this far away.

I’m struck dumb, and let go of Lariel’s hands. She turns to me, a look of confusion settling on her face for a brief moment. 

“I don’t know what to do,” I say, helplessly, once I can find my words, and move out of the way of the doors. Lariel’s expression morphs into one of understanding. “Of course, you’ll come with me. I invited you, did I not?” 

Yes, she did. I scrunch my eyebrows, forcing myself to accept that fact and stop being a weirdo about it, and follow her. She weaves gracefully through the crowd; I do not, narrowly avoiding people and apologizing as I go. 

When she stops at one of the tables, I almost bump into her. There are two seats, but not next to each other. A red-headed elf stands abruptly and pulls out a seat, then turns his head to look down at me. 

“Ettrian.” I blink in surprise. I hadn’t seen him since… shit, since the hunt. “You…” I almost don’t recognize him when he’s not in his uniform. His usual sage-green is replaced by a silver surcoat, a long black sash stretching diagonally across his chest. It makes him look… broader, for some reason. 

“Me,” he responds coolly. “You look well, Leoma.” 

Heat rises to my cheeks. Embarrassment, I’m sure. He stares down at me for a beat, the threat of a smirk playing on his lips. There’s nothing for him to laugh at, but I know him. He’ll make a joke out of something. 

“Your seat.” He nods down at the chair that he pulled out. I hadn’t realized that it was for me. I sit down hurriedly, smoothing the dress over my thighs as I do so, trying very hard not to sit on the long sleeves. 

“Thank you.” I don’t look at him when I say it. I can see, though, from my periphery, that he rubs his chin and opens his mouth, then shuts it. 

Lariel’s seat is two down from me, leaving me next to an elf I’ve met once in passing, Gwilain, and Ettrian on the other side. I still can’t forget the way he looked at me after the hunt - which seems so long ago now - but how could I move past that? 

He called me stupid, after all. 

I look to my left, at Gwilain. Tall, his hair a light copper, and stunningly beautiful as all elves seem to be. He’s pouring wine into his cup from a long-necked silver pitcher, and when he sees me staring, he beckons his other hand. “Here. Let me pour you your first drink of the evening.” 

Holding my goblet under the pitcher, it’s soon filled near to the brim with deep-violet, sweet-smelling wine. “Thank you,” I say, bringing it up to my lips for a sip. Gwilain watches me intently, and I only realize it’s to see my reaction after I swallow. Because when I do, it’s with a coughing fit. 

“Fuck! Oh my god!” English. “That’s… really strong.” Then Sindarin. 

“Dorwinion wine,” Gwilain supplies with a wry smile. “The king’s best.” 

And I thought ceuránsuc was strong. Apparently, I have a lot to learn.

Ettrian leans over. He smells like pine needles. I wrinkle my nose. Why did I focus on that? 

“And you poured her a full glass, Gwestir? She’ll be out before the king’s speech.” 

I furrow my eyebrows. So - his name’s not Gwilain, I’m guessing. And I’m tired of Ettrian’s nerve. 

“Why does it matter? It’s just wine.” I force myself to take another sip. The taste is somewhere between an orchard and gasoline. Like a delectable Christmas fruit bowl dipped in isopropyl. 

“An… incredibly strong wine.” Ettrian’s eyebrows raise as I defy him by draining my glass. “Made for elves… and even then, elves who can tolerate their alcohol.” 

“I partied in college,” I reply, not even realizing I’ve switched back to my mother tongue until I see the expression on his face. Fuck. It takes me a minute to remember where I am. My tongue feels a bit soupy. “I mean… I’ll be fine.” 

He hands me a goblet of clear liquid. After a sniff, I deduce it’s water. Down the hatch. Setting down the cup, I feel only slightly more clear-headed. One glass of wine. “What’s… in that stuff?” 

“Grapes,” Gwilain - no, Gwestir - says helpfully.

Let it go, Leoma, I tell myself; tonight is not the night to rip my hair out. Or his. Even after the water has washed down my throat, I can feel the wine taking hold. This was no collegiate’s bottle of tequila, though it burned in much the same way.

“Dorwinion wine,” Ettrian confirms, seeing my expression, which is muddled somewhere between pleased with my circumstances and utterly disgusted with the taste. 

“I’m fine.” I ball my fists, my tone as cool and collected as I can make it. I won’t let them draw their own conclusions. 

It was then that the singing started, or, at least, then that I noticed it - high, clear voices, twinkling like starlight. The words I didn’t recognize; I know it’s not Sindarin. Chatter had nearly drowned the music out, but in this pause that Ettrian isn’t mumbling in my ear, the music swells and rises. It feels as if the chorus is giving form to their voices, a form that reaches ghostly fingers straight into my soul. 

Or maybe that was the alcohol. 

“You should eat.” 

Gwestir’s sudden voice makes me jump, and then shiver. I’d been too transfixed on the music, everything else had been pushed aside. His voice, first seeming far away, becomes more distinct. “Soak up the alcohol, so you can drink more.” He begins piling food on my plate - roast venison, apples, mushrooms, sweetbreads.

“She’s not drinking more,” Ettrian interjects, and I roll my eyes. Could I really not be sitting next to Lariel? Instead I’m stuck beside this buffoon. “When did you become my keeper?” I retort, and reach for the wine. It tastes awful - to me, at least - but now I’m bent on proving him wrong. 

“I’m a friend, and a concerned one,” he says, and if he’s speaking earnestly I’m too drunk to tell. I ignore him and pour myself another glass. It turns my stomach to drink it. Gwestir was right - I should’ve eaten. 

I meet Ettrian’s eyes over the rim of the glass, a sort of I told you so glare as if to challenge him. He thinks he has some sort of authority over me, does he? I'm tired of men thinking that they have some sort of right to protect me - no, I'm tired of elves treating me like a delicate little child, or someone that's never drunk wine before. Yes, I've never drunk Dorwinion wine before, but let's not argue the semantics.

He huffs a sigh and turns away, his attention moving to someone sitting on his other side. For some reason, that bothers me, too. Everything he does bothers me - I don't like his attention, or his unwarranted advice, or his hazel-green eyes squinting at me the way they do. I angrily rip apart a heel of bread and stuff it into my mouth. Gwestir's saying something, but his voice is muffled in my head, and I have to smile and nod. He pours more wine into my goblet. My smile drops.

"You can't waste it now," he says jovially. Time seems to warp and the room feels like the heartbeat in my head. Gwestir wears a halo, and maybe he has three eyes. No, that can't be right. He had four. Because he's two people... right? No - a twin. What's his twin's name? I need water.

I'd forgotten, of course, that Gwestir had filled my cup two seconds ago with the devil wine, and nobody stops me from drinking it because all eyes turn now to the Elvenking, who seems tiny and distant from his grand table at the head of the room. His voice, too, is all at once tinny and booming. "Great friends of old, my kinspeople and subjects, we all gather now under the light of our sacred stars, to celebrate the fruits of our labor, of Yavanna, and of the great forest that we call home."

He could've cut some words out for sure. Everybody else goes wild, applause breaking through the room. I choke on my last mouthful of wine and awkwardly slap my thigh with one hand, the other still clutching my silver goblet. The Elvenking continues, "Tonight is a night for drinking and making merry, as I know many of you have already begun..." Oh, god, it goes all the way to the top. He's talking about me. "...But the wine is sweet and the pitchers are plentiful, so by my blessing - " He lifts his hands to still the applause. "We will drink until dawn!"

A massive roar erupts through the crowd, and wine is passed around again. I lift my hand to refuse. I think I'm going to throw up in my lap. The king seems to be the size of a mouse, but I can see his leering smirk from here. At a small motion of his hand, the din quiets to a murmur, then silence.

"The sun has set on autumn, and as we enjoy the last bountiful feast of its season, I bless the lighting of the great ruimen to see us through the winter." From one end of the room, an attendant sets flame to a pile of kindling in the great stone hearth. Either side is carved to resemble a tree trunk, its branches twisting over the mantle, in which are set several gems that catch the light and twinkle like stars. I'm transfixed - rooted to my seat - the whole room undulates like the flame and I could fall into its warmth and never return.

"Now, drink, eat, and dance like your king commands it," the Elvenking says, raising his goblet and downing it in one gulp, which would have impressed me if I hadn't done the same already. The chorus of singers starts back up, lyre-music filling the hall, and Lariel appears before me.

"Come, Leoma. We must dance!" she says, taking my hands. I thought I was sitting down. When had I stood up? The floor sways beneath me. She's laughing at me - or maybe just laughing - and I throw my head back and laugh too. I'm standing in place, and the room spins as Lariel holds my hands. Then the room jerks and stops and we're spinning, and I'm going to throw up in her face.

I think she notices, the second my expression changes, because we stop and she pats my back as I hunch my back and gasp for air. "There, there," comes her distant, soothing voice. "It's alright, Leoma. Just breathe."

"I'm okay," I say weakly. Thank god nothing came back up. I straighten, leaning on her briefly. For a second, my vision has cleared. The chorus of elves singing is like angels rejoicing in song at my epic comeback. Well... maybe it's not one for the history books, but I'm upright and talking.

"Are you sure?" Lariel asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Dorwinion wine is famed for -"

No, we're not doing this again. I throw my hands up, almost smacking her in the face. "I'm so sure! Let's dance! Get to it!"

Now, listen. I've never been the type to party. Never been to a rave. One concert under my belt. But get me drunk enough and I promise you I'll deliver. I'm dancing to my own beat, music swirling in my head and out through my limbs. There's very little rhythm, but I'm having the time of my life.

I raise my hands above my head and close my eyes, throwing them out in a lasso move in what I think is roughly Lariel's direction. I can hear her laughter, mixed with others. I mime pulling myself forward, towards her, gyrating my hips... and open my eyes to see that it is not Lariel that I'm about to grind on.

It's the prince.

Legolas looks down at me, and I look up at him. He's holding a goblet of wine and looks like he's never been on a dance floor at all. Or maybe... he just needs to be shown how it's done?

I think every elf in the room sees what's going through my head the second that it does.

Before I can drop it low, someone grabs my wrist and hisses, "Leoma, get yourself together."

And I turn around and slap Ettrian across the face.

✦

Embarrassingly, yes. That's where my memory ends.

I wake up to a white ceiling. Not the one in my bedroom. My head hurts so badly that I think it's going to pound right out of my skull.

"Make it stop," I groan.

"Hear, hear." An equally pathetic voice agrees.

I flop my head to the side and can vaguely make out Eruest, sitting on a chair next to the bed in the healing ward. He's resting his cheek on his hand, dark rings under his eyes. I squint. "They have you working when you're hungover?"

Look at me, stringing more than three words together.

Eruest tries to straighten, but pretty immediately droops again. "Alas, I do not get sick leave." He tosses me a look. "But you do. Pass out one time..."

"I passed out?"

I have to wrack my brain to remember. I got mad at Ettrian, drank, got mad again, drank some more, danced with Lariel, danced with Legolas, got mad... oh, fuck. I sit up too quickly, my stomach almost lurching out of my mouth. "Tell me what everyone else saw."

"Do you mean when you pretended to catch the prince like one does an escaped horse? Or when you laid hands on Captain Ettrian for trying to stop you from doing worse?"

Burying my face in my hands, I groan, "It can't be that bad, can it?"

Eruest gives me a nervous pat on the shoulder. "Probably not."

"Do you think I'm going to get invited to another party?" I lift my head to look at him, full of misery and vomit and other, worse things.

"...Probably not, mellon nîn."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT.

It wasn’t as bad as all that, after all. 

I rarely see the prince anyway, so I don’t have to deal with the shame face-to-face as I must with Ettrian. By which I mean, turning and walking the other way the second I see him at the training grounds three days later. 

And he doesn’t pursue me, which stings only a little. And why should he? I was the one who smacked him, in front of several hundred elves - though certainly not all of them were paying attention - and while he might have deserved it, I can’t go around being mad at him for running after me one day and refusing to the next. 

My feelings are complicated, to say the least. 

Once I’m sure I’m out of his sight, I stop and sag against the nearest tree, mopping my forehead free of sweat with the back of my sleeve. The feast had marked the turn in the seasons, and the slight chill in the air is proof of that - and my breath fogging on the morning run, and the tips of leaves turning silver-white with frost before the midday sun melts it away. The great ruimen in the hall, which I’ve seen only once in the past three days, burns day and night, and promises to until spring. One of my duties is collecting kindling for it when clearing the training grounds of debris. That’s one of many - after attending field training, my language lessons, and cleaning up at the stables. I’ve grown used to it. 

And, I’m afraid to admit, I’ve grown used to Ettrian being a part of that. A constant shadow. I purse my lips, frowning at the ground. Why does he have to be that way? Act like… he’s my keeper, or like I’m a child? I wouldn’t have slapped him if he… if he just left me alone. And now that he’s doing exactly that… 

“Thinking hard?” 

I jump at the sudden voice and stare up at Eruest. His cheeks are ruddy, and the knees of his pants are covered in dirt. Must’ve taken a fall in the training arena. 

“Yeah.” I straighten. “Not that I have the time to. I have to get to, um, the stables. Work to do.” 

Eruest tilts his head at me. “You know, Leoma, you learn quickly.” 

“What?” My eyebrows knit together now in confusion. I scratch my chin, hoping he doesn’t mean in the arena, because that would be a lie. 

“Sindarin. You speak it as if you’ve learned for years, not mere months.” 

Oh. There’s something to be said for immersion - when there’s no other option to understand anyone, or be understood. And, for some reason, I adapt quickly. One more thing to focus on to distract myself from… everything else. Of course, I still stumble every now and then, slipping back into English when I can’t remember the word I’m looking for. 

“I have to. I can’t be the stupid little human girl anymore.” I squint up at him, and Eruest sighs. 

“Nobody thinks you are, my friend.” He offers his hand, and I use it to haul myself up from against the tree. “It’s just…” He starts to continue, then pauses and shakes his head. 

I throw up my hands in frustration. “That’s what you all do, you know. Every time! Every single one of you. I get it. Nobody can tell me, to my face, what they think of me, and yet they all laugh behind my back. I’m mortal, I’m weak, I’m going to live out my entire life in the blink of an eye for you. Nobody here even looks like me, and nobody has once offered to help me.” 

We’ve both stopped in our tracks, and my cheeks are red with frustration. I’m sure Eruest saw my spit flying as I rant, and he stands there, listening. My chest heaves by the time I’m done. After a fruitful pause, the male elf scratches the back of his neck. 

“I cannot apologize for everyone, Leoma. But I am sorry for not seeing your struggle where I should have. I think… I will not try to make excuses.” He sighs. “I think that many of us do not know how to approach you. It is no fault of you, but us. The Elvenking has long barred our gates from human travelers, and you are a special case.” 

They don’t know how to approach me? I could say the same from my end. They make it difficult to make friends when they’re always looking at me like I’m a special type of mold growing on the bathroom wall. 

“Do you have more to say, or can I go to work?” I’m keeping my tone clipped, and I know he doesn’t deserve it, when, in all honesty, my anger doesn’t lie with him. 

“Yes, I do, if you will listen.” Eruest speaks earnestly. That’s what convinces me to stay. And then he says, “Do you know sairina?” 

A word I’ve never heard before. I shake my head. Eruest looks only mildly surprised. 

“It is - how do I explain it? Forces… unknown. Unseen. Forces that may allow you to walk undetected.” His eyes are a hard green, surveying me. I start to sweat. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just… appeared. It just happened. I’m sorry.” 

“And where did you appear from?” 

“Are you here to interrogate me?” I return his question with another. It’s not like he would believe me if I said the truth. Another world. One with no elves. No magic forces. One moment I’m in my bathroom, my friends in the next room. My mom just a phone call away. How could I have shifted worlds in the blink of an eye? Maybe I really have been dead this whole time. 

“No, I-” 

I cut him off, lifting my hand. “I have to go to work, Eruest. I’m sorry.” I shouldn’t have to apologize again. I feel bad for snapping at him, because his green eyes soften a bit like a kicked puppy.

“Keeping your secrets will not help you,” he says quietly. “I doubt the king will let you go until he knows precisely why you are here.” 

“If I knew how, I would have left already.” I pick up my bag from the ground, slinging it over my shoulder with a bit too much gusto. 

He doesn’t call after me. 

Sairina. That word rings in my head later as I’m pitching hay. ‘Forces unknown.’ My mom believed in magic, in a quiet, secret worship that only she was privy to. I… never did, until the day I appeared here. Some things can’t be explained. 

And what if it is real? If magic is something that can be controlled, then… there’s a way for me to get back. Must be. Has to be. 

I’m sweating, more from the anger and frustration welling inside me than the physical exertion in cleaning the barn. Mucking out the stalls, pitching fresh hay in, brushing the horses and cleaning the finely tooled leather tack has all become second nature to me by now, going through robotic motions. I’d grown up around horses, and was working towards a veterinary degree, and none of that is easily forgotten. 

But remembering it now only makes me feel worse. I don’t care about not finishing college - god, haven’t we all wished that we’d get zapped to another world and never have to show up for an eight-thirty class again? - but I’d gladly take six hours of lecture in air conditioning than the hours of dredging through Sindarin lexicon while an elf breathes down my neck. 

“Working hard, or hardly working?” 

Gwedhion, the gangly and blonde Elven teenager that also worked at the stables, leans against one of the stall doors. I’m fed up and almost pitch a bunch of manure on his boots. No, Leo, that’s a child. Never mind that he’s two hundred years older than you… a child. 

His words almost echo what Eruest had said to me earlier and I feel a twinge of guilt at how I’d blown up at him like that, but that guilt is quickly stamped down by self-preservation and a deep awareness that the only one who will ever truly look out for me is me. 

“Could say the same to you,” I respond. He hasn’t lifted so much as a shred of hay. Gwedhion shrugs and perches on a haybale to watch me work. “I heard that you’ve been acting like a honeybee, working non-stop since teluyavië. Now that you do twice the work, I have to do none!” He seems gleeful about this fact. 

“Must be nice.” I finish up in the stall, leading the mare tethered in the stable corridor back inside and latching her in. “You know, there’s this word I learned that really suits you. What is it again? Yeah - lazy.” 

Gwedhion’s pale eyebrows knit together in a frown. “I heard that you must be trying to win favor back after laying hands on the captain at the feast.” 

“First of all, that’s a little extreme.” I pick up the wheelbarrow by the handles - an invention that, though humble, I never thought I’d be so glad to have at my disposal - and move to the next stall. “And you do an awful lot of gossiping, don’t you?”

“Luckily for you, I do.” The boy must finally feel bad about making me do all of the work, because he hops down from the hay bale and opens the door of the next stall, reaching for the halter of the black gelding inside. He and the horse pass me on the way out. “The captain is putting together the first hunting party of autumn to venture beyond our borders, and he wants you to go.” 

The captain could refer to one of several, but the only two that are ever concerned with me are Legolas and Ettrian, both of which I would have thought were not too eager to see me again. As for hunting… well, after the spiders, I’m sure I’ve proven my worth in my regard. 

I dismiss Gwedhion’s news with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll believe it when I hear it from his lips myself.” 

✦

And I didn’t have to wait long. Two hours, actually, when I’m grabbing some dinner - crusty bread, rabbit stuffed with hazelnuts and elderberries, and a funky cheese dotted with wild sage - from the table in the barracks’ main hall. I only meant to take my plate and go to my room, but that plan is thwarted when Ettrian sits down across the table and takes the hunk of bread I was reaching for. 

This time, I use good coping skills. I don’t snap at him, or even make a rude gesture. I just grab the piece next to it, which I think deserves a pat on the back, and make a move to leave. 

“You won’t sit?” Ettrian asks, sounding completely indifferent, as if nothing at all had transpired between us. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I respond over my shoulder, utterly failing in the endeavor to match his tone. Over time, my anger and frustration at his behavior has faded to guilt at my own, and yet, faced with him again, those feelings bubble back to the surface. Every single time. 

He raises his dark eyebrows. The way he chews his bread suggests that he finds some sort of fault in my answer. Using one hand to push himself up and away from the table, Ettrian gestures with his head towards the exit. “Then I will accompany you.” 

“You just sat down.” I counter. He shrugs. “No matter. You were the one I cared to speak to.” 

That’s the thing about Ettrian - he’s as stubborn as a mule. As stubborn as me, really. I can’t stop him, so we head out together, me white-knuckling a plate and him chewing on bread as if to keep himself from speaking. That is, until he finishes. 

“I do not want this silence between us to continue, Leoma.” He says quietly. Yet it does, for a moment, as the sound of our footsteps fills the hall and seems altogether too loud in my ears. “If you are angry with me, then let me atone. If I have overstepped where I shouldn't have, I want you to know that it is because I worry for you.” 

I realize, just now, that I've been biting my lip so hard that I draw a little blood. My brows furrow, unsure of how to respond. It's great to get an apology - in fact, it's all I've wanted from him. But I've said some awful things to him as well… and I'm almost too proud to return the apology. 

I meet his eyes. A brilliant shade of green, with flecks of gold like evening sunlight filtering through the trees of Taur-nu-fuin. Guilt builds in my chest until it pours out of my mouth and I'm unable to stop it. “I'm sorry, Ettrian. I.. I don't think I deserve your apology when I've been so awful to you.” 

That gaze softens, and my skin seems to prickle under it. If I was gripping the plate any harder, I would have broken it. 

“You are hurting more than you want anyone to know. Let others see it, and we can help you. I will help you.” He reaches out, settling his hand in a firm grip on my shoulder. 

A high-pitched noise of surprise leaves my mouth. I don't want to think of myself as hurting. But loneliness is as painful as a knife to the gut. I didn't want any of these elves, ageless and immortal and graceful and strong, to see me falter, see me weak. And every day I felt that I grew smaller and lesser next to them. 

“...Yeah.” I say finally. “It's been hard.” 

Ettrian squeezes my shoulder. It sends a wash of warm comfort down my body. Then his hand drops back down to his side. 

“I have something I want to ask of you.” 

Ah. Of course. There's always something, isn't there? I open my mouth to interrupt, to say that I'd just like to eat my dinner, only to shut it again when Ettrian makes his request. 

“Tomorrow, myself and a small party will leave on the first hunt of autumn. Before we return, we will stop at a human settlement to trade. If you wish it, we may escort you there. You are not held captive here, Leoma.” 

The plate of food crashes to the floor. I barely notice crumbs and grease splattering onto my boots, but Ettrian jumps back. “Ah, I didn't mean- let me- I'm sorry, let me help you.” 

We both bend down at the same time, clumsily scraping up the jumbled mess of my dinner onto the metal plate. I thank whatever gods exist that it isn’t ceramic. My fingers, now covered in remnants of herbed rabbit and berries, brush Ettrian’s knuckles as we reach for the same hunk of cheese and I cringe. He must have seen, because he leans back and lets me finish mopping up the mess. 

“I, um… sorry about that.” I don’t know what else to say. I have the urge to scratch my cheek, so red with embarrassment that it’s itching, but I refrain. 

“No, the fault was mine.” He gives a wry chuckle. “What a mess we are.” 

A mess, indeed. But that’s less important to me than knowing that, after tomorrow, I’ll have the chance to be among my own people. No, more than that, the chance to leave Taur-nu-fuin means I’m one step closer to finding a way home. I straighten, jerking my head back towards the hall. “I’ll need to, um, refresh my plate.” 

“And is this your way of asking me to walk with you?” There’s a teasing edge to Ettrian’s voice. I shoot him a glare that says don’t push your luck, big boy. He folds his hands behind his back and looks away. 

“Is there anything else I should know?” My mind swarms with questions about the… excursion. What brought the elven-king to change his mind, for one; what I should expect from humans here, for another. Having not seen one in, what, two, three months? - I begin to feel doubt curling in me, a nervous sweat prickling my upper lip. 

“Ah.” Ettrian, for once, carefully chooses his words. “Many things. You will know them, in time. It is a long ride.” 

We’ve reached the dining hall, and he faces me. I wait for him to say something else, but he only takes my plate from my hands and leaves. I stand there, a bit like an idiot, until he returns with a new plate, this one more full than my previous one, as if he’d taken great care in choosing what to put on it. 

“Sleep well. I will see you in the morning.” Once the plate is passed into my hands, he rests his hand on my head for a brief second. So brief, in fact, that I barely noticed it until he leaves, lifting that hand in a wave. 

He means well, I know. 

Yet I do not sleep at all. 

✦

I don’t own much. My clothes, few as they are - a few sets of the same uniform, a warm cloak, the elven-leather boots that fit so snugly I always forget I’m wearing them - and a carved wooden comb, a gift from Lariel, are stuffed into a knapsack. The cloak is thrown over my shoulders and secured with a pin at the shoulder. The little room that was never truly my own seems quiet, but that’s just because the sun hasn’t yet risen. 

I make the bed, smoothing out wrinkles in the woven bedspread, throw the pack over my shoulder and leave without a second look. 

While the halls are quiet in the early morning, the courtyard before the stables is alive with noise. Haldôr, the stable-master, and Gwedhion are leading horses from the stables to hand to their riders or tie to posts outside. The latter gives me a small smile and wave. I’m not sure Haldôr remembers who I am, despite having worked under him for months. 

“Leoma,” Ettrian calls. He leads two mounts, one of them a docile mare by the name of Gwinig, whose reins he passes off to me. “I see you packed light.” 

I shrug, lowering the pack from my shoulder to secure it to the back of Gwinig’s saddle. “I didn’t have much to pack.” 

“Then I suppose that makes it easier, yeah?” He fiddles around with the cinch on his saddle, and I take the time to look around. The party is small, but among them I see Lariel, already mounted; there are a few others I recognize. Rovain, a tall and loud woman who, for now at least, is quiet and scowling; Fierdan, a member of the guard who is only slightly less pathetic than me. A handful of others, maybe not half a dozen. 

I’m so focused on my surroundings that I jump when Ettrian mounts his horse and lifts his hand to call attention to himself. “Company, mount! We leave before the sun breaks the trees.” 

It takes two seconds for me to swing into the saddle, an action so well-practiced it had once been second nature to me. I’d stopped riding as a teenager, but after my time in the stables, I realize that it’s something you can’t forget. Gwinig huffs underneath me, and I inhale deeply, breath seeming to flow between the two of us. 

“To me!” Ettrian calls, and motions with two fingers to the path ahead of us. Two by two, horse and rider fall into line behind him. Behind us, the city is slowly replaced by tree, limb, and rock. It’s a different path than the last one I’d ridden - the day of the ungol hunt - and the air is cold and bright instead of thick and stale.

But it is quiet, I try not to think about the ones I didn’t have time to say goodbye to. Curunír, if he would have cared. Eruest, who I should have apologized to. But then, he was wrong, wasn’t he? ‘I doubt the king will let you go.’ Here I am… going.

“You’re Leoma, right?” 

I startle in surprise, glancing to my left at the rider next to me. It’s a young woman, her cheeks bright from the morning chill and her hands fisting the reins. Her horse, neck tense, jerks its head every so often, trying to gain some ounce of control. 

“Yes.” I blink at her. “Sorry, have we met?” 

She shakes her head. I’m distracted by the back-and-forth pull between her hands and the horse. While it’s necessary to be in control of your mount, I had a feeling she hadn’t ridden much before, and it was making both me and her mount very nervous. 

“I am Esta. I have only heard of you, and hoped to meet you. I haven’t met any humans before.” 

From the matter-of-fact way she spoke, I’m unsure if she realized that wasn’t a fantastic statement. I manage a smile. “Well, I’m nothing special.” 

“Then we must disagree!” She laughs, and her horse skitters sideways at the sudden noise. I lean over, my arm spanning the short distance between our saddles, and take hold of her reins. 

“Loosen your grip. You’re making her nervous - give her her head, then she won’t fight you so much.” 

Esta’s own shoulders loosen as she relaxes her hands, and the horse below her gives an approving huff and shakes out the tension in her neck. I straighten, looking ahead again. But that last thing Esta said - well, my curiosity gets the better of me. “What do you mean?”  

“I think you’re quite brave.” She responds earnestly. “There are those who have served the guard for far longer and still would not dare to take a horse and make their own way into an ungol’s nest. And to return alive after that!” 

I frown. “That was me being an idiot, not bravery.” 

“Still, a great feat. To be honest, many did not expect you to last in master Curunír’s arena, let alone the forest. And you are not afraid to speak your mind, even to Captain Ettrian!” 

The man in question looks over his shoulder, his eyebrows knotting. “Are you speaking ill of me?” 

“No, no. I only offered Leoma my compliments, but I fear she thinks I am spouting nonsense.” Esta says dismally. I shrug, unable to disagree. But the look on her face makes me feel a small twinge of guilt. 

“I’m quieter in Sindarin,” I say, trying to give an explanation as to why my answers are so short. “I’m actually quite funny, you know. If I knew more words.” 

“And your original language is Rohirric? You are quite far from home.” 

“What?” I only recognize part of that word. Rohir - horse - and I can’t help but be briefly offended. Is it because I work in the stables? I try to subtly lift my shirt to my nose. I don’t even smell like horse. Well, no more than what would be expected.

Ettrian speaks again, but this time he doesn’t look back at us. “Stay your tongue, Esta. Leoma is not from Rohan.” 

Esta flushes. “I only thought - the way you ride, and your complexion-” 

No, I don’t want to hear anything about my complexion from a white girl. I nod my head at her, giving a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been riding since I was young, but I’m not… that. Um, no hard feelings.” With that, I squeeze my shins against Gwinig’s side, urging her forward, next to Ettrian. 

“She is young, and says things before thinking,” he murmurs quietly. “She did not mean to cause offense.” 

“I know that. And there is none taken.” Well, maybe a little. I look over at him. The sun has risen enough that it reflects against his hair, making it a stunning bronze. I realize that I’ve looked at his hair a lot recently. And his eyes. And his face. And maybe I should stop doing that. I blink, focusing on the crown of Gwinig’s head, between her pricked ears. “Um, what is Ro.. Rohirric?” 

“It is a language of man. You do not know it, for you would have spoken it before now. We tried.” He gives a wry chuckle. “You will remain a mystery to me, I suppose.” 

“Hey, me too.” I grumble. “I'm just as in the dark as you are.” 

Our horses slowly climb upwards, the road melding from forest path to a rocky incline along a river. At the crest of it, I see, in the distance, where the river empties - a lake so long that at first I think it’s the sea. Fog curls upwards from its dark waters, rolling towards the trees. Below us, the land plateaus for a mile or more before foothills bump up against a great mountain. 

“There it is. The Long Lake. Come, this way.” Ettrian nudges his horse forward, down to a shoreside road that follows the curve of the lake. Gwinig follows without my needing to urge her, plodding along at a steady pace.

The sun climbs higher as we travel north, burning away the fog. The next time I happen to look towards the lake, I see a smudge on the water. No, not a smudge - ruins. A black, burnt mass of wood that had once been… what? A town? A fortress? Who on earth would build that in the middle of the lake? 

“What is that?” I glance towards Ettrian. He follows my line of sight, squinting across the water. 

“Ah, that. The ruins of Esgaroth. It burned some sixty years ago.” 

“Some days, you can still see the amlug’s great wings just below the water,” Esta pipes up behind me, and I nearly turn a three-sixty in my saddle to look at her. Amlug - that’s a new one. It doesn’t take much more than my befuddled look for her to elaborate. “Ah, I forget you do not know. It is a great flying beast, as big as a city.” 

“Breathes fire,” Ettrian adds helpfully. “He went by the name Smaug. You could see his flames from Felegoth.” 

“Fire…” I shake my head. “You’re talking about a dragon.” I mumble that in English, and of course they don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s always a bit uncomfortable when I do that, because my language is as strange to them as theirs is to me. We fall into silence again, with only the occasional command from Ettrian and the quiet lull of conversation behind us. 

Five more miles down the road, I see signs of life: wagon-tracks and signposts. The letters are not Tengwar, but a script I’d seen before, both in Felegoth’s library and in Lariel’s personal collection. We split off from the shore-road at a fork, traveling northwest towards the edge of the forest. “Is this still Eryn Lasgalen?” I ask Ettrian, motioning towards the trees.

“Yes - and no. The trees are too thick to pass through on horseback, so we take the river road and double back to make camp where it is easiest to hunt. The king’s borders go as far as the tree-line; every limb, nut and acorn belongs to him. But Eryn Lasgalen is only one small part of Taur-nu-fuin.” 

Well, the more you know. I sit up in my saddle, balancing on the balls of my feet to try to see as much as I can. The forest was dense when I was in it, but it stretches as far as the eye can see from north to south. “And the human city? Where is it?” 

He points with two fingers to my right, towards the foothills in the shadow of the great mountain. Even from this distance, miles away, I can see a massive gate carved into the face of it. “Near the mountain. You may hear the bells when they mark the hour.” 

I’m only slightly disappointed that I can’t see the city yet, and I feel uneasy about returning to the trees. But we stop the horses at the edge of the forest, where the pines are still thin enough to let light filter through. I dismount, tying Gwinig to a tree near Lariel while the other elves fall into the rhythm of making camp.

Most of the day had been consumed by travel. There’s no better time for a bonfire than a cool autumn night, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding firewood, which had been one of my many duties back in Felegoth anyway. Rovain builds the fire and soon flames are jumping three feet high in the air, with the rest of us lounging around it waiting for a couple pheasants to roast - courtesy of Fierdan and another yellow-haired elf that I don’t know the name of. 

It was not dissimilar to the first banruist that I attended; many of the elves here were the same that had attended that night. Even if the food is slightly more unseasoned - and I would greatly miss the cooks in Galion’s kitchen - the chatter and jokes were much the same. 

Ettrian must have noticed me picking at the pheasant, because he sits down beside me, nudging his shoulder against mine. “Not hungry?” 

“Too nervous.” I murmur, shaking my head. I’m hungry, but every bite sends my stomach roiling. But I don’t want him to know exactly what I’m nervous about - that I won’t find what I’m looking for. That I won’t be able to get home. That, even among my own people, they’ll look at me like I have two heads. That I won’t find anyone who speaks the same language that I do. Ettrian starts to respond, and I quickly blurt out, “About hunting. I, um - I’ve never, you know - I’ve never hit a moving target.” 

“Ah.” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Well, there is a first time for everyone.” 

The flames are dancing lower, warming my outstretched hands to that near-burning sensation before I yank them back and press them to my cheeks. “It’s chilly,” I say, trying my best to continue the conversation. After tomorrow, I’ll probably never see him again. Should I not make the most of this time?

Wordlessly, Ettrian draws his cloak from his shoulders, dropping the length of fabric over my own. I’m already wearing mine, and it’s definitely not cold enough for double layers. “I didn’t mean- what if I get too warm now?” 

“Will you let me be nice to you for one final night?” His eyes catch the firelight, twinkling one moment and shadowed the next. It makes him look content and sad at the same time. 

“Yeah, like you’re always nice to me. What’s in it for you?” 

“Nothing at all. Isn’t that the definition of the word?” 

He’s got me there. I can’t help but laugh, a soft one, and wrap the double layers of elven wool tighter around me. “Thanks for the extra layer, then. Don’t take it back when you get cold.” 

Ettrian flexes his arm, slapping his bicep. “Elves are built to withstand extremes. I would not worry.” 

Rolling my eyes, I stand up and move towards Gwinig, where I pull my bedroll from her saddle. Extra warmth will come in handy for sleeping under the stars, but I roll it out close enough to the fire that I still feel its heat. I want to get enough sleep to prepare myself for tomorrow - I have the feeling it will be a long day. 

Some time later - either a few minutes or an hour, as I float in and out of sleep - Fierdan pulls out his harp and begins to sing a lullaby about stars like jewels and tree-tangled lands. His voice lulls others to bed, as conversations die out and the group finds their sleeping arrangements. I keep jerking awake at every snapped twig or loud step. That’s how I know that Ettrian is the one to spread his bedroll about a foot from mine. 

He stretches out with a huff, and I keep one eye cracked open for what seems like too long. Has he fallen asleep? It’s difficult to tell with elves, since the pesky bastards like to keep their eyes open. I slowly sit up, my eyes adjusting to the dying embers. Fierdan is the only one awake, poking it now and again with a stick. He pays me no mind. 

To my left, Ettrian is stretched out, one arm tucked behind his head. His cheeks and nose are red, and his eyes wide open. I wave my hand above his face. No reaction. How unsettling. With a sleepy, jerking move, I pull his cloak away from mine, static sparking from the wool fabric, and loosely drape it over his torso. Good enough. 

“‘Night, buddy.” I mumble. I don’t think he hears me. Flopping back to the ground, I close my eyes and let myself dream.

✦

The small camp is abuzz with activity the next morning. I have the habit of waking with the dawn now, a habit matched by the rest of the Elven party. It's barely light out when I try to shake off the last remnants of sleep and reattach my bedroll to Gwinig’s saddle. Someone’s prepared a breakfast of steaming oats mixed with wild berries, a sort of purplish-blue mash that looks unappetizing but a hot bowl of which fills my stomach with warmth that seeps out to my bones. 

Ettrian moves through the camp with quiet efficiency. I’ve never truly seen him as a captain, and I didn’t really think he had it in him to hold a position of that caliber. I wait for him to give me my position, or some order of any kind, as he seems to be doing - but instead, he drops a single sentence before moving on. “You will stay with Esta and the horses today.” 

I ball up my fists in protest, but I don’t even have to defend myself. It’s Lariel who steps forward. “I think there is a better place for her. The camp is not so big that you need two sets of eyes.” 

Ettrian’s lips press into a frown, his eyes darting down to my hands as if he half expects me to throw a punch. Of course, I won’t. Yet. “Leoma, you do not know how to hunt deer, do you?” 

I scowl. “No.” 

“I think it would be wiser if you stayed behind, my friend. We will move more swiftly and more quietly with a smaller party.” 

“And how will she ever learn, if we are not to teach her?” Lariel’s usually calm voice takes on an edge, a clear challenge to Ettrian. “She will stay beside me. I will take responsibility should anything happen, but trust me when I say I will not need to.” 

My own lips twitch in a smile, though it falters when I realize that Lariel, who has stood up for me since day one, does so now because she knows I’m leaving. And god, I will miss her. 

Ettrian only gives a single nod of his head in response and moves on. I wish I could be more frustrated with him, but if I was in his shoes, I would have made the same decision. I don’t know how to hunt, and I would only slow them down… 

But I don’t want to be left behind. 

“Thank you.” I turn towards Lariel, and she smiles down at me. “You will do well today, Leoma. Just stay close to me, and trust yourself.” 

I nod, but I can’t help but feel the weight of my nerves pressing down on me. Lariel notices, her eyes flaring wide. “And how could I forget? You cannot hunt without a bow.” 

“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle awkwardly. “I thought I wasn’t allowed weapons?” 

“And I said I would take responsibility.” She winks at me, unbuckling a strap on her saddle to free a slender longbow and tooled-leather quiver of arrows. “I always pack a spare.” 

With the bow settled in my hands, I take a moment to run my hand across the silken-smooth wood, feel the grip in my hands. It’s lighter than the ones used at the training grounds, and well-taken care of. I test the bow-string, the chord settling firmly in my fingers when I tug on it.

“I’ve taught you well, I see.” Lariel says quietly, patting my shoulder. “I’ll miss you on the training field.” 

I look up at her, my eyes burning-hot from suppressed tears. “I-I’ll miss you, too.” 

A sharp whistle from Ettrian interrupts us, signaling the start of the hunt. I secure the quiver of arrows to my back and sling the bow over my shoulder before following the group into the forest. One last look behind at Esta finds her quite content and relaxing under a tree, so I resolve myself not to feel too bad. 

Then the forest closes in around us and all I hear is the quiet shuffle of leather boots on the forest floor and birds calling in the trees. Near Felegoth, the forest is so dense that sunlight barely makes it through the tree-cover; here, light casts dappled shadows on the ground. Ettrian leads the way, Rovain by his side. It’s evident they’re experienced trackers, because the pair of them look at the ground and conclude that a small herd passed this way not twenty minutes ago. I look at the ground and see dirt. 

A little ways more and Ettrian motions with his hands to spread out. Lariel reaches for my wrist, pulling me with her through the underbrush before depositing me in front of a tree. “Stay here,” she whispers, her voice impossibly quiet, on the brink of me being unable to hear. With two fingers, she gestures to my right, mouthing, I’ll be over there. Then she’s gone, ferns swaying in her wake. 

I’m tense with anticipation, drawing an arrow from my quiver and nocking it in the bow, my fingers tracing the fletching. One minute turns into two, then five, then a long stretch that must be only fifteen but feels like an hour. My calves burn from crouching in the underbrush and I slide down into a seated position, leaning my head against the tree trunk. After all, it’s just a waiting game, right? 

But not two minutes later, I hear a rustle in the woods that isn’t the wind, and a huff that isn’t from an elf that’s royally pissed off at me. 

It’s my first time seeing a deer so close - and not roadkill on a backwoods road in Georgia. Smaller than a horse, gingerly picking its way through the ferns, nose to the forest floor. The animal sports a small four-point rack and bears a white stripe down its chest. When it raises its head and sees me, I think we both feel a similar panic, though mine is colored by guilt as I fumble for my bow and discarded arrow. 

By the time I let the arrow fly, the young buck is already bounding into the woods. I scramble to my feet, swearing under my breath in English. Some distance through the trees, I hear Ettrian’s orders to track a kill. He was right about the herd, then. I wait for Lariel to come fetch me, but she doesn’t. What direction did she disappear off to, again? As my eyes search my surroundings, I see a glint of red on scattered leaves. 

Blood. 

Shit. I swore I missed. 

Lariel told me to stay where I am, but I conveniently forget that as I crash through the forest, following the trail of blood spotting the ground. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Ettrian was right, after all. I’m not prepared for this. What happens when I find it? Carry it back to camp by myself?

Where even is camp? 

And there it is, lying in a heap on the moss, tawny rib cage expanding as it struggles to breathe. My arrow is lodged in its midsection, though the fletching has snapped off. Its hide is stained red, fur matted below the wound. Its nostrils flare as it looks at me, dark eyes hollow with acceptance. 

I feel like I’m about to throw up. 

I’d never been squeamish before, and certainly understood why hunting was necessary both here and on Earth. But to come face-to-face with an animal that has to die by your hands, and knows it, is another thing entirely.

The animal lets out a low groan of effort as it tries to get its feet under it again, only to pause with its front legs bent at an awkward angle under it, and, after a moment, gives up on escaping and lets its head flop back down. I drop to my knees next to it, biting my lip. “I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry.” My hands tremble as I reach for the arrow-shaft, then hesitate. I went to veterinary school to specialize in farm medicine, but here, without tools or antiseptic, on a wild animal… even I know there’s nothing to be done. I can’t take this one back. 

And the buck knows it, too. It seems to stretch out its neck in anticipation, perhaps, now, awaiting the end. I have no knife to cut its throat, and I reach for the quiver of arrows, bile rising at the thought of putting this animal out of its misery. 

God, I really should listen to Ettrian more. 

I grasp the shaft of a new arrow, holding the razor-sharp head against the deer’s throat. The artery would be underneath my fingertips, similar placement to a horse’s. And yet… I can’t do it. 

Falling back, I make a distressed noise that sounds like gaaueeugh, somewhere between a sob and a groan. The deer only breathes, more slowly this time.

“Leoma!” 

My head jerks up. Not a voice I instantly recognize, but I’d never been so grateful to see Fierdan as he lifts a branch to walk under it, gripping a hunting knife in his other hand. Wordlessly, he goes on one knee in front of the deer, blocking it from my view. When he stands, its throat is sliced, his knife going back on its belt. 

“Is this your arrow?” He asks, extending a hand to help me up. I take it, nodding. “Y-yeah. I… I couldn’t kill it.” 

His eyes have a kind understanding in them. “Come. We thought you lost. The hunting party is this way.” 

The lithe elf bends down, easily lifting the carcass onto his shoulders, and I follow behind, slowly, my eyes on the ground. It isn’t a far walk at all; certainly not more than a quarter of a mile to the clearing where the green-cloaked elves are regrouping. I count seven deer carcasses, including mine. 

“I found her,” Fierdan announces, dropping the deer onto a makeshift sled that I don’t recall someone bringing. “With her quarry.” 

Ettrian uncrosses his arms from over his broad chest, eyes darting to me in surprise. “You did this, Leoma?”

“Well,” I say weakly. “Fierdan helped.” 

I must still look a little green, because Lariel wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You did well,” she murmurs in my ear. “And you are very brave. Come, I’ll take you back to camp.” 

And so I lean against her as we walk, rejoining Esta back at the camp, where we rekindle the fire and Lariel brews three cups of an herbal tea that smells like lemons. By the time the rest of the hunting party return with the proof of their - our - success, I feel much better, though I prefer to lie down in the sunshine and shut my eyes for a while so that I don’t have to watch them skin the beasts. 

The late afternoon sun lulls me into a comfortable nap, and I’m grateful that nobody disturbs me until Lariel gives me a gentle shake. “Wake up, Leoma. It’s time. We ride to Dale.” 

I’ve never gotten to my feet faster. “Shit, o-okay. I’m coming, I’m coming.” 

“There is no hurry,” she says quietly, this time following me as I speed-walk towards Gwinig. I can only grin at her. “What else can I do? I’ve waited too long.” 

“Ah, yes.” I elect to ignore the disappointment in her tone, and swing into Gwinig’s saddle. One by one, the hunting party, saddles laden with furs and horses dragging racks of wrapped meat, follows Ettrian out of the woods.

Not twenty minutes later, I hear what sounds like church bells echoing through the valley. Ettrian glances at me from his place in the saddle. “I told you, did I not? The bells mark the hour. We are close.” 

There it is, a city sprawled before the lone mountain. Stone towers rise up to kiss the sky, illuminated by the afternoon sun. Our road joins another one, well-grooved from travel, and as we get closer to the city, we overtake people on foot, leading horses or donkeys attached to carts filled with cabbages or sacks of grain or laughing children. 

I can feel my heart squeezing in my chest. I don’t want to kid myself. This isn’t going to be easy. But it will be one step closer, right? And I’ll be among my own. And… 

And, oh my god, it reeks. 

As we enter the city gates, I let out a strained cough, trying not to be too obvious in shielding my nose with the edge of my cloak. Ettrian dismounts, holding Gwinig’s reins for me. “This is Dale,” he says with something of a knowing smirk at my watering eyes. “You will get used to the smell.” 

“Uh-huh. I look forward to it.” I dismount as well, tying Gwinig to a post with the other horses. One thing that I’ll miss about Felegoth is that nobody shits in a bucket and tosses it into the street. I square my shoulders in preparation, and Ettrian settles his hand on my right. “Before you go, I wanted you to have this.” 

He presses a small bag that jingles like coins into my hands. Money. “Oh.” I blink. I wasn’t expecting anything at all, but it would be helpful to have legal tender on my person. “Thank you. I-I, uh. Didn’t get you anything.” 

Ettrian chuckles. “And I was not expecting it.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you require anything else…” 

“Wait.” I try to stop my eyes from stinging. I just have one more question. “Why.. why did the Elvenking let me go?” 

He shrugs, busying himself with something on his saddle. I suspect he’s pretending. “I do not pretend to know the whims of the king, Leoma. But I believe it was something the prince said to him.”  

“Oh.” 

That answers… none of my questions, and only leaves me with more. But maybe it’s better that I don’t drag out this goodbye. “Um, ‘bye, then.” 

“Farewell.” He does not turn around. 

But I do, and I force myself to walk away, towards the loud and crowded market square. It takes a grand total of two minutes before someone shoulder-checks me, a bearded man with a dirty nose that gives me a withering look and says something guttural in an unfamiliar language. 

I feel like I’ve been plunged in cold water, remembering the dungeons of Felegoth. Remembering the struggle of not knowing anything anyone said to me. Said about me. “S-sorry. Sorry.” I mumble, first in English, then in Sindarin, hoping that he might understand one or the other, but with a huff he’s already gone. I risk a glance backwards, but find that the crowd has already blocked my view of the entrance of the marketplace, and of the elves. 

Shit, okay. Well, I’ll be fine. I’ve always figured something out.

The narrow entrance of the market widens out into a spacious square, giving me some breathing room to take in my surroundings. Various stalls line the walls, a stone staircase with low steps leading up to another, equally crowded city level. Vendors hawk their wares loudly in that language I can’t understand; it sounds sharp and grating to my ears, unlike the gentle and melodic flow of Sindarin. There’s fruits, vegetables, bolts of fabric and giant wheels of cheese, racks of river oysters as big as my hand on beds of salt and ice. Those only cost a single coin for a few, which I shuck and slurp down in front of the stall after spending an embarrassing amount of time trying to convey how much I wanted to buy. The brine and chill of the cold mollusk sliding down my throat shocks my senses and keeps me from a mild panic attack. 

Though, to be honest, oysters were never my favorite thing to eat, and definitely never without hot sauce, but what can a girl do? With one less coin in my pocket, I move on, my ears tuned for any hint of a familiar word, yet knowing that I won’t hear it. 

I don’t mean stop again. I’m not here to shop, after all. At the very least, I feel that Ettrian could have dropped me off at whatever passes for a foreign embassy here. It’s a big city - there has to be someone who can help me. But the elves were here for their own purpose, and I’m grateful they escorted me as far as they did. Even though I’m now lost and alone and feeling very sorry for myself. 

But there’s a woman in a nearby stall, bent with age. She has a scarf loosely wrapped around her head and her wrinkled skin is the same shade as my grandmother’s, though that’s where the resemblance ends. She’s speaking with a customer, but when they move on, her eyes meet mine, and they are tender. She beckons me over with a calloused hand, and says something in that tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” I say faintly. “I don’t understand.” 

The woman nods and beams, showing off a fantastic set of teeth for her age, saying something else as she pulls out a wooden tray segmented into several little partitions, each one glinting with beads. Then she gestures to my hair, and pulls the scarf away from her neck enough for me to see the woven lengths of curly silver hair, each braid capped with one of those beads.

I touch my hair, at the tips of my box braids secured with a small length of leather chord. The beads are beautiful - wooden, bronze, or pewter, plain or etched with geometric designs, some of them painted bright jewel tones. After a minute of picking through them, I pull out a coin, showing it to her. “Um, how much can I get with this?”

She shakes her head, adamantly refusing payment, and drops three beads into my fist. My heart breaks at the gentle smile, the knowing look in her eyes, and I pluck another coin from the bag and put it on the table in front of her. “For your kindness. Thank you.” I mean, what was I going to do? Steal from this sweet woman? I’m not the type. 

I turn to go and she calls something that may have been wait, spreading her hands at the bead tray again. With an encouraging smile, she gestures for me to choose some more. And I do - plain bronze ones, one pewter etched with a miniscule leaf-and-vine motif, and one painted forest-green. I try to pretend I’m not choosing these for any particular reason. There should be enough for each braid in my hair, and I deposit them safely in my bag. She says something else, and all I can do is smile and nod like I vaguely understand. 

God, this isn’t going to work. How can I accept someone’s help here when I don’t even know the words to ask? 

Making my way to the stone staircase that I’d seen earlier, I sit down on the edge of one of the steps. It’s wide enough that people pass to my left without paying me any mind. I lean my head against the low hewn-rock barrier, my gaze focusing in and out of the throng of people. Not a single elf. I would’ve been able to pick them out in the crowd, I’m sure. No, I don’t miss them. Not even a little bit.

My gaze falls to the ground. There’s a litter of puppies playing near one of the stalls, where a tethered mutt must have been the mother. A little scraggly, with coarse-looking fur in shades of yellow and gray. I lean over, rubbing my fingers against my thumb to try and beckon them. “Here, puppy-puppy-puppy. Come here!” 

They’re more interested in each other than me, and in a child that hands onto his father’s hand and seems to beg to buy one. 

God, we never change, do we? 

I wipe my eyes. Not crying. Swear I’m not. But I’ve also made a decision. 

If I’m going to keep searching, I’ll do it when I know I’m ready. And right now, I’m not. Completely ill-prepared for anything beyond the Greenwood. And, yeah, that’s not my home either, but… I won’t be lost again. 

I stand up, shouldering my way through the crowd. It couldn’t have been too long, right? They couldn’t have left yet. Even so, I remember the road back. Past the lake… over the river… miles and miles and miles on foot. No, I have to find them. Now. 

“Ettrian!” 

I break free of the crowd on the other side of the market with a cry almost too shrill from my ears and the elven captain, carrying a sack of grain, almost drops it. 

“Elbereth!” He exclaims in surprise. From my understanding, that’s like saying Jesus Christ when you stub your toe. “Leoma, I- Give me one moment.” And I do, waiting while he places the sack of grain in the cart, his biceps flexing under his tunic, which I’m totally not focusing on. 

“What happened? Are you alright?” Lariel is there, too, hovering by Ettrian’s shoulder as he turns around to face me. I nod, cringing slightly. “Y-yeah, I just, um… I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m not… ready.” 

The pair of them share a look, and Lariel wraps her arms around me in a warm hug. “So be it. Welcome back, my friend.” 

“No arguments? I thought you’d be mad.” I chuckle nervously. “I can never make a decision.” 

“And one this momentous should not be made in haste.” Lariel says firmly, pulling back. Ettrian reaches for my shoulder, pausing for a moment, before he gives me a hesitant pat. “I, ah… I suspected.” He says finally. “That you would return. And I am glad you did. When you are ready, and with the king’s leave, I will take you wherever you need to go.” 

Warmth spreads through my body from the point of contact. My cheeks flame, and I look down at the ground. “Thank you.” I can say nothing else. My tongue feels altogether too big for my mouth. 

For now, at least, I am not so afraid of the world around me, and my little room in Felegoth is good enough. I take Gwinig’s reins, and we turn towards home.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE I

Ettrian.

"Quiet," Legolas snaps over his shoulder. "Have you forgotten our purpose here? It is no game, captain."

Ettrian's laugh dies in his throat. He rolls his eyes, sending a look to Lariel beside him that imparts what he thinks of his lord prince: he's taking this too seriously. Just a routine scouting party, after all, meant to check the borders for orcs, and Ettrian has it well in hand.

"Yes, my prince." Ettrian bows mockingly and splits off from the hunting party, into the underbrush.

He takes not four steps before he nearly trips over a human.

This was highly unusual. Not just for him, because he was a creature of such grace and importance that he could never suffer the embarrassment of tripping - but moreso because, as far as he was aware, there was not a single human this side of the forest's border.

"Just ahead," he heard Lariel say behind him. "There's something there."

"It's just Ettrian," came another voice, soft and low.

"Unless my eyes mistake me, there is something else there." The scouting party fans out around Ettrian, all looking at the human woman nesting on the ground. There is only a moment's pause before she twitches, and six arrows are pointed at her. Still she does not wake; it is true, then, that humans could sleep through any amount of danger as peacefully as a baby. How they ever survived into adulthood, Ettrian does not know.

He nudges her with the tip of his boot, eliciting another twitch and a grimace on her face. Her eye cracks open and she sits up, her head nearly knocking his bow loose.

"How have you passed into the Greenwood?" Legolas barks, his voice brimming with the authority that made him so suited to princehood. "What is your business here?"

Nobody expected her to say she was a witch, of course, but nobody expected her to say something in a language that no living being in Middle Earth understood, either. Ettrian exchanges a puzzled look with Lariel, whose eyes of river green-blue are blown wide. In a few words, everyone in the scouting party that day was struck with extreme and acute befuddlement.

"Take her," Legolas says, jerking his head. Ettrian surges forward, hooking his hand under the girl's upper arm with the assistance of Gwilain. She lets out a whimper akin to a kicked dog, and he feels a small ounce of pity for her. She is wearing no shoes, and seems to struggle over the barely-there paths hewn into the forest floor. Indeed, she is wearing very little of anything at all; her shirt hangs loosely over her frame, sleeves not even reaching her elbows, and her bottoms would not even pass for underpinnings. All of it is streaked with dirt. Had the scouting party not happened upon her, Ettrian supposes, she would not have been long for this world. If the spiders didn't get to her, exposure certainly would have.

He would have spoken to her, but, like many humans, she seems to be a regular idiot, and he is not one to waste time. She barks a few words in her strange tongue here and there when she stumbles or slows and he nudges her between her shoulder-blades. At times, she looks as if she's about to bite him. "Do you think they carry diseases?" He asks Gwilain, and the blonde elf chuckles in wry amusement. "Aye, but they catch it among themselves. Don't worry, she'll wear herself out."

She did, eventually, her steps slowing by the time they reached the great bridge before Felegoth, and seemed loathe to cross it. "It is safe," Ettrian coaxes, in an attempt to get her to cross. Less like a dog and more like a skittish horse, now. "By the light of the trees, I don't think she's ever seen a bridge before."

Gwilain gives her a push - Ettrian would not say it was gentle - and she snaps again, snuffling forward on cautious, bare feet. It takes painfully long to follow her, up through the gates of Felegoth and into the drafty halls within, perfumed by the familiar scent of old knotted pine. Hushed conversation is silenced by the prince's sharp voice. "Lariel, Daelen - take her to the dungeons. Ettrian, with me."

Ettrian's shoulders sag in protest for a brief second before he snaps back to attention, refusing to let the prince see the change in his posture. As one of the captains of the Greenwood guard, Ettrian finds himself, more often than not, in Legolas's chambers, with orders being poured one ear and spilling out the other. Regrettably, he finds it hard to listen, especially when he could be putting his feet up and enjoying a tankard of ale.

"Did you not hear me, captain?"

"I did, my prince. Forgive me." Ettrian's tone drips with sarcasm, and when Legolas's blue eyes narrow at him, he gives the princeling a sloppy smile. He falls into step beside the blonde prince, giving one last glance over his shoulder at the human girl. She's already disappearing down the dark corridor that curls down, down, deep into the dungeons.

He should not care about the state of her. It's better that he forgets, but he's a curious fellow - and something about her is so... well, curious.

The pair walk in silence for a few steps, and with each clack of the prince's boot-heels against the floor Ettrian's ire grows. Just say it, say it and be done with it, so that he may go on to drink a few flagons of beer and sleep off the headache.

"Is this meeting a reprimand, my prince? If so, I'll save you the breath. As captain of reconnaissance in the guard, I'm well aware that my actions today were inexcusable." He fights the urge to roll his eyes; it was a laugh, nothing more. "But with our prince leading the scouting party instead of myself, I thought we were well in your capable hands."

Legolas gives him a look, his clear eyes squinting in slight disapproval. "Thank you for your awareness, captain, but I wanted to speak with you about the girl."

"Oh, well, I suppose I should have kept my mouth shut." Ettrian says as the pair reach the wide doors leading to Tham-en-Ernil, the chamber where the king's son conducts most of his business, and holds the door open for his prince. "What about her?"

"What do you make of her presence here? This deep in the Greenwood, her entry undetected." Legolas moves to his desk, to pore over the scattered maps laid across it; from the movement of his fingers across the parchment, Ettrian can see that he is tracing paths from the borders to Felegoth. Looking for some weak spot, some hidden trail.

Perhaps security had gotten more lax in the decades following the Necromancer's exit from Dol Guldur. Whatever spiders remain in the forest exist in small colonies, their numbers fewer and fewer with each hunt. In his many border patrols, Ettrian had found evidence of humans from settlements on the eastern borders of the forest hunting within the sparse trees, but largely they avoided the interior. Indeed, there hasn't been an outsider this far in the Greenwood since... some sixty years ago, with that troublesome band of drunken dwarrows.

"A lost traveler, perhaps?" Ettrian shrugs, leaning against the edge of the large, ornately carved desk, casting his gaze down at the maps. The black line that marks the Gûlduin, the long, enchanted river that cuts a path north through the Greenwood, is partially blocked by Legolas's finger. If she'd come from the settlements around Dale, she'd have to cross the Gûlduin... and if she'd done that, she would more likely be in such a deep sleep she wouldn't wake until she's old and gray. But, seeing as she's quite alive and quite irate... "Or simply a fool who wandered too far from her kind. Either way, my lord, I doubt she intended to be found."

Legolas frowns. "A careless answer, even for you." His finger moves west, through the thick of the forest, towards the valley before the Misty Mountains. There were humans that lived there, sparse as the settlements were. "You know as well as I do that no human should be within our borders, let alone one who speaks a tongue unknown to us."

"It could be that she fell from the sky, my prince." Ettrian offers in his wry tone, but it doesn't look like the prince takes his joke well. The red-haired captain throws up his hands in defense. "Or perhaps the orcs try their hands at a new game, sending human strays to test our patience." If the orcs, indeed, were smart and capable enough to carry out such a plan. Their raids were usually ill-thought-out, and the captain can tell that his prince doesn't like this answer either.

"You truly believe she poses no threat?"

Ettrian purses his lips. He cannot answer, but his silence is enough.

"Our borders have never been so easily crossed." Legolas continues, straightening and folding his hands behind his back. "Not by accident, and certainly not by someone so... ill-prepared for survival."

That earns a snort. She did, indeed, seem to be more equipped for sleeping in a warm bed rather than in the dirt and moss, but Ettrian never tried hard to make sense of the choices of mortals. "What do you want from me, then, my prince?"

"I want your eyes and your instincts. You are sharp, even when you choose to play the fool. Something is at play here. Take a small party and scout our borders. I want to know every path, elf or deer or squirrel. This is no ordinary breach of our borders. Until we know who she is and why she is here, we must assume the worst. She stays in the dungeon."

"And you'll let Lariel watch over her?" Ettrian chuckles. "She has a soft spot for lost and hurt things."

"Then she would be better off with a dog. Don't test my patience, captain."

"Aren't you the one who says that patience is a virtue?" Ettrian makes his way to the door, preparing to leave. Things to do. The work never ends, and his ale will have to wait. "She's just a girl. An idiot, perhaps, but she's not the first babbling fool we've found. Gollum - "

Legolas raises one hand. It's enough to silence him, and the prince shakes his head. "I do not believe in coincidences. If she was sent - or brought - by something darker, then we must be ready. If she is a pawn, then I must know who set the board."

"You think it is the Necromancer?"

The prince's eyes, blue and still as the surface of a lake, are unreadable. "As I said, I do not believe in coincidences."

Ettrian's throat bobs as he swallows, and bows. "Understood, my prince. I will return shortly." He steps backwards, out of the oaken doors, and lets them shut behind him with a hollow thud. It echoes in his bones, and he stands there for a moment, rubbing his jaw. Dol Guldur had laid silent for decades. The Necromancer is gone, well and truly. Darkness was slowly seeping from the Greenwood, replaced with warmth and light and green leaves.

And yet... and yet...

He feels uneasy.

She looked small, and very harmless, earlier, even barking in her strange language. Such a girl as that couldn't be a servant of darkness.

Could she?

Ettrian shakes his head again, mostly to convince himself, and turns on his heel.

✦

There are no answers in the forest.

Ettrian and the two scouts he took with him, Gwilain and Fierdan, found her tracks. Some of them, at least - easy to identify by the bare footprints, spiraling through the forest in such a way that suggested she'd been lost and trying to find a path until she became too tired to go any further. And when the trail ends, it's in the middle of the forest, near no such path, far from any border, farther still from Dol Guldur. As if... she'd simply appeared.

And Ettrian must return to his prince a few days later with no news at all.

"Have you told your father?" He asks, once again standing with arms crossed in Tham-en-Ernil. This time, Legolas is sitting behind his desk, his thumb and forefinger resting in a pinch on the bridge of his nose.

"He knows what he should. That a human girl was found and is in our possession. And you bring me nothing else to tell him, I see."

Ettrian spreads his hands placatingly. "I told you what I saw. We tracked her footsteps backwards until there were no more. Either she came from the treetops, or there is some strange magic about her."

Legolas doesn't like the word magic. He pins Ettrian with a look, and the captain sighs. "Has she said anything?"

"Nothing that we can understand. She seems to beg and plead, here and there, from what Lariel says. But we can only guess at what she's asking for." Legolas rubs his forehead, as if the whole thing is giving him a headache. Ettrian feels one coming on, too.

"So she is either very good at acting, or she truly doesn't speak any tongue known to us." It's pointing out the obvious. "Has Lariel learned her name, at least?"

Legolas refers to a note scribbled on his desk. "Leoma, if that is to be believed. Her age unknown, origin unknown, motive..."

"Is that not a Rohirric name?" It seems strange that a girl from Rohan would find herself this far northwest, but the alternative was stranger still. Ettrian didn't yet want to believe that she'd fallen from the sky, or, as he'd heard some elves whisper, that this was all too similar to the appearance of the Maiar centuries ago.

Yes, the Maiar had appeared on Middle Earth in disguise and babbling in strange tongues, but Ettrian trusts his gut enough to know when a wizard is in front of him, and that girl is no wizard.

"Yes, but she does not respond to Rohirric. If anything, some of her words resemble Old Hobbitish, but by-and-large unrecognizable. Lariel has some grand plan to teach her some Sindarin, but whether or not that will provide answers... time, I suppose, always tells."

And it does. The next time Ettrian sees the girl, it's weeks later, when she's brought before the Elvenking. He'd heard from Lariel that the human girl picked up Sindarin more rapidly than one would expect. She's hiding something, he'd told his friend, who laughed it off and responded, she's simply desperate. She wants to understand.

Dirtier than he recalls, but her eyes are sharp with determination, if not a little clouded by fear. One would expect that, when taken before the Elvenking, especially when Daelen is your handler. Ettrian watches as she steps into the hall, cautious, but with her chin aloft in such a manner he felt that she was trying to convince herself that she wasn't afraid more than anyone else. And that, he could tell, was no lie on her part.

King Thranduil sits upon his throne, regal in his leisure, his expression as unreadable as his son's. It must run in the family, and Ettrian finds that the most irritating of all between them. Speaking in orders and riddles and smirks. For a moment, the only movement in the room is the idle tapping of Thranduil's fingers on his cheek, as if he's considering an unspoken question.

The air is so tense that Ettrian shifts his weight from one foot to the other, shifting his eyes to the girl. His eyes run the length of her body, from the flaring of her nostrils to the swallow of her throat, the rapid rise of her chest as she inhales, the skin of her knuckles paling as she clenches her fists. And yet, under the searing gaze of the Elvenking, she folds, almost instantly. Her knees give out and she falls before she's even told to kneel. On instinct, he reaches to steady her, but he's too far and... actually, he doesn't care enough.

"What do we have here?" Thranduil finally speaks, his voice filling the room with the swell of his authority. "This is the trespasser you found in my forest, who speaks no tongue we know?"

Ettrian steps forward slightly, holding his hand over his heart as he offers a bow. "Indeed, my king. I was the one who found her. Lost and sleeping. What trail she left in her wandering was either washed away or deliberately concealed." Or... simply did not exist.

Thranduil straightens, his hand moving from his cheek to the elegant armrest of his throne. "And have you learned anything of value from this... lost girl?"

It is Daelen that answers. "Nothing aside from her name. She refuses to speak any human tongue, but has picked up enough Sindarin to understand basic commands. Beyond that, my king, it appears she knows not where she is or how she arrived here."

The Elvenking's eyes narrow slightly, and he looks directly at the girl. Her head is bowed, eyes trained on the floor beneath her. "And yet, here you are." He says. "A human, alone in the depths of my realm. How did you come to be in Taur-nu-fuin?"

There is silence. She moves not a single muscle. Just as Daelen makes a move to shake her, she looks up, staring up at him with some pleading gaze. The dungeon-guard gives nothing in response, and when she finally speaks, it's in broken, thickly-accented Sindarin.

"Please," she utters. "Repeat?"

"How," Daelen repeats, his jaw gritting with frustration. "Did you come to be in Taur-nu-fuin?"

She pauses, and then shakes her head. "I don't know."

Of course she doesn't. A useless interrogation, Ettrian thinks, and wishes he were elsewhere. The girl shifts on her knees, and the guards behind her shuffle, reaching for their swords. Ettrian stops them with a single look - that's completely unnecessary.

"Boom. Here." She sounds as if she does not quite believe it herself.

"Where did you come from?" Daelen asks, and receives no answer beyond a blank look. "Why do you not speak the Common Tongue?" All questions she'd been asked before. Bringing her before the Elvenking would not change her answer, though she only seems to become more nervous by the second.

And when her handler asks her, "Do you know Mithrandir?" Ettrian sends a sideways glance to Legolas. If asking her such a question is because of the baseless rumors that this dirty human girl is one of the Maia, he'd need to have words with the prince. But Legolas's gaze is trained on the human, a slight furrow in his brow, rubbing his chin.

"Yes," she responds, and there is another pause of complete silence. Daelen looks from her to the Elvenking, but Ettrian's gaze doesn't stray from her bent form.

She's lying.

He knows it.

Not that he can see, physically, what her tell is. But he can see how desperate she is. Latching on to something, anything, to save her skin, if she perceives herself to be in danger.

The king's eyes narrow further, almost imperceptible to non-elven eyes. The type of gaze to peel someone apart, layer by layer, and Ettrian can see every hair on the back of the girl's neck raise. "There. The one name she claims to know, my king." Daelen says, with an underlying tone that he doesn't quite believe her.

This the king seems to consider for a moment, tilting his head to the side as he examines the prisoner before him. If the Valar sent a messenger in this form, it's a joke of cosmic proportions. "Or she attempts to deceive us with the one name she has heard in passing. Mithrandir is known far and wide, among all peoples. Any fool could claim such knowledge."

Ettrian resists the urge to snort. It isn't funny, watching her sweat, but a lie told in a room of elves will soon be caught. Still, there is a strange tension in the air that makes him uneasy, like the air before a storm, charged and heavy.

But it disperses when Thranduil lets out a sigh and flicks his wrist to dismiss the tension. "She is either a fool or ensorcelled, and she will keep her secrets as long as she is kept in the dungeon. Give her comfort, but keep her under watch. If she means the Woodland Realm harm, it will be revealed in due course."

Ettrian steps forward, bowing his head as he speaks. "My king, forgive me. It will cost you less to send her back to the dungeon."

"Perhaps it would. And yet, if the whole of my guard cannot keep an eye on one human girl, whether or not she is what she claims..." Thranduil trails off, but the implication is clear.

And Ettrian doesn't like being told how to do his job.

There's a bitter taste in the captain's mouth as the two guards that flank Leoma bring her to her feet and take her from the hall. On his way out, he catches Legolas by the prince's upper arm. The prince flicks his eyes down to Ettrian's hand, but the captain doesn't move. "I will not be the one to play her nursemaid."

"You will do what is ordered of you, captain." Legolas shakes off his hand with a roll of his shoulder. "You are dismissed."

Ettrian is starting to believe that the prince does not think of them as friends.

✦

She's terrible at running.

She's terrible at most things, but running is, well, pretty basic. The first morning that she's roused for training, she grumbles what seems to be something unsavory, puts on her boots, and trips thrice on the way to the training field. Would if he could laugh, but Ettrian holds his tongue. Time goes on and he watches her slog her way through basic training - things elflings mastered before their second century - and the first time she fires her mock arrow without the string snapping against her arm, he almost feels a need to applaud her.

And she has picked up Sindarin, too, more quickly than he would have expected. His "Good morning, oh ye of mortal bones," is returned by "I don't know what that means" and, eventually, "Stop calling me that, fuck-face." He wasn't the one to teach her swears, either, though he's impressed at how quickly they assimilate into her vocabulary.

And so the weeks pass by slowly, and he watches, as commanded, and somehow it isn't so agonizing as he thought it would be.

The days, long as they are, bring a cool breeze at night. With them comes feasts and fires. Not ones that you would find in the Elvenking's great hall, but nobody knows how to celebrate like a wood-elf with a bottle of ceuránsuc. And Ettrian knows that the prince allows such jest and immorality under his nose because it boosts morale - of which there is a severe lack in the winter months - even though Legolas himself would be loathe to turn up to such a party.

And if there were ever anyone more in need of a morale-booster, or at the very least a shot of ceuránsuc, it would be Leoma. Her overall pallor, he assumes, should be better for someone several weeks out of the dungeon, but Ettrian doesn't consider himself an expert on human moods. But he isn't blind, either. He knows what exhaustion looks like. The grayness under her eyes; the way she lets her shoulders slump in the brief second before she realizes someone's looking. And in some strange way that fascinates him.

Nobody expected her to last more than a week, least of all him. But by the Valar's will, if she isn't determined. Maybe stubborn is the better word. Human nature.

And so he watches.

On occasion, she watches him too.

He'd catch her stealing glances at him, and he'd look away, feigning disinterest, though he felt that his silence was as much a part of their little ritual as her glares. She certainly is never very responsive when he tries to speak to her. She's a funny girl, when she does find the right words. When he pokes fun at her, she'll serve it back to him with a truly vicious intent, and Ettrian takes it with glee.

Perhaps that is why he admits to himself, in small doses, that he doesn't mind his job so much anymore.

He has eyes on her now. Leaning against a fence-post, rolling a withered blade of grass between two fingers as he watches Leoma spar with Curunír, or try to. The movement is clumsy - too slow for proper maneuvers, yet too quick for her own sense of balance - but she's kept her feet beneath her so far today.

Beside him, Fëanil, a fellow guard, shakes his head in silent laughter and Ettrian cuts his eyes away from her. "Do explain yourself. What is so funny that it's keeping you from your task, soldier?"

Fëanil suddenly becomes very interested in tidying a stack of practice swords. "Sorry, captain. Only that it's a welcome distraction to watch someone else undergo Curunír's torture."

Ettrian straightens, raising one eyebrow. "And I recall you looked the same the first time you picked up a sword. Legs all over the damn place. Hustle, man. Move it, or you'll be cleaning up the arena tonight."

The young guard bows his head and scurries away. Ettrian rubs his chin. The bânruist tonight is not necessarily a closed gathering. Would it be so terrible of him to bring her?

She does not belong, part of him sings, and the other part, slightly more empathetic - only slightly - feels that she already knows that. Belonging has nothing to do with it. The girl needs a damn drink.

That's how he finds himself working alongside her in the stable. This is the only place that he's seen her at ease. With a smile, even, though few and far between, and only directed at the horses. She has a nice smile, he thinks to himself. Most humans have blackened teeth or none at all, but hers are a pearly gleam of particular rarity.

Of course, he would never tell her that.

"I'd like you to come with me tonight," he says, surprising even himself with his bluntness, pitching muck from the stalls.

Leoma's brow creases and she puts her head down. "Where?" She asks it as if he's holding her by the neck and making it a demand.

"A bonfire." She has no reaction except that her movement slows for a brief second before she quickens again. Ettrian stops, straightens, and leans on his pitchfork, resisting the urge to rub his forehead. This is already a disaster.

"How do I explain this? I am no teacher." His grumble is meant to be for himself and himself alone, but she, being not deaf, hears anyway. "Then don't bother."

And yet he must bother. He feels as much determination to get her to, above all else, relax those fucking tense shoulders as she must be in her determination to ignore him. Are they locked in some perpetual tempest, as Glorfindel fought the Balrog of Morgoth in Gondolin?

"No, I must. You must. Come with me." He breaks his stance to assist her by grabbing a bucket of water to flush out the stones dirtied by muck and mud. He certainly is no teacher; that isn't part of his job. But he tries to explain, anyway. "A bânruist is a gathering of friends. We build a great fire, where we sit and sing songs, eat and drink. Merry-making, really. Quite exclusive."

She thinks he can't see the flush of her cheeks. "Then why are you inviting me?"

The words rush out of him before he can help himself. "Because you are my friend, Leoma."

It does not feel like a complete lie. He'd been near her for the past thirty days, and you can't be so close to someone for so long without developing either fondness or deep hatred. He certainly doesn't hate her.

But whether she believes him or not is a different story. In any case, she's waiting there at sunset, like he'd requested, and turns her nose up at his arm when he offers it to her. Ettrian scoffs to himself. She's a rude one, isn't she? Though it's not as if he hasn't dished it back to her in equal amounts.

"Is it far?" Leoma asks, uncertainty wavering her tone, though the way she holds her chin implies that she doesn't want him to think she's scared. Ettrian tries to keep himself from being too miffed that she didn't take his arm, letting it drop back down to his side. "Why, are you scared?" He cannot help but goad her, and then immediately regrets it as she gives him a look that would instantaneously curdle milk into cheese. He corrects himself. "It's not that far, Leoma. Look - you can see the fire."

The orange glow blazes just beyond a ring of trees, still in sight of the city gates. Within the circle of birches, their bark nearly bronze from the light of the fire, a group of a couple dozen of Ettrian's comrades mill about. He can see they've already cracked open the ceuránsuc without him, the bastards. He turns to Leoma, to say the first words of welcome, but she's already broken away from his side, towards Lariel and Rovain. And he tries not to feel too snubbed.

"You look displeased." A voice says near his shoulder, and Ettrian jumps. Gwilain - lieutenant, and Ettrian's friend of three centuries - is already red-cheeked from alcohol, or the heat of the fire, or a combination therein. He follows Ettrian's gaze to Leoma, and crows knowingly, clapping Ettrian on the back with such force that he stumbles forward. "Oh-ho-ho! And was this excursion by order of the prince, too, or your own genius idea?"

"I'd thank you to be quiet, and give me that bottle," Ettrian growls in return, snatching the brown flask from Gwilain's hand and bringing it to his lips. The clear drink burns his tongue and throat as it rushes to his gullet and somehow he cannot drink enough.

"You're not one to drink so much when you have work in the morning." Gwilain observes, patting Ettrian's still-smarting shoulder as the redhead wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tell me truly, is the human giving you a hard time?"

"You could say that." Ettrian rubs his jaw. "She and I seem to be cut from the same cloth. Have you ever seen someone else so very.. irritating?"

"Listen!" Gwilain laughs excitedly. "He finally admits it! He's irritating! I shall have to tell everyone."

"I still outrank you." With one look, he silences the lieutenant, and leaves him there despite Gwilain's protests that Ettrian is still holding his flask.

It is soon emptied, anyway, paired with the slow-roasted swine, but it isn't enough to rid him of the gnawing in his stomach. When Rovain finally vacates the seat next to Leoma, Ettrian finds himself standing, pushing his way through the chattering crowd to her side. The deep red of dying embers hides his own flushing face; he's been drinking too much.

"Are they going to start singing?" Leoma asks him, her eyes not on him but on the bard Fierdan, whose long fingers are tuning the harp settled on his knees. Ettrian leans forward, his elbows resting against his own knees and his fingers laced in front of him. His voice is quiet, barely more than a murmur. "Trading songs around the ruimen is a very old tradition. Listen."

The song is one he's heard many times before. The story of Elu Thingol and his Maia-bride Melian, the first King and Queen of the Sindar. Yet Fierdan's voice is nearly lost to him, fading into the background as he stares into the dying embers and warms his hands. It's a story so ancient that it had almost passed into legend, when gods still walked Middle-Earth and the Light of the Trees shone in Valinor.

It's at that line in the song - the land in which the Deathless go - that Ettrian drags his eyes to Leoma. Plain she is, and human - an imperfect creature. Unlike him in every way, in clearness of voice or clarity of word or sureness of step. It's strange to him to think that she's young now, lovely by some standards, full of all the stubbornness of her race and tomorrow she will be bent and gray. He wonders how she can handle time passing so quickly. How any human could come to terms with the insignificance of their lives. That must be, he supposes, why they multiply so quickly. Like rabbits.

By the time the song ends, there are tears threatening to spill from her eyes and Ettrian cannot help himself. His hand, larger than her cheek, cups it briefly to wipe it from her skin. "It's not so mournful as that, is it? It's a love story."

"About who?" Leoma's voice is trembling and she smacks his hand from her cheek, rubbing her eyes with balled-up fists, a gesture so immature that Ettrian laughs to himself. "It is the song of Elu Thingol and Melian. Melian was a Maia - " She interrupts him to butt in, "A what?" Which he ignores and finishes his sentence. " - Whose singing was renowned in Valinor."

"Where?"

The land where deathless go. The land he would be called to one day, if an orc's arrow or his own sheer stupidity didn't kill him first, and she would long be dead.

He pushes her with her shoulder. "Quiet. Let me finish." She laughs at him, for the first time that evening. He cannot tell her that he thinks she's quite pretty when she laughs, which is a very sudden and shocking realization for him.. "As I said, her singing was renowned in Valinor, and she filled the silence of Middle-Earth as she taught the birds to sing."

"She sounds like a great lady," Leoma says, still chuckling, her head tilted towards him. Listening to him rather than Fierdan's song, which gives him another boost to his already inflated ego.

He'd heard the song, and the story at large, so many times as a child that it came naturally to his lips and for some damnable reason, Ettrian wants her to keep listening to him. To have her hanging onto his word - for her attention to be on him and not the damned bard that already had three girls on his arm.

"A great king, Elwë, entered the enchanted forest where she dwelt, and, enchanted by her voice, he became forgetful of his purpose. When he came upon her, he took her hand, and a spell was set upon them so that he forgot his people, and he abided by her for many years." Ettrian watches the flames shift in the reflection of Leoma's eyes and wonders, for a brief moment, if Melian was truly so lovely. "When he finally returned to his people, he found that many had sought Valinor in his absence, but those who stayed built the kingdom of Doriath and became the Sindar of Middle-Earth. And Melian became his queen."

Leoma seems very interested in her hands. "Was he your king?"

Whatever spell has taken hold of him is dropped. He barks a laugh, shaking his head and punching her lightly in the shoulder, albeit maybe too roughly. "By the Valar, no! Do you think me that old?"

"I don't know," Leoma mutters, turning her eyes away from him. "So what's a Maia?"

The grand beings that aided the Valar in the creation of the known world, of course, and for a brief moment he's surprised she does not already know. Then he remembers how little she knows of everything, and how often he wonders if it is all an act. So he explains it to her, as he would a child. Simple enough for her to understand. "Someone... who came before elf-kind. Ancient and powerful. Helped to shape our world."

She's silent for too long, and the fire is already dying down. He slaps his hands against his knees, getting to his feet. "Well, the hour grows late, and you have training tomorrow. I'll walk you back."

He offers Leoma his hand, and is mildly surprised when she accepts his help while claiming she doesn't need it. Her palm is small in his, and slightly clammy. As they walk away from the circle, he's far too aware of her shoulder brushing his, and cannot help but chuckle to himself. Maidens cannot help falling in love with him, can they?

The short walk is consumed by idle chatter between them, and then he finds himself in front of the door to her room in the guards' barracks. "Here I am," Leoma says softly, the door-knob rattling as she struggles to open it. He reaches over her, his hand covering hers to twist the knob. It's an old castle; he can't blame her for struggling. "There you are." He murmurs, stepping away. "Good night, Leoma."

She doesn't say it back, and perhaps that is for the better. He turns away, the melody of Fierdan's song rising to his lips as a hum. Behind him, he hears Leoma's door shut, and he quickens his step until he's back outside, the night air a cool kiss against his skin. By the time he's returned to the fireside, it's dwindled to half a dozen of his cohort.

"You look like you're about to do something foolish." Rovain cocks a blonde eyebrow when she spots him re-enter the fold.

Ettrian has a smile dancing on his lips. "Ah, I think I already have."

✦

"Captain!"

The urgency in the young guardsman's voice demands Ettrian's immediate attention. He hadn't been planning on attending the hunt today, and this better not be a request from Legolas himself. There is, indeed, nothing that Ettrian can't stand more than pompous Imladris emissaries, and it is only by the skin of his teeth that he manages to be cordial with them when they come to the Greenwood.

"What is it?" He asks, preparing himself for the worst.

"She's gone."

Oh, he wasn't expecting that.

"Leoma?" Ettrian resists the urge to grab the guard and shake him, as if it was his fault. "A hundred men in the courtyard alone preparing for the hunt, and nobody could stop her? Are you all functional idiots?"

"I-I do not know. The guards at the gate did not realize she wasn't an Elven rider until it was too late."

Rage curls in Ettrian's gut for a brief second before it turns into worry, so much so that his skin prickles and he would have run after her on foot if he was thinking any less clearly.

The stupid girl, the dim-witted fool, if anyone was a functional idiot it was her - and before he knows what he's doing he's at the stables, taking the reins from a blue-robed ellon from Imladris who splutters at the indignity. He has one foot in the stirrup, pulling his horse next to Legolas's steed as he finishes mounting. "I feel like this is a lesson for you," he growls. "Keep her caged and she will want to escape."

"I will not have your judgment on this matter. We will find her." Legolas barely spares him a glance.

"She knows nothing of the forest. She has nothing to protect herself with!" Ettrian's anger rises with each moment that Legolas does not act. His horse, sensing Ettrian's urgency, prances back and forth and chuffs.

"Good thing we prepared for a hunt, then." Legolas raises his arm, gesturing forward. "Taurlach, with me! Shoot every ungol on sight. Anything that moves on two legs - bring to me."

It's one of the few times that Ettrian thanks the Elvenking for maintaining one road in and out of Felegoth. The hunting party thunders down the wooded path, the noise too loud for him to speak or even think, which may be for the better, because he doesn't think Legolas would like to hear anything from him.

And something concerningly like fear tightens in his chest with each passing second. The Greenwood has a way of deciding someone's fate for them, and Leoma... by the Valar, she hasn't yet been given leave to carry a dagger, let alone any larger blade. If she strays too far from the scouting paths - to the Ungol nests that haven't yet been cleared - further still, if she makes it to the borders of the forest, she'd be roasting on an yrch spit before sundown.

Dear gods, he wants to find someone to blame for this. No, most of all, he wants to find her.

The hunting party begins to split off, scouts branching into the forest until he, Legolas, and two others remain on the road, two abreast; the prince in front with one of the path-finders and Ettrian behind him with an archer. "You fear for her safety," Legolas states. He must have felt the fiery daggers Ettrian was glaring into the back of his silver head.

"I will not lie," Ettrian says through gritted teeth. "You instructed me to watch her, and I have. If I once thought she was some dark servant, she has proven me wrong. Thoroughly. Never before have I seen someone more incompetent than she, and now she's alone in the fucking ungol nests of all places. So you'll forgive me if I seem a little anxious."

"We will find her soon enough." Legolas responds. He radiates confidence, as if he's utterly sure that their quarry will be around the next bend wearing a sheepish smile. Ettrian resents it in that moment, resents the easy calm that Legolas wears like an untouchable cloak. You do not care, he wants to say. You cannot care like I do.

It is then that a sharp horn sounds through the trees, disturbing a flock of birds overhead. Ettrian's head swivels. "They have her."

He would quicken his pace if Legolas weren't riding in front of him, and the princely bastard canters forward leisurely. It seems like far too long before they arrive at exactly the scene Ettrian expected: a couple dead spiders and Leoma looking like she'd taken a beating from them.

One of the archers has his arrow trained on her, and Legolas's voice rises in command. "Lower your bow, Urúvion. She is no threat." The damnable forest and its tight spaces. He's not even sure she can see him there. See him worrying. "My prince, I -" She starts to say, and Legolas cuts her off. "I did not give you leave to speak."

It's a silent command; a promise that he will speak to her when they return. When he turns his horse homeward, he pins Ettrian with a look that says, you take care of it. Then - "The hunt continues. I promised the lords of Imladris a quarry of ungol. Riders, with me."

Then he's gone, and one by one the other riders follow him, until Ettrian is left.

The worry has faded from his bones in such a way that all that's left is frustration. He holds out his hand to her, and says the wrong thing. "You're a stupid girl."

She stares up at him, her cheeks red and tears clouding hazel-green eyes. She says nothing, but her lips tremble as if she wants to, and when she does speak he can tell she's trying to hold back a maelstrom. "You've never been hated, have you?"

Ettrian looks behind her to the corpses of spiders larger than himself lying on beds of rotten leaves and muck, then back to her. He doesn't know how to say that he wishes he was the one to kill them. "I do not hate you, Leoma." She is infuriating, bull-headed, as stubborn as a rock and he wants her to stay that way, and stay here, in the Greenwood, where things are simple. It isn't as if she has anywhere else to go. "Let's go home."

She says not a word, but after a moment's pause, slips her hand in his and lets him pull her onto the horse and turn back towards Felegoth. She sits rigid in front of him and he tries not to make it obvious that he has his arms around her in case she decides to jump ship - or, in this case - horse. The ride homeward is quiet, suffocatingly so, until they're back in the stable courtyards and dismounting. Ettrian casts another look at the cut on her upper arm, blood already drying on her skin.

"You should see to your arm." He says, sliding the reins off his horse's head as Leoma hangs about with an awkward air. She still won't meet his eyes, her lips pressed in a sullen line. "Am I allowed to?"

He closes the stall door and latches it before he looks at her again. "You are no prisoner, Leoma. You can walk freely, wherever you choose."

"As long as it's within the city." Leoma still wants to argue, does she? Ettrian fights the urge to rub his forehead. Headaches should not come so often to one of the Eldar. He steps towards her - she shrinks back, only slightly, but still enough to catch his attention - and he hesitates for only a moment before he grasps her upper arm and turns it to the light, examining the cut. She's lucky it was only this. She's lucky... and he's lucky, too... that he didn't find her in a web of silk, already turning gray.

"After today, do you not understand why that was for your own protection?" He cannot hide the exasperation in his tone. The entire city still speaks of her like she's some darkling, some servant of old evils that his people have not yet forgotten. That is why they give her no knife, no sword, nothing that she could turn on those around her. Nothing that she could wield against the ungol of the forest. And she'd still run out on her own, completely unaware of the trappings of the forest. "You know nothing of this land, Leoma."

Leoma does not pull away from him like he thought she would, and her skin feels warm against his fingers. "Maybe if you explained to me, I would," she snarls in return, but there is less malice in her voice, and more hurt.

And he cannot find the words to explain to her. How could she not know what every child, human or elf, in a hundred leagues does? He leads her towards the door of the stable, his touch gentle. "Follow me. I'll show you to the infirmary."

It isn't far from the training grounds, and it's a path he's taken many times before, having known his fair share of cuts and bruises. She says nothing, and he doesn't either. The silence hangs like a thick cloud. She's difficult, utterly difficult, but silence is a rarity between them, and this feels more difficult to bear than anything else.

When they reach the infirmary, it's empty aside from the healer. Nesta is working in quiet solitude, and straightens when she sees him, greeting him with a smile. "Ettrian. And... I do not know your name." He doesn't catch the way her tone shifts into one of disdain when she sees the human girl at his side, who dips her head in response. "Leoma."

Nesta keeps her mouth shut, but takes Leoma's arm with experienced hands and examines the cut. "You thought this necessary for my skill? Such a little cut barely needs a bandage."

Ettrian cuts a glance to Leoma, whose expression tells him she did not quite understand Nesta's words. And he doesn't stoke the flame. He only rolls his eyes, offering Nesta's name where she didn't give it. "Leoma, this is Nestariel. She means well."

Which may have been a small lie on his part. He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest as Nesta cleans the wound and bandages it with no further complaints, and seems pleased with her work when she's done. "There. You will live." She crosses to Ettrian, handing him a bundle of white cloth gauze, and directs her attention back to Leoma. "Now, I do not want to see you back in my infirmary until you have lost a limb."

She means well, yes, typically. But today her words seem particularly cutting, and Ettrian has other places to be. He tucks the gauze in his tunic and offers his hand to Leoma to help her up. "You're too kind. Leoma - it's time to go."

Leoma ignores his offer, already getting to her feet and tossing him a particularly dirty glare. He chooses to believe she doesn't mean it. When they leave the infirmary, he plucks the gauze from its protected place in his pocket and hands it to her. Not seconds later does Leoma utter, "She likes you."

"What?" He almost stops walking - forgetting, first, who Leoma may be referring to, and then shaking it off. "No. She's a friend. Nothing more." Of course, Leoma wouldn't know the complexities of relationships between male and female elves. He'd known Nesta since they were elflings, but never felt anything for her but a distant fondness. He could not expect anything but the same from her.

"Well," Leoma says, as if trying to prod at him, trying to poke light at the tension between them. "She could've handed me the bandage."

Ettrian feels something tightening in his throat - something invasive - something he rather hates, and he changes with subject rapidly. "You are imagining things." And he hopes she is, for if Nesta held feelings for him, he would not be able to return them. An elf feels love so deeply, with such ardor, that it only comes once in their long life. "Come this way. The prince will want to see you."

He still feels resentment, a deep knot in his gut, towards Legolas, but knows that he will want to question Leoma nonetheless. He would stand beside her before the prince, challenge Legolas on her behalf, but the fact still remains that she escaped, and that did not curry favor in the prince's eyes.

"He's back already?" Leoma asks, sounding more and more as if she'd rather be somewhere else, as they turn a corridor and approach Tham-en-Ernil, the prince's formal chambers.

"I would imagine." Ettrian stops in front of the ostentatious doors. Better to get this over with than let her sit in a torturous sweat. He pushes open the doors, bowing his upper body as he enters the chamber. She follows, her body bent at a deeper angle. Legolas is before them, his fingers tracing a map of the Greenwood, and barely gives them a glance.

"Leave us, captain." With a small wave of two fingers, he dismisses Ettrian, and the elf curls his fingers into a fist, briefly, before stretching them out again. He will hold his temper - for now - and save himself from a sure lashing. Before he leaves, he gives Leoma a small nod.

She does not look reassured.

When the doors close behind them, he crosses the corridor, bracing one arm above his head as he places a hand on his chest.

Be still, heart. He tells himself. She is here. She is unharmed.

He raises his head, but the wall in front of him offers no comfort or answers, not that it would on any other day. He would beat his head against it if he thought it would gain him more sense. But he's not a sensible creature at all.

No, he could not return Nesta's feelings, for an elf only feels love once in their life, and he suspects his heart belongs to another.

✦

"You invited her?"

Ettrian stares at Lariel with a particularly slappable expression of bemusement on his face.

"Why would I not? I obtained permission."

"Be honest with me, Lariel. Who do you favor, me or her?" It isn't that he wants to be Lariel's favorite, necessarily, but he's well aware that Leoma wants nothing to do with him, and it'd be nice if his friend of a few centuries was on his side.

Lariel scoffs. "You grow less favorable by the day, my friend. Suck it up for one night. You may even be able to use this as an opportunity to apologize." She pats his chest, then pauses to fix his sash. He looks down at himself, judging his appearance, and then wonders if he's an elf or a pigeon to be so preoccupied with such a thing. For the attention of a woman, no less, who still looks at him like he's an amusingly-shaped blob of mud on the ground.

"You say that as if I've never taken responsibility for my actions," Ettrian responds dryly, turning away from his friend. It is the feast of Teluyavië, and the hall is aglow with candlelight. For days, servants had been carrying in stacks of wood to light the ruimen - the great central hearth of Felegoth - to carry through the winter. For days, Leoma had not spoken to Ettrian, and he tries his best not to dwell on it.

He hadn't sought her out, either. She sequestered herself alone, adamant that she should have no company but the guard assigned to her. Still angry at him, at Legolas, for not letting her go. And he let her be angry, for he had no place in trying to comfort her.

"And when have you?" Lariel responds, her tone light but not enough to hide the subtle accusation underneath. Very rarely, he can agree on that. Ettrian is much more the type to skirt the boundaries of obligation and moral responsibility. He's not Legolas, after all.

So he chuckles and lets her win in this argument, sitting down at one of the long tables groaning with the bounty of the year's final harvest. The last of the summer berries, wood apples with skin like shining gold, mushrooms roasted with herbs and nuts, roots of all colors. Trenchers of bread and aged cheeses, pheasants stuffed with apples and onions, cakes with honey, herbed river fish, venison. Felegoth rarely wants for any luxury fare, but Teluyavië is the one feast of the year where Galion's talent shines. And Ettrian's attention is entirely on the food - on loading his plate high with it - when he sees her.

Lariel is approaching with Leoma at her side, and he drops the wooden spoon that he was using to scoop mushrooms onto his plate and stands so abruptly he nearly knocks over his chair. He pulls out the empty seat next to him - only one - and looks over Leoma's shoulder at Lariel, silently begging her to let him have this one win.

He's grateful that the blonde elleth seems to get the message and moves on.

Leoma looks surprised to see him. "Ettrian," she utters. "You..." And then nothing else.

Maybe he'd already spilled wine on his tunic. But it's Teluyavië - someone is bound to. "Me," he responds, keeping his tone even with the strength and restraint of Manwë Súlimo himself, yet he cannot stop the smile that plays on his lips. "You look well."

Well does not even suffice. Her hair, usually kept in braids, falls to her shoulders in dark curls the same color of the changing leaves. Her green eyes, sharp and regarding him with no small suspicion, are made all the more bright by her dress, a green of equal splendor that lies against her frame as if a second skin. He only now realizes that he had never seen her in anything but her uniform before this night.

No, she's beautiful, and he opens his mouth to say it, but what comes out instead is, "Your seat." With some amount of embarrassment, he nods at the chair he'd pulled out for her, and she quickly takes her seat with a simple "thank you" and not even a look.

He stands there a moment, gaping like a fish, then rubs his chin. It's clear that she has no interest in playing nice. He cannot help but feel slightly offended that she would not look at him, and then he takes it upon himself to be the bigger person and sit down next to her, his chest puffed like it doesn't bother him at all.

On the other side of Leoma, Gwestir is pouring her a glass of alcohol. Alcohol litters the table in jugs and bottles - spirits, meads, and the finest wines in the king's cellar - and he would have paid it no mind had Leoma not taken a sip and immediately begins coughing as if she is taking her last breath.

Dorwinion wine - famous for its strength of body. A particularly heady wine that could lull even the most tolerant elf to sleep. For a human? One sip would be enough. Ettrian leans over, his eyebrows creased in concern and irritation at Gwestir's ignorance. "You poured her a glass, Gwestir? She'll be asleep before the king's speech."

Leoma is stubborn, though. She raises the glass to her lips again as if it's a taunt. "What does it matter? It's just wine."

He raises his eyebrows as he watches her slowly drain the cup. It's a marvel she doesn't turn green at the end of it. "An... incredibly strong wine. Made for elves." She's still going. "And even then, elves who can tolerate their alcohol."

She stares at him above the rim of her cup and says something in her mother tongue. It seems to take her several moments to realize that he doesn't understand a bit of it. The next thing she manages to muster is, "I'll be fine."

Oh, he can see that. Seconds after one glass and she's already having trouble seeing straight. He pours her a glass of water, watching her sniff it as if she's suspicious of it. But she does drink it without further complaint, and grimaces when it's done, before picking up her empty wine goblet and giving it a decisive sniff. "What's in that stuff?"

"Grapes." Gwestir chimes in where he isn't wanted.

"It's Dorwinion wine," Ettrian reaffirms, cutting the other elf a glare. Leoma looks halfway between a happy drunken stupor and as if she'd been drinking brine, which is surprising for a human; most would be on the floor by now. She looks at him, noticing his eyes on her, surmising that he's judging her in some manner - and he supposes he is - and balls her fists against her dress. "I'm fine."

He nods, letting her believe that. One glass may be more than she can handle, but with luck she'd eat enough to fight off the oblivion. Her plate is full, but he catches Gwestir saying something else - that she should soak up the alcohol so that she can drink more - and Ettrian thinks that's a stupid idea.

"She won't be drinking any more." Maybe his tone is too final, and Leoma likes to contradict him. He watches her pour another glass down the hatch and ask him, "When did you become my keeper?"

When the prince ordered me to is the correct answer. But if anything, he'd save her from making a fool of herself. Already, Felegoth at large sees her as a roaming oddity. Can she not see he's trying to help?

"I'm a friend," he stresses, wanting very badly to rub his temples. "And a concerned one."

Leoma does not respond with anything but a glare, and he lets her play the petulant child while he turns to the elf sitting on his right - Fingalas of the bowmen and a notorious gambler. He has a sly grin on his face and a coin spinning in his fingers. "Big winnings tonight already?" Ettrian asks, nodding to the coin, and Fingalas shrugs, "The night is young. And you? Babysitting duty tonight, is it?"

His patience is already frayed enough as it is. Ettrian sighs. "Babysitting implies the subject is willing to listen."

Fingalas flips the coin; it glints gold in the air before he catches it with practiced ease. "She's got the whole hall whispering. Didn't know if she would attend or not. Tell me, are you trying to keep her out of trouble, or getting her into it?"

That earns Fingalas a pointed look; gossip spreads like thrush through the ranks of the guard. Yet Ettrian was already aware that it had been a contested subject - whether or not Leoma would turn up at the feast. Humans weren't barred from Teluyavië, but Leoma isn't exactly a guest of the Elvenking.

"I am only trying to keep her from drinking herself under the table and giving the whole of the city more reason to wag their tongues. Not that it's any of your concern."

"I think it's every bit my concern." Fingalas responds, all smooth-tongued and glinting eyes. "The feast is dreadfully predictable, Ettrian. I'm simply searching for entertainment, and the pair of you are the most interesting thing here by leagues."

"You'd find intrigue in a puddle if you stared long enough." But Ettrian's lips are twitching in reluctant amusement. The pair of them, is it? He shouldn't like the sound of that as much as he does, and he immediately feels rotten after.

Fingalas raises a dark eyebrow. "Careful, Ettrian. I may start to believe you find me dull. But speaking of puddles…" He gestures subtly toward Leoma, with her head still close to Gwestir's. "If she's not to drink more wine, at least try to convince her to smile. She's got a scowl that could sour cream."

Ettrian follows Fingalas's gaze, squinting at the elf on the other side of Leoma; did he or did he not just pour more wine in her goblet? "I'd settle for anything but a glare."

"Ha! That is likely." Fingalas barks a laugh and rests his hand on his cheek. "Perhaps, in time, she'll stop looking at you like an overgrown nettle and start looking at you like something... edible." He grins wickedly, looking like quite the fiend, and before Ettrian can rebuke, the hall quiets, signaling Thranduil's approach.

Before turning his attention fully to the king of the wood-elves, Ettrian casts a final look at the back of Leoma's head. She's swaying gently in her seat to invisible music. Perhaps the night may yet pass without incident, but he isn't holding out any particular hope.

"Great friends of old, my kinspeople and subjects, we all gather now under the light of our sacred stars, to celebrate the fruits of our labor, of Yavanna, and of the great forest that we call home." Thranduil's voice, powerful enough to carry over the host of elves, fills the room with its authority. Applause meets it in kind. "Tonight is a night for drinking and making merry, as I know many of you have already begun. But the wine is sweet and the pitchers are plentiful, so by my blessing..." He lifts a hand, and the applause ceases. "We will drink until dawn!"

"Almië!" Came the resounding cheer and deafening applause. Ettrian's glass is refilled, drained, refilled again. He feels naught but a tingle at the ends of his fingertips.

After another motion for silence, the elvenking continues his speech. "The sun has set on autumn, and as we enjoy the last bountiful feast of its season, I bless the lighting of the great ruimen to see us through the winter." Fire roars to life in the great hearth, light casting a bronze glow over the room. Ettrian is seated too far from it to feel its warmth, but it will remain lit throughout the long freezing months of winter, as it had for thousands of winters before. Thranduil raises his cup to his people, rings glinting on his fingers even from afar. "Now, eat, drink, and dance like your king commands it." He drains his goblet and throws it on the floor in a show of careless exuberance; there will be many goblets littering the ground before the night is through.

The music starts again, quick-paced lyre songs that seduce the body to dance. Ettrian prefers to keep his attention on the food, resolving within him to ignore Leoma and how much she's drinking. He'll let her reap the consequences of it; the mind-numbing headache the day after.

But it's within the hour that Fingalas nudges his shoulder. "Your little friend is drawing quite a lot of attention."

He hadn't noticed Leoma leaving her seat. Ettrian turns, searching the crowd until he sees her with Lariel, in the middle of the circle of elves. All are dancing, but hers is certainly the most... interesting. He stands, finding himself among the circle to watch her. Leoma throws her hands up in a jerky movement, gyrating her hips against the air, alien to the graceful flow of those around her. It's met with delight, if not some befuddlement and a ripple of curious whispers, and laughter, as those watching her clap their hands to encourage her display.

He'd never seen her so... loose.

As if, for once, she cared nothing about the expectations of those around her.

It's by entire coincidence that Legolas had also found himself in the circle of dancing, standing there now with a goblet clutched in his fingers and his other arm held behind his back, poise completely stiff compared to the wild gesticulation of the partygoers. Ettrian sees him across the way, seeming utterly unconcerned, engaged in quiet conversation with some lord or other. He also sees Leoma, unaware of her path as she raises her arms and throws an imaginary lasso towards her victim. It may have been Lariel, but the elleth had moments before stepped slightly to the left, and Leoma, eyes closed, is a storm barreling for Legolas Thranduilion. Her hips thrusting in the air leave little imagination as to an ulterior motive.

It is not his place to stop her. When she stops before the prince, several scenarios flash through Ettrian's mind. It may be that Legolas is patient enough to laugh it off, or it may be that this is the spectacle that compounds Thranduil's ire to make an example out of her. Or, worst of all, it could be that he simply didn't want her that close to another man.

Whatever the reason, he steps forward, grasping her wrist and hissing, "Leoma, get yourself together."

She whirls on her heel, her green dress fanning out in brilliant waves, and her palm connects solidly with his cheek.

For a moment, all is silent, save for the lyre music. Then quiet murmurs, whispers. The sting blooms hot across Ettrian's face and he does not let go of her wrist as she sways, finding difficulty keeping her balance. He grasps her shoulders, not fully knowing what to say himself, and he's never at a loss for words.

Count to five, he tells himself. And keep this as a lesson to never save a drunken fool from themselves.

And, finally, Legolas laughs, breaking the humiliating silence. A chorus of similar chuckles tentatively follow. "We all know the effects of Dorwinion wine on the mortal body." He waves his hand dismissively, as if the whole thing never happened. "There will be more and higher foolery before the night is through. But perhaps you may escort Leoma to recover elsewhere."

"Of course, my prince." Ettrian responds, and looks down at Leoma. Her forehead looks clammy, lips pale. "Ah.. Leoma? Are you alright?"

She cannot respond, for it's at that moment that her knees seem to fail her, and she would've crumpled to the floor had he not caught her. Breathing, but otherwise unconscious. The wine is taking its toll on her.

As the crowd - with its amusement thoroughly knocked out - disperses, Lariel comes up to his side, laying her hand on Leoma's forehead. "I will take her to the infirmary. You seem..." She trails off, as if she doesn't want to accuse.

He seems like what?

No, he doesn't want to know.

"She cannot walk." Ettrian responds gruffly, lifting her in his arms as if she's a sack of grain. One arm hangs limply and her head lolls against his shoulder. He's all too aware of her scent - woodland jasmine and honeysuckle, the same as the issued soap in the bathhouses.

"Then I will walk with you," Lariel offers, and he doesn't refuse. He's a bristling wall of silence as they make their way from the loud hall to the infirmary. Nestariel is not on duty tonight; one small blessing. That is where he leaves her, Lariel by her side to explain to the healer and wait for her to wake, while Ettrian returns to the hall and prepares to drink himself into a proper stupor.

"Doesn't look like your damsel appreciates having such a dashing protector watching out for her every move," Fingalas taunts when Ettrian returns to his seat.

"Say not another word and pass me the fucking wine," Ettrian responds, his voice a deep growl. There is not enough alcohol in the hall to forget the sting of her hand on his cheek.

✦

He deserved that slap, he knows it. There is nothing he could say to Leoma that could explain any of his feelings. Nor, he thinks, would she be particularly receptive to it. No, she would not even see him as a friend now. Just an overbearing fool that thinks he knows what is best for her.

Lariel corners him the morning after, when he has a banging headache behind his eyes.

"Leave me be," Ettrian groans, trying to skirt around her, but Lariel throws out her arms to either side to block his way. "You and I both care about Leoma, so answer me truly, Ettrian. Just what is it that you feel for her?"

His throat bobs as he swallows, and for some time he cannot look her in the eye. Then, quietly - "I fear that I love her."

"You cannot."

Oh, he knows. He says nothing.

"You do not know her," Lariel reaches towards him, puts her hand on his shoulder, forces him to look at her. And he does, with some small amount of shame. "She is human. Young. Younger still to our eyes. You will break her heart if you try to love her, and you will break your own."

"I am well aware." Ettrian grinds out, his jaw tense. "Believe me, I did not intend to feel any such thing for her. But I would defy my own king if it meant to protect her. She's worth more than half the guard, and I am the only one to see it."

"Is that truly love? Or do you want to keep her safe like one would a pet?" Lariel frowns. He hates her judgment more than anyone's. Elves love rarely, and deeply, and this feeling in his chest must be it. This deep ache, this want for her smile, her happiness, for it to be his and his alone.

But it is selfish all the same.

"I do not know," he groans, rubbing his face with both hands, feeling as though he cannot look Lariel in the eyes. "I cannot abide by this feeling. And she has no interest in me now. Fuck, I'll count my lucky stars if she even looks at me." He peeks through his fingers, shamefully, and finds Lariel still staring at him with a look more sad than disapproving.

"You are no savior to her, Ettrian. We are all her jailers. As long as the prince keeps her here, she will not be happy. She cannot." Lariel lays her hand on his shoulder; not comforting, but a demand to look her in the eye. And she is right. For months, he's let himself be deluded. One smile, one laugh, could not make Leoma forget where she is, and who keeps her here.

That is how he finds himself before the Elvenking, petitioning him to let her go.

"And why," Thranduil asks, his eyes a glint of dark steel as he stares Ettrian down. He's never before felt small in front of his king, but now the weight of Thranduil's gaze feels heavy on his shoulders. "Does a mere captain believe himself to be in a position to make such a request?"

Ettrian keeps his head bowed, one knee bent under him. When he'd made requests to the king before, he'd usually gone to Legolas first. In those times, he felt he could look either in the eye and ask with the confidence that he'd get the answer he wanted. Now, he feels that it's rather necessary to grovel. "Because I do not think she is a servant of any dark lord. I've watched her for months; she is harmless. By whatever accident she came to be in the Greenwood... it was just that. An accident. To keep her here, away from her own people, is to cripple her." Ettrian swallows and does not say what he wants to - that he finds it cruel to her. And to him, to be near her.

And it is selfish of him to think that.

A whisper of cloth against cloth; Thranduil leans his cheekbone on two jeweled fingers. "This is a bold claim, captain. And yet, it is not your place to decide the fate of any in my kingdom, Eldar or otherwise."

"Perhaps not, my king." Ettrian swallows, finally raising his head, but he looks somewhere over Thranduil's shoulder, not directly at the king himself. "I can only speak honestly. Every day that passes, her resentment grows. Human lives are short. I do not wish to see hers lived as an animal in a cage."

The king studies him for a long moment of silence. When he speaks again, his voice carries a dangerous edge. "And is that worth risking the safety of our realm? She knows the ways of the Greenwood now, of the ranks that guard it. If she were to leave, she could carry such knowledge to unfriendly ears."

"She could, if she knew who our enemies were. But this human..." Ettrian shakes his head. Leoma, not just 'this human', and yet he cannot bring himself to say her name before the king. "She is no liar. She does not know where she is. She knows nothing of us, and what little she does know, she will forget when she is among her own people." He clasps his fist over his chest. "Should anything happen, let it be on my head."

"You would come before me and defy the will of your prince, who saw fit to keep her here. Do you think you know better than my son?"

The prince stands just behind his father, silent, his hands folded behind his back and his face betraying absolutely nothing. Ettrian takes a long look at him. If he were to answer honestly... yes. What benefit, truly, did keeping Leoma here serve? When they could all see, plain as day, that she is ordinary and lost and growing more closed off with each day that passes? She is not Gollum, the miserable creature that they keep in the dungeons. She could not even find her way through the forest on her own, let alone lead any army behind her. But Ettrian does not say all of this. "I do not claim to know better. But keeping her here as a captive when it does not serve us would be less noble than we pretend to be."

Legolas finally opens his mouth, then. "Ettrian's words are not without merit, my lord." Oh, what pearls of wisdom will he deliver unto them now? "She is not a spy, nor an agent of ill intent. And while she may have learned of our ways, what she knows could hardly be of consequence to our enemies. But if you fear what she may reveal, let her go somewhere far from those who would harm us. Let us leave her among her people, where her memory of the Greenwood will fade."

Thranduil's gaze has moved from Ettrian, for which he is thankful, but now hangs heavy on his son, and then flickers between them. "This is your counsel? The both of you in agreement on this matter?"

"It is." Legolas says coolly, and Ettrian can only nod.

There is a long silence, one during which the king's face remains unreadable. "You risk much by asking this. But so be it. Deliver her to Dale, and let her be gone from my kingdom."

Ettrian doesn't push his luck by saying more. He bows and retreats from the king's hall, and spends much of the next few days pacing about, fighting with himself over what words to say to Leoma when he finally sees her. She has a great talent for avoiding him, and he won't be the one to chase her down.

He happens upon her by chance, four days later, in the mess hall at dinner, when he finds an open seat and reaches for a hunk of bread at the same time that she does, standing across the table. He notices her hand hesitate, then she grabs the piece next to it, putting it on her plate.

"You won't sit?" He asks her. Please do. She's already turned away, and says over her shoulder, "I wasn't planning on it."

Ettrian's bread feels tough in his mouth and he pushes himself away from the table, jerking his head towards the door. "Then I will accompany you."

Leoma looks wary. "You just sat down."

Fool of a girl. "No matter." He shrugs his broad shoulders. "You're the one I cared to speak to."

She argues no further, but the way she grips her plate so tightly that her knuckles turn white doesn't escape his notice. He keeps himself silent by polishing off his bread, but soon that is gone, and he cannot stand the silence. "I do not want this silence between us to continue, Leoma," he says, his voice feeling altogether too loud for the quiet hall. "If you are angry with me, then let me atone. If I have overstepped where I shouldn't have, I want you to know that it is because I worry for you."

Yet that silence continues for a moment longer. His steps slow until he takes no more, and she stops too, looking up at him with uncertainty in her eyes. Leoma swallows thickly, as if she doesn't know what to say. Then it all tumbles out. "I'm sorry, Ettrian. I.. I don't think I deserve your apology when I've been so awful to you."

Of all the things, he was not expecting that. Her breath quickens as if she hadn't wanted to say it; she looks like a bird, small and flightless. He would have gathered her up to keep her safe if he knew it would not make her feel all the more trapped.

"You are hurting more than you want anyone to know. Let others see it, and we can help you. I will help you." He reaches his hand out, somewhat awkwardly, to rest on her shoulder. She squeaks loudly at the touch, her green eyes round with surprise, apprehension. "...Yeah. It's... it's been hard."

Ettrian squeezes her shoulder, trying at some small form of comfort, before he lets his hand return to his side, his gaze flitting from her face as he gathers strength. "There's something I wanted to ask of you."

Her face falls. He cannot imagine what she thinks of him.

"Tomorrow, myself and a small party will leave on the first hunt of autumn. Before we return, we will stop at a human settlement to trade. If you wish it, we may escort you there. You are not held captive here, Leoma."

He's expecting her to, perhaps, jump for joy, thank him profusely, and he would not have turned down a grateful embrace, but instead what he gets is her plate crashing to the floor and her dinner splattering over his boots. "Ah." Ettrian stares at the floor for a moment in surprise, and then crouches down. "I didn't mean- let me- I'm sorry, let me help you."

He begins to scrape the unconsumable mess back onto her plate. In doing so, their hands brush briefly, and he feels a surge to his heart, but she visibly cringes, and whatever surge he felt fizzles out with dismay. He leans back, offering her the distance that he thinks she must need. She's flushed by the time the mess is mostly cleaned from the floor, leaving only a grease stain behind.

"I'm, um, sorry about that."

Ettrian chuckles awkwardly. "No, the fault was mine." He gets to his feet. "What a mess we are."

Leoma stands too, with a snort and a jerk of her head back towards the hall. "I'll need to refresh my plate."

It sounds rather like an offer. He can't stop the smile that comes to his lips. "Is that an invitation to come with you?" There's a tease in his voice, but it only earns a glare in his direction. He averts his gaze, tucking his hands behind his back as they make their way back to the hall. After more silence - a more comfortable one this time - Leoma speaks again.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"Ah." He could tell her plenty. What he feels for her; what he said to Thranduil on her behalf. But he doesn't think that would help his chances in the slightest. "Many things. You will know them, in time. It is a long ride." They've reached the dining hall again, and he takes her plate without another word, passing it along to a servant and cleaning his greased fingers. Then he piles a new plate high with choice cuts of rabbit, bread and the blue-mottled cheese, bringing it back to where she awkwardly stands at the entrance.

"Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning." Once the plate is in her hands, he lifts his to rest atop her head for the briefest second, and then thinks better of it. Walking backwards for half a step, he waves at her, then turns on his heel and leaves the hall.

He does not sleep that night.

And before dawn the next day, the hunting party meets in the stable courtyard, for the most part bright-eyed and looking thoroughly rested. Ettrian takes two horses, one for himself and one for Leoma, who he sees at the edge of the courtyard with a small knapsack over her shoulder and looking rather haggard.

"Leoma!" He calls, and meets her halfway, passing off the reins of Gwinig to her. His eyes run over the woolen bag she attaches to the saddle. "I see you packed light."

"I didn't have much to pack," Leoma responds, more matter-of-fact than sullen, and he busies himself with tightening the cinch under his own mare's belly, Nerion, who has a habit of blowing her stomach when she feels the saddle on her back. Ettrian wishes there were more to say, but he settles on, "I suppose that makes it easier, then."

Leoma does not reply; she keeps her hands tight on Gwinig's reins as she looks around, perhaps taking in the courtyard one final time. But they cannot waste daylight for long. Ettrian swings into his saddle, lifting his hand to bring the group's attention to him. "Company, mount! We leave before the sun breaks the trees."

With that, the hunting party rides from the Greenwood, taking the road east towards the Long Lake, following the river as it winds its way through the Greenwood. He rides in front, away from Leoma, until he hears one of the younger recruits asking her if she's Rohirric, and he feels the need to butt in. "Stay your tongue, Esta - Leoma is not from Rohan."

It had been a contested subject, actually, among those tasked with watching her. With her natural skill around horses and her name, one would assume that she was a daughter of the horse-lords, but no one could fake the confusion that came to her face whenever she was asked. He knew Legolas had shown her maps of the realms of men, but as with everything... she remained completely clueless, and after some time, she began to become rather angry whenever she was asked about her home. Of course, Esta knew none of that.

He heard the quicken of hooves as Leoma rides up next to him, and Ettrian keeps his tone low. "She is young, and says things before thinking. She did not mean to cause offense."

"I know that. And I take none." He can feel her eyes on him, but pointedly keeps his own on the road ahead. "Um, what is Rohirric?" She stumbles over the word. Aye, it would be impossible for her to be borne of the horse-lords; that tongue is so difficult to master that it would be an equally difficult accent to lose.

"It is a language of man. You do not know it, for you would have spoken it before now. We tried." He chuckles, a somewhat dry sound. She will be gone from him soon, off to find wherever it is she comes from, and he would never know. It sparks curiosity more than anything - just where that place is, and if he'd lose any bets he'd placed in guessing. But... "You will remain a mystery to me, I suppose."

Leoma grumbles to herself, so quiet he almost doesn't catch it. "I'm just as in the dark as you are."

Maia had been tossed around before, but there couldn't be a lick of magic in her bones. Some elves whispered of a lost Númenórean bloodline, too, but Ettrian thinks that the most likely thing of all is that she was set upon and smacked on the head so hard that she forgot the common tongue and wandered in circles until her own tracks were washed away. He's forever been a logical man.

They ride through the day, winding along the river road until they reach the shores of the lake, then turning northwest to hunt in the thinner trees on the edge of Taur-nu-fuin. The campsite is one that hunting parties have used several times in years past; a clear glade with marked spots of old campfires and a small stream to one side. Fingalas has dismounted before his horse even stops moving, spreading his hands as he breathes in deeply. "Ah! Home, sweet home. Cozy, no?"

Ettrian halts his mount, swinging down from the saddle in a smooth motion. Nerion stands still as he loosens her saddle. The other members of the company do the same. To his right, Lariel drops her saddlebags with a loud thud. "It's cozy if you enjoy sleeping on rocks. Or trying not to trip over old pits someone forgets to fill in after each hunting party."

"I find the rocks give character to the back," Rûmil, a slender bowman with a glint in his eye, says. "And as for the pits, they make excellent hiding spots for bits of charred pheasant no one wants." He ducks as Lariel tosses a loose strap at his head.

Handing Nerion's reins to Esta, Ettrian uses the tip of his boot to sweep away a collection of leaves from one of the old marked pits. "Enough talk. Let's get that fire going before we're roasting our dinner in the dark."

In the course of an hour, there's a fire underneath a set of plucked pheasants, filling the glade with the scent of smoke and fowl. Leoma scuttles around the edge of the camp, her arms laden with firewood, avoiding Ettrian by purpose or sheer luck whenever their paths are near to cross. But she, too, joins the circle of elves around the fire when sunlight has waned to nothing more than a glint through the trees and she's picked up every twig from the center of the glade to the edge of the forest.

Beside the fire, Fingalas turns the spit slowly, his brow creased in concentration. Lariel is crouched next to him, her arms wrapped around her knees, a look of equal focus on her face. "Be careful not to burn it this time," she instructs, and Fingalas snorts.

"My culinary genius is unmatched. Worry not, sweet maid. This will be a feast for the bards to sing about."

"A cautionary tale?" Ettrian sits down next to Leoma, the blaze warm against his face, and there's a decisive chuckle amongst the party, apart from Fingalas, who squints at his captain. Meals during an autumn hunt are plain, when the forests are bare of natural herbs, and they'd packed too light to bring some of their own. But the crackling meat is carved up and served straight from the spit, and for several moments there is nothing but silence as the group of elves satiates their hunger.

Next to him, Leoma only picks at hers. Ettrian's already finished off a drumstick and a half, along with most of a flask of ceuránsuc. "Not hungry?" He asks her, deciding better than to offer his flask to her after the Teluyavië debacle.

"Nervous," Leoma responds with a shake of her head, staring deeply into her dinner. About Dale, he assumes, the human settlement that they're set to trade in post-hunt; the human settlement where they would leave her. But before he can offer any sage advice, Leoma cuts him off. "About hunting. I, um - I've never, you know - I've never hit a moving target."

Ettrian blinks. She's not such a great liar as she thinks. But he chooses not to argue. "Ah. Well, there's a first time for everyone."

Leoma stretches her hands before her, changing the subject as she so often does when she begins to feel too vulnerable for his eyes. "It's chilly."

Ettrian turns his eyes skyward. Stars are twinkling in the gray-blue expanse high above, dim in the early twilight. The early days of autumn bring with it a bite of cold, but nothing one would shudder over. He says not a word, pulling his cloak from his shoulders and draping it over hers. Leoma splutters. "I didn't mean- what if I get too warm now?"

She's a silly thing. Ettrian stares deep into the flames, letting them warm his face. A log cracks under the heat and falls into the red coals, sending sparks into the air. Across the fire, Rovain pokes at it now and then with a long stick. "Will you let me be nice to you for one final night?" He asks, finally leaning back. It's like she cannot help but argue with him.

Leoma rolls her eyes, green-bronze in the firelight, in return. "Yeah, like you're always nice to me. What's in it for you?"

His reputation precedes him. Ettrian scoffs lightly, but it's gentle, almost a laugh. "Nothing at all. Isn't that the definition of the word?"

She laughs, too, hugging his cloak around her body. "Thanks for the extra layer, then. Don't take it back when you get cold."

Like he would do such a thing. Ettrian curls his arm outwards in a flex, slapping the bulging muscle of his bicep under the sleeve of his tunic. "Elves are built to withstand extremes. I wouldn't worry."

His eyes follow her as she laughs again and stands, moving towards her saddlebag to grab her bedroll and turn it out near the fire. She's the first to lay down, her face peaceful at times and knotted with worry the next, floating in and out of fitful sleep. Others follow, rolling out their blankets near the burning fire.

"Fierdan, take first watch." Ettrian says quietly, and the ellon nods, taking the charred stick that Rovain had used earlier to stir the coals. He stokes the flames for a moment before taking up his lyre, the music soft, an elven lullaby lifting upwards among the sparks.

It's by entire coincidence that his bedroll is nearest Leoma's; space near the fire has grown scarce. She wakes with a start, spies him as he hits the dirt with a sigh, and then tucks herself back into her dreams.

He does not sleep yet, though, finding it too difficult, and rather unfair since he'd had not a lick of sleep the previous night either. He drifts off by midnight, one arm stretched behind his head, and wakes in the same position the next morning, but with his cloak tucked back around his body.

It's chilly, too, so he slings it over his shoulders as his hunting party breaks camp to prepare for the day's hunt - one that he hadn't planned to include Leoma on until Lariel persuades him. How will she ever learn, if we are not to teach her? Lariel asks, and she's right; how could he let her wander off into the wide unknown without even knowing how to kill her own dinner?

So Leoma accompanies them, and returns with quarry of her own - albeit shaking, green, and letting Fierdan carry the small buck she'd taken down - and Ettrian has to hope she'll do all right on her own. She refuses to learn how to skin and butcher them, still looking ill as she stumbles away to a shaded tree and closes her eyes while Ettrian is elbow-deep in deer corpus.

When, finally, it is done and the elves who partook in butchering are washing their hands and arms in the waters of the small brook with a bar of rough soap - the standard-issue scent of jasmine and honeysuckle - Ettrian jerks his head towards the sleeping Leoma and says to Lariel, "Wake her. It is time."

And then, one by one, the horses laden with hides and meat and one slightly disgruntled mortal follow Ettrian from the woods. The road curves down into the valley, beaten out of sand by years of travel. At the hour, the bell from the great tower in Dale sounds across the valley, and Leoma stands up in her stirrups to try and get a better view. Ettrian wants to share her excitement - but he cannot summon it within himself. "I told you, did I not? The bells mark the hour. We are close."

They round a bend in the road, and the hills march down towards Erebor. There it is, sprawled behind its walls, tucked against the side of the lonely mountain, rooftops glittering. Ettrian remembers well when it had first been decimated by Smaug, and the many long years it was left to crumble. But the race of men can never let alone, can they? Once a dwarrow king found himself in Erebor again, Dale rose from its proverbial ashes.

But it still stinks like a rarely-cleaned barnyard. It's more apparent to an elven nose; the horrid stench wafts up to greet the hunting party when their path joins the deeply-grooved main road that travels through the gates. The group of elves on horseback pass farmers with their carts of grain or wool, some of them looking up at the elven creatures with bewilderment on their craggy faces. Elves of the Greenwood trade with Dale on occasion, yes, but still rare enough that their presence brings with it a fair amount of surprise.

Ettrian dismounts in the market square, his boots landing in the muddy street. He reaches out to grab Gwinig's reins to hold the mare steady as Leoma dismounts, her expression souring. Ettrian cannot help the knowing smirk that rises to his lips. "This is Dale." Charming, one may say, in its humanness. "You will get used to the smell."

"Uh-huh." Leoma looks like she's preparing to brace herself and march off into the market on her own. "I look forward to it."

"Ah, wait!" Is she truly so eager to leave? He keeps forgetting that this is a long time coming for her. The way time passes for humans and elves is so different. He settles his hand on her shoulder, drawing a pouch of coins from his saddlebag. "Before you go, you should take this."

She wouldn't get far without money, after all. Leoma blinks at the sudden weight in her palm. "Oh. Thank you. I, um, didn't get you anything."

"I wasn't expecting it." Ettrian chuckles, but it is humorless. He doesn't deserve such a thing as a parting gift, and for all his faults he can recognize that, because for all the months he saw her as a friend she only saw him as a prison warden. He cannot reproach her for that. He was one, after all. He heaves a sigh and turns back to his saddle; it is time. "If you require anything else..."

"Wait!" Leoma's eyes are red. Probably from the smell. "Why... why did the Elvenking let me go?"

Ettrian busies himself with untying the sack of furs on the back of his horse, raising his shoulders in a shrug. "I do not pretend to know the whims of the king, Leoma. But I believe it was something the prince said to him."

Behind him, he hears a small "oh", and then a shuffle in the mud, and Leoma saying, "Goodbye, then."

He cannot bring himself to turn around. "Farewell."

Her footsteps retreat, and for a few moments he can pick out the sound of her gait among the other people crowding the market, and then he can hear her no more.

"She will fare well," Lariel says, as if she can tell what he's thinking by his knotted eyebrows. "Let's get this over with, Ettrian. The sooner we leave, the quicker the smell will wash from my clothes."

Ettrian hefts the sack of furs over his shoulder, turning towards the market. "Galion sent for salt, spices, and wheat." His sharp eyes scan the market, taking in the stalls, their wares, the merchants behind them. Dale is not new to him, least of all the marketplace; but he finds the mingling of human scents - sweat, smoke, food and filth - nearly overwhelming. Beside him, Rovain, with her arms laden with backstrap wrapped in leaves to preserve their freshness, jerks her head to a stall. "And the bowmen need iron ingots for arrowheads. I'll return, captain. Best of luck to you."

Lariel jerks her head towards a well-decorated stall fitted with burgundy curtains, the merchant underneath its awning dressed in Haradhi silks sewn in the style of Gondor. "That one for the spices. Let's not wade about in the muck, Ettrian. Come on."

He didn't realize he was doing so. The pair approach the merchant, a man with a thick beard that hides a shrewd smile, and he spreads his hands in welcome. "Ah, elves of the great Greenwood! Welcome to Dale. What have you brought with you this time?" He speaks Westron - the common tongue of Middle Earth - and it is accented, not from Haradh or Gondor but with the thick brogue of a Breeman. It's a short haggle over salt and spices, but they walk away with several pots that should whet Galion's appetite tremendously. Besides that, there are horseshoes of Dwarven make for Haldôr; wracks of finely-spun wool; sacks of grain. The pelts and meat are soon traded away, but the Elvenking's coinpurse is deep, especially deep enough to pay for small samples of wine and a round of river-oysters and fry-bread as the sun begins to set and Fingalas complains of being peckish.

And Ettrian lingers in part because he thinks, by some luck, that he may see Leoma again. A terrible part of him begins to wonder why he thought it was a good idea to turn her loose when she speaks not a lick of Westron, but then he remembers the look of relief on her face when she first saw Dale and he feels miserable. She's among her own people now; what else matters?

He's hoisting grain onto the carts, preparing to return to Felegoth, when he hears his name. Not his imagination. Leoma's voice cracks as she calls it again, muck flying into the air as she runs towards the group of horses. "Elbereth!" It's all Ettrian can do not to drop his sack of wheat in the dirt. This must be some rare magic, to bring her back to them. "Leoma, I - give me one moment." He dumps the bag onto the cart, already groaning under the weight of other trades, and settles his hands on Leoma's shoulders, looking over her as if she were in some sort of grave danger in the marketplace. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Lariel, ever her protectress, hovers at his shoulder. He wishes he could elbow her out of the way; Leoma called out to him, that should count for something, shouldn't it? Leoma's face twists into a cringe as she nods her head. "Y-yeah, I just, um… I don't think this is a good idea. I'm not… ready."

Ettrian looks at Lariel. Perhaps they had both been expecting this. Turning her out when she's a little less clueless than a babe. He'll get his ear chewed off by Legolas for this. Granted, he did all that kneeling before the Elvenking for... well, for nothing. But he cannot leave her here. Lariel won't either.

He steps back as Lariel pulls the girl into a hug, murmuring in her ear. "So be it. Welcome back, my friend."

"No arguments? I thought you'd be mad. I can never make a decision." There's a nervous chuckle to her voice, and after some hesitation Ettrian gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I, ah.. I suspected that you may return." Hoped. That is why I waited for you. That is left unsaid. "When you are ready, and with the king's leave, I will take you wherever you need to go."

Her cheeks are red. From cold, most likely. Cold and her own tears. "Thank you."

Ettrian gives a final nod and they turn away from each other at the same time. He cannot pretend that his heart doesn't soar when she rides next to him on the road out of Dale.

✦

"And you... brought her back?"

Legolas should not be as calm as this. In fact, it makes Ettrian all the more nervous.

The pair of them sit in Tham-en-ernil, Legolas's audience chamber. Or, rather, Ettrian lounges in a chair at one side of Legolas's desk, while the prince stands opposite, his hands held behind his back.

Ettrian spreads his hands, ever the peacekeeper. "It's likely she realized, rather quickly, that she won't be able to get anywhere if she does not even know how to ask for help. I mean, it wasn't exactly... willingly. She cried on the road back. Several times."

Legolas's eyes narrow. He looks alarmingly like his father. "And what compelled you to ensure her return rather than let her alone?"

"Not just me. Lariel, too." Ettrian scratches his cheek. He'll make sure the blame is shared between them. "Because I'm not a heartless bastard. You've seen her, Legolas, she's just... caught in circumstances beyond her understanding. It was between staying there and risking her life, or losing a little pride to come back with us." He stares, long and hard, at the prince. "Look me in the eye and tell me you would have left her there. It's dishonorable."

He'd never been one to stand on honor like this, but he knows that Legolas does. He's all for challenging the prince; now with just a few words and a dirty look. Legolas takes a measured step closer to the desk, his hands still clasped behind his back. "Dishonor," he repeats, almost to himself. "And yet, it is not honor alone that keeps this kingdom safe. Did you consider what risks her return might pose to us? Or did your pity outweigh your reason?"

Ettrian tightens his jaw. "You know as well as I that she is no risk, and less now that she is under our watch again."

Legolas moves away from the desk to the window, his face shielded from Ettrian as he stares out into the forest. "I am not blind to her plight, nor am I without sympathy. But neither am I so naïve as to believe this is a simple matter. Her presence here, her inability to thrive among her own people - these are complications we cannot ignore." He turns back to face his friend - though Ettrian is not entirely sure they are friends, now - his brow creased. "If she is to be our responsibility once more, I cannot have her live as an idle outsider, nor will I spare more of my personnel away from their duties to keep watch over her."

Ettrian rubs his forehead. "That would mean that you either intend to lock her in the dungeon again or swear her into the guard." Legolas's problem-solving skills are truly unmatched.

The pair of them stare at each other, and then a faint smile tugs at Legolas's lips. "She will earn a place here, a permanence that may deter her running off again. It is a position that allows her to be surrounded at all times by a watchful eye, but instead of sparing someone from my ranks, she will add to it. And should she betray the Greenwood..." He lets his suggestion hang in the air for a moment, but Ettrian can read between the lines. An increase in her rank would place her under stricter oversight, higher accountability - tracked and sanctioned movements, weekly reports of her sightings and actions. But, most importantly, any betrayal carried out by a member of the guard is held to a higher standard of punishment. Consequences in the Taur-nu-fuin, as Ettrian is already aware, are swift. And inescapable.

Ettrian throws his hands up. "Fine. But I will not be the one to tell her she must bind herself to our laws, because I'm assuming you won't give her much of a choice. For life, Legolas, and hers is short."

"I seem to recall," Legolas says simply, "that you told our king you would take full responsibility for her."

Oh, damn. That he did. Ettrian stands, taking great care in pushing his chair across the floor to create as much noise as possible. Legolas tilts his head, frowning.

"Ask her yourself." Ettrian bows, mockingly. "Or find someone else to carry out your little orders. I'm tired of it." He straightens. "Good day, my prince."

He lets the door slam behind him, the sound echoing throughout the corridor.

✦

Evidently, Leoma agreed.

There are four times a year that the Elvenking accepts vows of loyalty from his subjects, to work within the guard or otherwise in the service of the king, until such time comes that he must call upon them for war. In a few weeks, when that time came at the peak of autumn, Leoma stands among a dozen others, and Ettrian watches her take her vow.

Thranduil walks before the line of recruits dressed in the green-brown uniform of their station, his gaze sweeping over their bowed heads. "You come before me today to give yourself in servitude to our great forest. And I will honor your servitude as long as your vow of loyalty hold true to me, and none other. Young ones, do not fear. I am not so cruel a king that your loyalty will not be greatly rewarded."

No, not cruel at all, but among the most intimidating and crass of all elven-lords. Ettrian watches, among a small audience - the other captains in the ranks, and the lord of them all. Leoma is the fourth in line, her head bent forward, but he can see the soft movement of her back as she breathes. Gently, calmly. Holding her own.

"Do you swear by the starlight that guides us and the earth beneath our feet, to serve Taur-nu-fuin with all the strength of your hands, all the courage of your heart, and all the wisdom of your soul?"

"We swear," comes the chorus of low voices in response. Even from this distance Ettrian can hear Leoma's voice. Perhaps because he's listening to her in particular.

"Do you vow to stand as sword and shield and arrow against all who would bring harm, to guard this realm with your very breath, and to hold fast even unto the faltering light?"

"We vow."

"And do you pledge to the Greenwood your loyalty, to serve not for glory nor for power but for the lives it shelters, and to let your deeds shine as bright as the stars above?"

"We pledge."

The elvenking extends his hand, a ring glinting on his finger, towards the first recruit. Ettrian remembers when he took his own vow; the chill of the iron against his lips when he kissed it. That was centuries ago; that vow binds him in loyalty for centuries more, until he either dies or is dismissed. He'd never thought much about the finality of it all.

He watches as the Elvenking stops before Leoma, his hand in front of her. She hesitates. He cannot see her face, but the king's is a stone wall. Then her lips touch the ring, and Thranduil takes her chin between two fingers. "Rise," he says. "Rise now as a sworn defender of the realm, and let your name be etched in the song of the Eldar."

Leoma stands on shaky legs and glances over her shoulder. Their eyes meet across the distance of the hall. She makes a gesture - curling her hand into a fist with her thumb extended upwards with a nervous smile. Without thinking, he copies it, and then, to his left, Daelen, master of the dungeons, cuts him a withering look.

He finds her later, by complete happenstance, on a terrace outside of the mess hall, her arms braced against the railing and her face turned skyward. Ettrian leans on the wooden balustrade, looking up at the sky. He sees nothing particularly interesting there. Then he looks over at Leoma; her eyes are closed.

"How do you feel?"

She jumps, despite him thinking that he'd kept his voice relatively soft.

"God," she mumbles in her strange language. "You scared me."

Ettrian flashes a grin. "You'll have to forgive me. So I take it you're handling the new responsibility fairly well."

Leoma shrugs, her fingers drumming against the railing. "I mean, I'll get a new uniform. I feel like I'm practically royalty."

"And... the oath? Those are a lot of big promises."

"Do you think I don't understand that?" But Leoma doesn't say it with spite. She sighs. "I... I made the best choice to protect myself. If that means wearing these colors until I die, then..." Her brows knit. "Believe me, I don't want to. But I didn't really have any other choice." A small scoff. "At least my name will be sung among the rest of the Eldar, huh?"

Ettrian turns, leaning backwards against the railing to better look at her face. "Oh, yes, right up there among the greatest. Next to Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer and Fëanor, maker of the Silmarils."

The way Leoma looks at him suggests she has little idea who those are. No matter, just two of the greatest elves of old. "I dunno. It'd be good to be sung alongside Ettrian, the maker of questionable decisions, and Lariel, the great defender."

Well, that's clear favoritism. Ettrian raises an eyebrow. "And they will sing of our heroics for an age and a half, I'm sure."

"You're setting the bar a little high there, captain." She laughs softly, looking back up at the sky. "The stars are clouded tonight."

He glances upwards. Gray as far as the eye could see. Better to get inside soon, then. "A late rain. It means nothing. Can I get you some wine?" Ettrian pushes himself away from the railing, extending his palm to her. After a moment, she slaps the rail like a final goodbye and takes his hand. "I think I deserve it. Let's go."

Wine would taste sweeter next to her.

Chapter Text

PART II

      GWAITH-EN-LAIQUENDI.

In the wide shadows of the Greenwood dwelt a people apart, the Laiquendi of the North, whom Men named Wood-elves. Their halls were not hewn of stone nor lifted high upon pillars of marble, but hidden among the boles of trees and in the secret places of the forest. They were folk whose lives bound closely with the earth that cradled them. To some they seemed no more than whispers in the wind, that glimmer of pale raiment vanishing between the birches, or a sudden laugh, light as falling water, that faded ere it could be answered. 

Theirs was a merriment shy and fleeting, like starlight scattered through the leaves; yet there ran in them also a sternness of will, born of long years in the shadow of peril. Though they sang often under moonlight, and their bows were bent in sport as well as in war, they were a people who remembered much, though they spoke seldom of it. 

 To walk among them was to walk between two worlds: one of mortal day, with its labor and grief, and another more perilous and more fair, under the long echo of the stars. Few among Men were ever counted in their fellowship, for they were a guarded folk, and their love was not lightly given. Yet to those who gained their trust, the Greenwood itself seemed to change: its shadows less fearful, its songs more near, as though the very forest had drawn breath and named the wanderer friend.

Thus did the Laiquendi keep their watch in Taur-nu-fuin.

CHAPTER NINE.

Being sworn in to an ancient order of elves pledging their lifesblood to an immortal king definitely wasn't on my top ten career paths growing up.

But here I am, wearing a new uniform - not yet stained by sweat or grime accumulated during training - and feeling rather fancy. The structured surcoat is dark green and falls to my knees, the fabric quilted to provide extra warmth against the chill of the morning air. A long leather belt fits snugly around my waist, wrapped twice and then tucked into itself. A small knife is attached to my left, and a tooled-leather sporran on the right, carrying - for now - a few coins and a bag of dried apples and nuts. I still don't have much to my name, but this is a vast improvement to a few weeks ago.

I'd also learned much more about the structure of the Greenwood guard, which is great, considering that I'm sworn into them until death, deceit, or dismissal (that last one being honorary, and apparently hard to obtain). Now, you know I've been stuck between a rock and a hard place. As a newly-made member of the tîrwaith tauron, the rank of general guards that is stationed at the gates and entrances to the city or the watchtowers placed throughout the forest - exciting - my duty is to sort of stand there and say "hark" and "what is your business here?"

It's not much, but I'm happy with my placement. There are several divisions to the guard, all under the prince's watchful eye. The sentinels - tîrwaith - are under the oversight of Lord Saeros, a dark-haired and mild-mannered ellon with fine lines of age around his eyes. Eruest - who was delighted to see me return - is also a tîrwaithon, which means that more often than not we are stationed together at some gate or doorway. Lariel is, too, but as a recently promoted to a host leader of the forest sentinels, she spends her days out in the woods, and I don't see her as much. The tîrwaith are the largest division of the guard, I've noticed, split among the city or the forest to keep watch over the rarely-used paths in and out of Felegoth.

Then there's the pengyr, the bowmen - some of them I know, like Fingalas and Rovain - who patrol the forest for days at a time, which I know from my days at the stable, where one party would be leaving on horseback while another returned. What they do out there, I can only guess - hunting food or ungol or yrch, what they call the great enemy.

And the tîrnan. I'm familiar with them. The dungeon-keepers, lorded over by Daelen, the warden. Thankfully, I haven't had dealings with the sour-faced elf in months, and I'd like to keep it that way. I still remember the smell of the dungeon, the dank feeling of its air on my skin. Really, nothing could even persuade me to talk to the man who dangled the keys in front of me for weeks.

As for Ettrian... well, he's all high and mighty, but that's nothing new. Captain of the taurhoth, the forest scouts and trackers. But when Eruest explained the divisions to me, the way he described taurhoth... experts in stealth, gatherers of information and intelligence... that sounds more like a spy to me. Ettrian, a spy? I'd laugh at the thought. Then I remember how he stuck by my side for months on end with really no explanation as to why, and... hmm, yeah, I see it. I'm just glad he's not my boss, because he's insufferable enough as it is.

The manpower of the guard may be divided, but they work as a well-oiled team, and I feel like a gear out of place. Most scouting parties or hosts consist of elves plucked from each division, each with their own talents. I don't have to worry about that, not being particularly talented. Yeah, I have my own dagger now, but I only use it for slicing my apples. My archery targets have been upgraded from a circle to a vaguely humanoid form cut from wood, just as I'd been able to consistently hit the center marker - with a few outliers from the bull's-eye - and my new targets have helpful labels. Groin. Head. Something near the upper thigh that must 'femoral artery'. These, unfortunately, I keep missing. Maybe because the idea of shooting at something with a discernable face makes me feel sick.

That's why they keep me to the inner halls. Eruest says Lord Saeros sees me as soft-hearted. I fear that it's more a matter of suspected incompetence.

Today, Eruest and I are posted outside of a corridor outside a grouping of administration chambers, which I only deduce after a couple of frowning elves pass through talking of the king's spending habits in low tones. It's a slow, low-stakes area, and towards the end Eruest is slightly leaning against his blunted spear - they aren't really made for stabbing, but you could give someone a good whack if you needed to - and I desperately want to crouch to relieve my aching calves. Somehow, I'm managing to keep myself together.

It's been a few minutes since we've seen someone, and a bit longer since I've said a word, and I like to run my mouth. Anything to fill the silence, though it's usually a comfortable one around Eruest. He's quiet most of the time, but he doesn't act stupid like some elves I know. "What do you think the mess hall is serving for dinner tonight?"

"Mm?" Eruest blinks, as if he were lost in space, and scratches his cheek. "Ah, well. I wouldn't know. I rarely take my evening meal there. Deer, I suppose? I would assume it's usually venison."

For the months that I've been eating there, I realize just now that I never really did see Eruest there at night. Though it's typically so crowded to find anyone beyond Lariel, who usually spies me first. "Do you cook for yourself, then?" Food here... I've gotten used to it, but it took awhile. It's interesting what six months of zero processed foods will do to your body - and I'm saying this as a college student who lived off of ramen, Ben & Jerry's, and the occasional salad when I started to feel like I'd die if I didn't have a vegetable. Paleo diet enthusiasts truly have nothing on me. Can't even remember the last time I had refined sugar... but god, would I do anything for a Little Debbie's.

"I do. But each ormenel I return to my family's house for dinner. And, since it's ormenel..."

I wrack my brain to figure out which day of the week ormenel is (besides today). The elven calendar has three different lengths of weeks - six, seven if you include a special, secret day called orbelain, and ten - which is incredibly confusing. It still has twelve months, but those are divided into six seasons, and, well, you're not here for a vocabulary lesson, are you?

Anyway, ormenel is Thursday.

I look down at my feet. "That's nice." I don't mean it to sound dismissive. In the guard, most people live on their own in the barracks. I've visited Lariel in her home a couple of times. Nobody is particularly giving when talking about their family or backgrounds, and I'm thankful for that. It makes it slightly easier to not feel intense jealousy when I see an elven mother kissing her child on the head. I just... miss my mom. It's been six, seven months since I've seen her - at times it's felt like I would die if I didn't feel her hand on my head or smell the perfume she wears, at others I feel like I just saw her yesterday and the smell of her burning her small white flowers still lingers in the air.

Eruest must sense my discontent. He slaps his knee as if he's got a grand idea and says, "You must come with me tonight. I guarantee it will be far more filling than anything in the barracks hall today."

"And quieter?" I'm apprehensive. I don't know if it's quite right to barge in on a family meal. I like Eruest, we're friends, but I know how other elves in Felegoth see me. Outlander at best, mortal scum at worst - and while I can bear the uncomfortable stares most of the time, specifically when they're twenty feet away from me and I can speedwalk in the other direction, sitting around a dinner table with elves I don't know sounds kind of unbearable.

"Oh, not at all. My family is..." Eruest picks his words carefully. "Quite loud, which makes it hard for my father. He is a pengolodh. We do not give him enough grace. Please come. They will like you."

Rambunctious, then. I give him a half-smile. "I don't want to intrude. It's your family dinner, right? Isn't that a special thing?"

"I'd be sad if you said no to my invitation." Eruest leans more heavily on his spear, tilting his head to the side. His hair falls in dark curls over his eyes, and he shakes his head to clear his vision. "As for my family, entertaining guests is more fun to them than the Feast of Starlight. And my sister has been pestering me to bring you for weeks. She says no one should have to subsist on mess hall dinners for a lifetime."

I blink. Of course, this tends to happen. Elves don't know when to stop making it apparent they see me as an oddity, a curiosity, something to prod at with uncomfortable questions. "Oh, so they want to interrogate the mortal girl?"

Eruest cuts me a look. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions, but forgive me for having much less patience than the ageless creatures that keep asking me the same questions over and over again. "You're an unusually suspicious person, aren't you?"

Damn, he's got me there. I spread my hands, unable to rebuke that. Eruest rolls his eyes, but doesn't mean anything by it, and continues, "My father will keep to his books, my sister will try to make you take as much food as you can carry, and my brother will feed you all the gossip he assumes you will care about. Come on. You won't have to run into anyone you don't care for."

"What's that supposed to mean?" My eyes narrow. He's right - I am an unusually suspicious person. Eruest's smile wavers only slightly. "Well, you and captain Ettrian..."

"We're stopping this here." I throw up my hands. I don't want to know what's being said about me and Ettrian. Well, I do, but I know I probably won't be happy with it. "You know what? You're right. I could use a break. It could be fun."

"It will be something, all right," Eruest says, and then his tone softens. "They'll like you. Trust me, my friend."

I glance at the corridor behind us, empty and quiet save for the faint hum of voices from faraway chambers. It's not like I have anything better to do tonight, unless you count sitting in my quarters trying to remember how to sew up the hem of a tunic without stabbing myself in the thumb again. "If they don't, I'm holding you personally responsible."

His smile widens. "We'll leave as soon as we're relieved of our duties. Hope you have an appetite."

✦

Two hours later, another pair of elves take our positions without so much as a word. I replace my blunted spear in the armory, along with the issued helmet and breastplate, while Eruest checks his appearance in a mirror. I clap him on the shoulder as I pass. "Your hair looks fine. We going or not? I'm hungry."

"Now you seem excited," my friend remarks as we leave the guards' quarters. Usually I would take the corridor that leads to the barracks with the mess hall so loud I can hear the distant clamor from here, but this time Eruest leads me down a different path, out of the wide doors and into the forest city. Felegoth is stunning like that, paths and halls that twist in and out of chambers built into massive trees or spreading between them. The city stretches far up into the treetops, where the paths get too small and steep for horseback and require more sure footing. I hope he doesn't live up there. He leads us both with an easy stride, and I try my best to look confident despite second-guessing my decision by the time we're halfway there.

"So, your father, he's a... teacher?" I ask, trying to make conversation. Eruest nods, his hair bouncing from his enthusiasm. "Yes. And more in love with his books than the forest, I think, because he's always leaving to find more. He only returned a fortnight ago from a century in Imladris, studying with Lord Elrond Peredhel."

Elrond Peredhel, that's a name I've heard before. Elrond Half-Elven. I wrack my brain trying to recall where I'd heard that name. Then I remember - the day of the ungol hunt. The day that I ran away. Wasn't so long ago, though it seems like months. His twin sons had been visiting Felegoth. "You must be excited to spend time with him again. I'd..." I would do anything to see my mother. But I stop myself short of saying that. If Eruest notices, he doesn't make it obvious.

"Well, as I said, he's in his books. But there's too many of us to notice one missing, really. I warned you it would be loud."

"I thought elves didn't have many kids?" It was something Lariel told me once, when I asked her if she had siblings. Elves live long lives, but rare is the family that produces one or two children. Maybe they have great birth control.

"Yes." Eruest's forehead creases into a frown, and his pace slows; he tilts his face up to look at the sky, or rather at the tangled lattice of tree limbs and suspended pathways in the canopy above, and the sky peeking through that. "Family is not always made of blood. I am my father's only child by my mother, but his heart is kind, though perhaps too big. When my mother sailed into the West, he could not bear to see our halls empty, so he opened them to others - friends in need of a place to stay, distant cousins without a home of their own. But my sister and brothers are the ones that have stayed the longest. We take care of each other in his absence."

I don't say anything for a beat, wondering if maybe anything would have been different if I were found by some kind-hearted old soul rather than a bunch of white guys who first threatened my life and then dumped me in a dungeon. And no, that's not something you can just get over very quickly. "So... your family is just... whoever happens to be around?"

Eruest chuckles. "Something like that." He kicks a pebble. It bounds across the pathway, then skitters over the edge and down five stories to the forest floor far below. "But they are no less my family for it. Even the ones that have come and gone. When you choose to love someone as a brother, that choice means more than the blood in your veins."

He would kill in a college philosophy class. I chew on his words for a moment, uncertain of how to respond. I get it. I grew up without siblings. Just me and my mom. Our extended family... they loved us, I could tell, but there was some distance that seemed too wide to build a bridge over, despite spending holidays and Sunday dinners together. But my friends? Even if it had only been three years of college together and not a couple centuries as it is in Eruest's world, I felt like I'd found my people. Opal, Robin. And Desiree. If there was ever anyone that could have been my sister, it would be her.

I suddenly feel sick again.

There's no way they're still looking for me now. Not months later. Spring semester would have ended. Summer would have been as long and hot as usual. They would almost be finished with fall semester of our senior year by now, wrapping up exams. I would be a face on a milk carton. Maybe they'd even have had a funeral by now.

"Leoma, are you alright?"

I don't realize that I've stopped walking. I lift my hand to my cheek. It feels cold and clammy. Eruest has stopped a couple paces in front of me, his eyes wide with concern. I choke on my own spit, then cough, holding up my hand as a final plea to give me a moment. When it subsides, I nod. "Sorry about that. Um, yeah. Are we far?"

"Only a bit further." Eruest reaches out to steady me. I hesitate, then accept his help on my elbow, steering me more towards the middle of the path as if he's afraid I would topple over the edge. "Right down this way."

We make our way down another treetop path and stop. I look up. Then further up. This... definitely wasn't what I'd imagined. Eruest's home is built into one of the great pine trees of Felegoth - one of the hundred-fifty-toot-tall ones, its trunk impossibly wide - and it spans several levels connected by spiraling staircases and narrow walkways woven from branches. The main structure juts out from the tree's trunk like a giant wooden bloom, with wide balconies that overlook the city below. Lanterns hang from the limbs above, casting a soft golden light that illuminated the intricately carved wooden beams and railings. The air smells faintly of pine needles and roasted meat, and I can hear faint laughter and the clatter of dishes drifting down from above.

"This is your house?" I struggle to pick my jaw from the floor. I hadn't exactly pictured Eruest as fabulously wealthy, especially if his dad is on a teacher's salary. But I guess if you're thousands of years old, you have enough time to make good investments.

Eruest is clearly pleased by my reaction. "It's my father's house, not mine. Though I suppose it's more accurate to call it a collection of homes. Each level has its own purpose. You'll see. Come on." He starts for the nearest staircase, climbing it with the sure steps of someone who'd done it a thousand times before. I follow cautiously, gripping the wooden railing as the ground falls farther away beneath us. Far below, the different levels of the city twinkle with lanternlight. I can see in the distance, catching the fading light of the sun, the twinkling waters of the Gûlduin. The river that I'd been warned against falling into because, apparently, you'll fall asleep and never wake up.

When Eruest stops at the landing, he gives me a beat to catch up, and then reaches for the handle of the door. Before he even touches it, though, it flies open, and a tall ellon wraps his arms around Eruest's shoulders and plants a big kiss on his forehead. "Brother mine! It's been too long! Come. Dinner's almost ready." He pulls back and sees me, his eyebrows raising. "Oh, my. You didn't tell me you were bringing a guest."

Eruest extracts himself from the male elf's grasp. I'm assuming this is his brother. "Baran, this is my friend. From work." He stresses friend as if explaining it to a toddler. "Leoma, this is Baranír, my younger brother. It's only been a week, by the way."

Baranír grasps my hand and shakes it firmly. Though Eruest had said they weren't blood-related, they look strikingly similar - dark hair, brown eyes, big welcoming smile. "Welcome. Any friend of Eruest's is a friend of mine."

"Likewise," I say, my smile somewhat tight-lipped until Baranír lets go of my hand. The whole time, he hasn't let go of Eruest's shoulder, grasping him like he hasn't seen him in an age. "Come in, the both of you. It's too cold to be standing about." With that, I'm ushered inside to the warm glow of Eruest's home. The front room is lined wall-to-wall with built-in bookshelves, and there's a collection of chairs and fainting couches scattered near a window, under hanging lanterns that provide bronze light. Another ellon is sitting there, his legs tucked under him and his eyes focused on the paper on his lap. His fingers are dark with the charcoal that he's scratching against the page. The only recognition he gives is a brief glance and a quick nod.

"Cânnor," Eruest says. "He'll join us for dinner. This is -"

"Let me give the grand tour," Baranír cuts in. "Come, follow me." He spreads his hands in a come hither gesture and Eruest gives a roll of his hazel eyes. "Baranír likes attention." He says to me quietly, conspiratorily, and then, "Let's humor him."

So we do, following him through an arched doorway and into another dimly-lit chamber. Under an iron-wrought corona - that's candelabras suspended from the ceiling for all you folks who didn't take a medieval architecture class - is a long oaken table, the legs of which are carved to look like some sort of animal's, maybe a lion's? All clawed and furred and bent at the knee. A geriatric lion, maybe. On one wall, keeping watch over a sideboard, is a collection of taxidermied deer heads and several age-whitened skulls. I'd seen similar trophies in the barracks before, but never a collection to this scale. On closer inspection, I see that the eyes fixed in the heads - which, on Earth, would usually be glass or resin - are some sort of black gem.

Eruest must notice me looking, while Baranír makes a claim that he needs to add an extra seat to the table, and retreats back into the other room to return with an armchair held aloft. "My sister, Íthil, is an accomplished hunter. The mounted ones are hers, but the skulls are my own acquisitions. The forest is full of such things, if you know where to look."

"That doesn't surprise me," I respond, since Eruest liked other pastimes like turning over rocks in search of caterpillars and doodling the squirrels he sees at the training grounds. "You have quite the, um... collection."

"A few decades' worth. There is more elsewhere." Eruest shrugs as if it's no big deal. "Next time, I'll take you along."

I hold up my hands. "That may be... too, uh, grim for me."

That makes my friend chuckle and dip his head. "Ah, I forgot. I suppose looking at skulls reminds one of the whole... mortality thing."

Well, it hadn't until now. I blink. "Not really, but thanks for reminding me. I'd be useless on a hunt. I mean, I was already- I mean, Fierdan had to - "

"Oh, word got around." Eruest says, and before I can question that line of thought, Baranír makes another appearance. He slings his arm around Eruest's shoulder, nearly a head taller than his adoptive brother. "My congratulations on your entry into our guard, Leoma, as it happens. I hope I'm not being too frank in asking why you returned to Felegoth? Surely not to dedicate your life to a king who isn't your own? If I recall, the oath is for - "

Eruest punches his brother in the gut to silence him. Maybe he meant it to be gentle, but it certainly doesn't look like it. Baranír makes a deflated sound, sort of a long oof, and mutters, "I will hold my silence."

My smile is wan. I've been asked this several times. Each time, my answer gets shorter. "It's a long story. To cut the proverbial meat off the bone, Dale wasn't the right choice."

"And it had nothing to do with Captain Ettrian," Eruest confirms, more to his brother than to me, in the sort of tone one uses to end an argument, like when your mom says that's enough, go to your room. I get the sudden, skin-crawling feeling that my name and Ettrian's must have been brought up before, and Baranír seems like the type to run his mouth.

"Definitely not," I say, a bit snappy, and Baranír gets the hint, changing the subject as he straightens. His hand protects his likely still-tender stomach. "Shall we adjourn to the kitchen?"

With a turn on his heel, the ellon leads us through a small hallway, barely long enough for the three of us to walk single-file, a butler's pantry more than anything else, into a chamber filled with the scent of hazelnuts. Along one wall is a row of wooden cupboards, crockery neatly lined up on the countertops. On the other is a wide brick fireplace with a fire roaring, a pot suspended over the flames. Directly before us, in the middle of the room, a woman is carving up some sort of loin. She's taller than either of her brothers, strikingly lovely in a way that would have put her on magazine covers on Earth, and she has a half-empty wine goblet next to her.

"Íthil," Baranír says. "This is the lady of the hour, Leoma. Leoma, our sister, Íthil."

I give a small wave. She looks up at me and smiles, but she's focused on her task. "Well met, and welcome. I hope you're enjoying my brothers' hospitality. If it's too much, come to me." She waves her knife at Baranír in a manner somehow dismissive and threatening at the same time. He has the decency to cower. "Well, you don't have to kill him for my sake," I say, somewhat taken aback by the tussle. I'm an only child - as we've already established - and this sort of relationship passed me by, even with close friends.

"There are other transgressions." Íthil's attention is back on the loin. "Sit, all of you, unless you'd like to help. It's almost ready."

Like soldiers falling into line, Baranír grabs the pot over the fire, carrying it through the small corridor into the adjacent chamber. Eruest takes a stack of shallow bowls, and notices me standing there somewhat like an idiot; he passes them to me. "Would you mind laying them out? Spoons and knives on the right, forks on the left. Íthil is very particular."

"I know how to set a table," I grumble. My grandma was just as particular, and the trait passed down to my mom. In college, I'd always eaten my dinner in front of the television, but, you know, it's the kind of thing that sticks with you. I balance dishes in one hand, clutching the bundle of intricately carved metal utensils in the other, and lay them out neatly on the table per Íthil-via-Eruest's orders. My friend has busied himself with carrying a carafe of wine and a jug of water to the table. Baranír sidles next to him, taking the carafe of wine before Eruest has even set it on the table and pouring himself a generous measure. He looks to me next. "Leoma, may I interest you in a glass?"

I eye it cautiously. "Is it... Dorwinion?"

Eruest cannot hold back a snort. Similarly, Baranír's lips twitch. "Such a vile brew is kept for special occasions. No, this is entirely safe, I assure you."

I slide my glass over. He fills it, taking a seat with exaggerated flair as I take back the goblet and sniff it. Certainly smells... more tame. A sip confirms that it's just a regular red.

"I take it you're still wary of the effects?" Baranír seems to be the talkative type. He gestures for me to sit, and after a glance back at the kitchen - a little guilty for not doing more - I take a hesitant seat. "If you heard what happened last time," I say, "I'm sure you'll understand why."

"Heard? Oh, my. I saw." He hides his face in his glass and I turn red. That'll probably follow me around for the rest of my life here. Elves - much like elephants - never forget.

"Baran, now is not the time." Eruest takes the seat next to me, dragging his chair noisily. It's an obvious move to get his brother to shut up. I'm grateful.

"Ah, I apologize. I do tend to get ahead of myself. You must think me a bit crass." The taller ellon puts his goblet back on the table and gets up. "I'll gather father and Cânnor. Leoma, feel free to ignore me when my mouth opens. Foolish things tend to fall out."

"Will do," I respond cheerfully, and Eruest pinches the bridge of his nose. "You'll have to forgive me, too, Leoma. I've grown so used to his behavior that I feel you must find me terribly rude."

"No, I get it. You're fine. And..." I chew my lip. "I am very grateful for the invitation." His family is... kind of weird, sure. No, maybe weird is too strong a word. His brother might be, but that seems to be a common thread among Elven males. This place, it's quiet - quieter than the mess hall, at least. And - not to sound like a downer - but being asked to come, knowing that I matter as a friend enough for Eruest to want me to meet his family, is proof that I exist as more than a caricature in the elves' minds. That at least some of them think of me fondly.

Eruest smiles at me, a sweet and lopsided smile that makes me realize I'm gripping the arm of the chair. I force myself to relax, just as his brother returns with the final two elves in tow. Cânnor, the one I'd seen earlier for a brief moment, takes a seat opposite me with a smile in my direction. "Greetings, my lady. I regret not being able to entertain you earlier."

I wave my hand in a floppy, you're fine sort of gesture. "Don't worry about it. You looked busy."

The last ellon that enters behind Baranír does so with a sweeping grace, and takes his seat at one end of the table. I'm taken aback for a moment at the sight of him. For months, I'd seen the sort of ageless beauty that elves were known for - you know, two thousand years of living and still without a single smile line - but this man, while still being divinely lovely, is the most human-looking elf I've seen. (Not that I'm an extensive critic of the species; my pool is incredibly local.) He has crow's feet and a few lines on his forehead presumably from frowning, and his dark eyes are hidden behind half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. His long hair is pulled back, with silver streaking from his temples. I'd yet to meet an elf that looked truly ancient, and not in a grizzled way like a hunched-over wizard but in the sort of way that I only need to look into his eyes for a moment to know he'd seen kingdoms rise and fall.

I feel some sort of need to bow, but can't get up from my chair. Íthil brings in the carved meat on a platter as I dip my head in Eruest's father's direction. "Well met, hîr nín. Thank you for your hospitality."

The kind-eyed ellon smiles at me, light twinkling from behind his crescent-shaped glasses. "I am no lord. You are welcome in my home, and so you must call me Léofir." He looks to his daughter as she sits opposite him. "What a delight it is to return to such fine delicacies! Not that I didn't grow plump in Rivendell, but food tastes better at my own table."

"And I'm finer at my craft than anyone in Rivendell, I promise you that. Venison, roasted with mushrooms and parsnips, and hazelnut soup with bread. Leave some for our Leoma, now," Íthil warns as her brothers descend in a flurry of arms reaching for various morsels on the table. Almost like watching vultures. I still end up with my plate full, and the first bite has my eyes widening. Five expectant faces beam at me as if waiting for my compliments to the chef.

"Oh, my god. It is better than the mess hall." I hide my mouth with my hand to cover up the social faux pas of talking while chewing, looking to and fro and feeling very watched.

"A low bar, but one I'm glad to surpass." Íthil raises her glass at me. "A guest will never leave my table without feeling satisfied."

"Mission accomplished in that regard." I clumsily clink our glasses together. Around me, conversation flows between the elven family as easily as wine pours from an overturned casket. They're funny - especially Eruest and Baranír together, tussling in good nature - and Cânnor across the table who at first seemed quiet but whose belly laughter ends up being the loudest. And, unsurprisingly, the conversation eventually winds its way back to me. Maybe it's the atmosphere, but I don't mind as much being the center of attention. Ah... or it could be the few glasses of wine.

"So, Leoma." Cânnor swirls the wine in his goblet counterclockwise, as if mulling over his question before he says it. "You'll have to forgive me if you've answered this a hundred times before, but how exactly did you come to be in the Greenwood?"

Naturally, this is what they always ask. I take my time in mopping up the last of my meal. It's gone too soon, and I swallow after what seems like several long seconds of chewing. "That's... a loaded question."

"That's something this family seems to excel at." Eruest gives Cânnor a look. "You don't have to answer, Leoma."

"Of course everyone's curious." Baranír leans his hand on his cheek. "I can count on two hands the mortals that have made their way into the Greenwood."

"You don't have fifteen fingers, Baranír, and I believe you should be quiet." The dark-haired sister snaps, and Baranír, subdued, casts his eyes down to his meal. I chew the inside of my cheek now that my venison is gone. It's not that I blame Eruest for his family's - specifically, his brother's - interrogation, but it's beyond exhausting to have the same question recycled in my face time and time again. And even when it doesn't come from their lips, I can see them thinking it. Why are you here? We all deserve to know why a mortal woman thinks she can find her place among us. Why didn't you stay in Dale among your kind? How did you come here? Go back, go back, go back.

I get it. I'm trying.

My fingernails gouge at the wooden armrest of the chair before I force myself to stop. Not my house, not my furniture. "I'll just tell you what I've told everyone else. You can choose to believe it or not. One moment I was in my h-home - " I shudder as I take in a breath. Stop stuttering. Don't show them how much you hate being asked this question. Or maybe it's really that I don't want them to know how much it affects me. "The next I was in the forest. I wish I knew how."

There's an awkward silence. Cânnor hasn't stopped swirling his drink. Their father, Léofir, takes a sip of his wine. The look he shares with Íthil does not pass by me unnoticed. A warning, maybe. But whatever thought that's passing between them isn't shared aloud. For that, I'm grateful; I want nothing more than for the subject to be changed swiftly and with no room for reopening old wounds.

And, like a benevolent god, Léofir sets down his goblet and lifts the tension that has settled over the table like thick forest mist. "Enough of these questions and solemn faces. Leoma, have you heard the story of the able baker of Edoras and his mare?"

I squint at him and shake my head. "I... can't say I have."

Eruest pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ada, this story cannot be so amusing that you have to tell it at every gathering."

"I will let our guest be the judge of that." Léofir leans back in his seat, his eyes alight with a sort of mischief that makes him look all the younger. The Eldar... god, they're really unfair. How can you be thousands of years old and still have skin with nary a wrinkle? "Let me tell you, then, of this baker of Edoras, who thought himself not only a master of flour and flame but horseflesh."

Where his four children begin to mutter under their breath and pinch the bridges of their noses, I keep my eyes on him. Anything to keep the conversation from slipping back to what it was. Léofir laces his fingers over his middle, content after his meal, peering at his one rapt listener over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "There once was a baker named Halward, so renowned in his skill that the smell of his baking bread was a lure on the great road to Edoras. People came from every corner of the Riddermark to taste his honeyed oatcakes, his sweetflower bannocks, and, of course, the renowned meadbread that could, allegedly, cure a broken heart."

"Allegedly." Cânnor mumbles into his cups, and mouths to me over the rim of it, it's all falsehoods.

Of course it would be all jokes and fables, but I'm not going to stop a man from telling them.

"As with many men possessed of great skill in one art, Halward believed it made him an expert in all others. One day, after his beloved old cart horse passed away, he declared to all and sundry that he would train a new beast of burden to draw his bread-cart himself. A prize filly, born of the Mearas, wild-eyed and fleet of foot. She had ideas of her own, of course."

Despite not knowing what Mearas means, I lean forward in interest. "Did she throw him?"

"She did not throw him," Léofir says, pausing for dramatic effect. "She waited, patient and good-mannered, until he hitched his cart to her saddle. With his hand caught in the leathers, she dragged the poor fool. Through two hedges, the cheesemonger's stall, and a wedding feast on the green. Cheeses flew into the air. Bannocks rained down on Edoras. The bride wept, though the groom seemed oddly pleased, for even wedding feasts in Rohan are lacking in spice. The filly came to rest on the barrows outside the city, and it's said the ghosts of kings past ate well that day. The living king was not so pleased. All our dear baker's hopes for entering the service of the king were dashed that day, for rare is the fool in Rohan that cannot control his own horse."

I'd heard of Rohan before. Many times, in fact, when elves asked where I'd come from and, when I refused to give an answer, started guessing for themselves. I'd seen it on maps, too. A stretch of land to the south-southeast, ringed by mountains and forests and rivers. All I knew of it was that horses were like their lifesblood. And, hey, I can respect that. There's a reason I spend a lot of my time in the stables. Horses are recognizable. Horses are constant, here or on Earth. They're quite preferable to the Eldar.

I lean back with a small chuckle, unsure if there was something lost in translation, some moral or punchline that didn't fall on unfamiliar ears. Eruest is leaning against the table, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth, as if he's trying to cover up the hint of a smile.

"And that," Léofir concludes, "is why one should not assume excellence in baking grants one wisdom in horseflesh."

"Or that a horse will particularly care." I offer.

"Just so!"

Dinner dissolves, then, into lighter conversation. Baranír is a gardener for the king's household, I learn, captain of the vegetable plot or some other absurd title he'd said. Most of his day, post-weeding, was taken up by hunting a particularly vicious squirrel that had laid claim to the late-season leafy greens. He wouldn't need to prepare for winter if he's dead, Baranír gripes, and Eruest frets. Trap the creature instead, he says, even a little life deserves to see it out fully and with dignity.

A horrible little part of me wonders if my mortal life is at all different from a squirrel's to them. And then I stop myself. They wouldn't have invited a squirrel to their dinner table. Overly suspicious, Eruest had called me, and he's right. Too bad there's no therapy in Felegoth.

Long after the food is cleared away, and a plate of small tarts filled to bursting with buttery apples is brought, devoured, and cleared away too, I finally rise from my chair. "I have morning drills, so I should be getting back soon. Thank you for your hospitality and generosity with the meal."

"It was my extreme pleasure. Please do come again, Leoma. You will always have a place set with us." Íthil says to me, pushing her seat away as she gets to her feet with all the grace of the Eldar, even a few glasses of wine deep. I can only smile and make no promises to return. Eruest stands, too; it seems my action has spurred everyone to acknowledge the end of the evening meal. "I will walk with you."

"There's no need," I say quickly, knowing he has morning drills too, but he's already taken to my side and guiding me down the lighted hallway into that first great room wall-to-wall with shelves bowing under the weight of their many books. I hadn't taken much notice of it when I'd first entered, but the smell of the room is pleasantly musty from the vast collection. Someone has taken great care to arrange the Sindarin titles by alphabetical order, which I can only assume is the same for the scripts I don't recognize. My pace slows despite myself, and I linger in front of a shelf, looking at the spines marked with unfamiliar lettering. No, not quite unfamiliar. The same lettering I'd seen on the sign on the road to Dale and stamped on crates stacked in some small corners of Felegoth. That other language. The human language.

"Leoma?" Eruest sounds uncertain, lingering by the entry, where I hadn't followed.

For a moment, I don't know myself. I pull down a leather-bound book, seduced partly by the small gold outline of a horse on the top of its spine and a cow near the bottom. The title is half-worn and unrecognizable, but as I flip through the pages, I recognize the illustrations. Hoof diagrams and instructions for farrying. Saddle sores and their treatments. Delivery of foals and calves. The logical order of it is unmistakable. Diagnosis. Treatment. Prognosis. Someone laid this out like a vet tech manual.

"What is this?" I ask, knowing full well the answer but not the exact word.

It's his father who answers. He'd drifted in behind us with another glass of wine in his hand, and now peers at me over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, letting out a small, delighted hum as he sees the book in my hand. "That?" Léofir says, "That is an old treatise on the care and maintenance of draft beasts - horses, oxen, mules. Written by the men of the northeastern riverlands, so it's a rather brusque Westron text. Not exactly poetic, but - " he squints at the diagrams - "remarkably thorough in its way."

I turn the rough brown pages to a meticulously inked drawing of an abscess in the hoof of a horse being lanced and made a small, involuntary noise of recognition. Léofir's eyes flicker to my face.

"You understand this?"

I open my mouth, close it, and then chew my lip. Understanding is a strong word. Even without knowing the language, I can piece together the content. But I'm fairly certain these guides are centuries behind Earth, and that should come as no surprise. Do they even have germ theory? Elves are pretty clean people, but I'd been to Dale, and the smell still... well... it lingers. A human text on animal medicine would definitely need peer review.

My fingers begin to itch, and I finally answer. "I studied it. Before. Back home, I mean. I was a student of - " Veterinary medicine. How does that even translate? I try to wrack my brain. "I want to read this book. Um, if I knew how." I desperately hope the elder elf picks up what I'm putting down, with him being a pengolodh - a teacher - and all.

"Westron is not an easy tongue to learn," Léofir cautions. "Few in Thranduil's court have the patience to teach it."

"Do you?" I ask, more firmly than I intended, and instead of taking offense, the elf's eyes crinkle in a small smile. "I may, if the student were truly dedicated in her learning."

"Leoma," Eruest says again, from the doorway, his voice soft with a gentle urgency. A reminder that we both have places to be tomorrow.

I look down at the book in my hands one final time before shutting the pages. A cloud of dust bursts upwards from the seam, and I fight the urge to sneeze all down my front. Need to make a good impression. "I was told the same thing about Sindarin, my lord. And look at me now." Truth be told, full immersion of a language does tend to make learning it a higher necessity; when this is the only language I can communicate in, I have to sink or swim. For the past few months, I've been treading water steadily. What had Eruest told me recently? That I sounded as if I'd been speaking Sindarin for years, not months? It had come quicker than I expected. I hope the same for Westron.

"Quite so!" Léofir chuckles. "Return here tomorrow, after your obligations within your company. My son seems eager to say his goodbyes." I nod, replace the book in its setting, and hastily bow as I retreat. "And, Leoma - " Léofir adds, "none of this my lord nonsense. There is no need to bow to me. Keep your head high, and remember your place here is well deserved."

I wonder if he thinks that I particularly needed to hear that. I'd learned that elves place particular importance on hierarchy and shows of respect, so I'd gotten in the habit of bowing a hello and goodbye everywhere I went. Even as I back away, I fight the urge to bow again as a sorry. "Yes, sir."

He says nothing about that honorific, now turning his attention to the shelf of books. I've reached Eruest's side. "Hey. Sorry about taking my time."

Eruest has a queer look in his eyes as he guides me to the door. Instead of stopping in front of it, he steps through, taking me out into the night air. "Sometimes I wonder if you've always lived among men."

I'm slightly taken aback. The word has dual meaning. Humans. Mortals. "Well, yeah. Until here."

"You speak no Westron, yet the illustrations in that book were recognizable to you? You know no kingdom of man, but you know their learnings?"

My palms begin to sweat. I want to tell him the truth, but there just aren't the words for it. "I'm beginning to think this was a set up, Eruest. Did Ettrian tell you to butter me up? Or Legolas?"

"No such thing." My friend reaches for my shoulder. I try my best not to flinch away. He means the touch to be reassuring, maybe, but it is not. Not in the slightest. "I simply wonder. Whether you answer or not is no matter." He drops his hand back to his side. "Are you sure you don't want me to walk with you?"

"I'm fine." I say quickly. "We both have to get up early. I'll see you tomorrow at morning muster."

Eruest hesitates, then reaches for his door. I begin to walk away, down the treetop path. The wind rustles above me, bringing with it a rotten chill. I hear his voice call out again, and glance over my shoulder.

"Leoma." He's standing in the doorway, the light from his home spilling out onto the path; it casts a long shadow that nearly touches my feet. "Some say you're an Istar sent by the Valar. That this is a herald of dark times rising. You would tell me if that... were all true, right?"

"I have no idea what that is," I say simply, and smile, though I'm not sure he can see it.

Eruest doesn't look convinced.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN.

The thin layer of snow under my boots crunches with each step. For anyone else, this may be delightful. For a Southern girl, I'm having a hell of a time.

It's only a couple of inches thick. It had come down sometime in the night; I'd awoken to a blanket over the forest and was, briefly, delighted at the idea that I wouldn't have to do morning exercises. Apparently, the Eldar have no concept of snow days. This was relayed to me after I'd snuggled down under my covers for an extra forty-five minutes of slumber before Lariel came banging on my door.

Having not accepted my grumbling excuses, she'd hauled me out of bed and given me a thick woolen jerkin. "You'll want this," she'd said before retreating. "You'll be left behind if you don't hurry up."

As much as I hate morning muster, I hate doing it alone. Suffering together is preferable to singular misery. I'd hurried outside, where the cold bites at my cheeks and fingers from where they peek out of fingerless gloves. My breath puffs out like ghostly smoke, vanishing before it touches the branches overhead. Summer, and the autumn that followed, had been long and sweltering, and I'd presumed it would stay that way. In Georgia, we were lucky if we got a couple of nights of frost a year.

The training field is already trodden over with the footprints of my fellow tîrwaith, exposing the muddy ground beneath and solemn patches of wet gray grass. A few of my peers are stretching their limbs beneath bare trees, their movements graceful, unbothered. My own limbs feel stiff from sleep and cold, and I waddle over to them like a goose through slush. There are some that I recognize, but by face and name only; we aren't exactly friends. A few give me polite nods; I hear a good morning or two. I respond in kind, with a quick bow of acknowledgment to those who greet me. Respect is everything here, after all.

I begin to stretch my tired muscles, then. My body has reaped the rewards of several months of hard training, despite it not being a level playing field between me and my peers. My arms, legs, and back are well-defined even at rest, and I can keep up on the several-kilometer-run my company is subjected to every third morning. But, being human, it's harder for me to warm up and keep up through the strenuous activities of training, and I'm already tired and miserable. As I raise my arms above my head and then down to my feet, I'm reminded - as I often am - that this time six months ago I could barely bend over without groaning.

It isn't long before a low horn signals the beginning of roll call, where the tîrwaith fall into neat lines by name order after taking a wooden stave from a collective bin at the edge of the training field. I'd had a hard time adjusting to alphabetical order here; the "t" sound begins the alphabet and "au" ends it. L for Leoma falls between "rh" and "lh", so I situate myself in the middle. Lord Saeros calls each name from memory - which would be impressive for a drill sergeant but par for the course for Eldar - and each tîrwaithon steps to the side out of line, bows acknowledgement to their captain, and returns to place. Being late for muster is swiftly investigated and rigorously punished; I'm grateful to Lariel for waking me. She is two ahead of me in line. Her back is rigid when she bows and then straightens, and mine, moments later, is a decent mimicry.

Following that is a half-hour of leithad lín, breathing and grounding exercises. I was told that to master one's breath is to move in harmony not only with the forest but with the Ainulindalë, which I understood then as some part of their... religion? The Eldar weren't particularly giving with their explanation, and I hadn't thought to ask again. I steel myself and prepare for Lord Saeros's call of "Dannenad," the first position. On a normal day, I would sit cross-legged, but definitely not in the snow. I choose to kneel, closing my eyes in abject horror as I feel the chill seeping through my pants. Don't freak out. Don't freak out. This is what leithad lín is for. Just breathe.

And so I do. Inhale slowly through the nose, expanding the belly. Hold for a moment. Exhale through the mouth, audibly. After a few moments, the cold becomes bearable. I open my eyes to see my breath condensing. As Lord Saeros's calm voice instructs us to loosen our bodies and set our intention for the day, I straighten my spine. Just get through it, Leoma. The same intention as every day.

Next is lothar lín. As one, the company stands, first with arms loosely at our sides, and then slowly raising and lowering them while we breathe. In and out, up and down. Meant to mimic a blooming tree or opening fern, this connects our breath with fluid and deliberate movement. I'm beginning to warm up, which I'm thankful for. By the warrior stance of tharathad lín, a bead of sweat is trickling down my brow. The stave that I'd left on the ground is now in my hand, arms held at guard position before me while my legs are bent at the knee, one forward and one back. We move forward thrice, alternating between left and right as the leading leg, holding the stave to the opposite side as if it's the tense moment before attack. This one never induces calm as much as it's supposed to. I always feel like I'm waiting the fall of Curunír's blade.

At the end of it, we punch our staves in the dirt behind us and resume position on the ground, aligning our spines with the wood. Nadad lín is the return to stillness, where all I can hear is the breathing of those in front and behind me, and the rare call of a finch as it prepares for winter. This time, I do have to sit in the snow, and wince as ice melts against the seat of my pants. It's okay. It's almost over. And I'm not the only one suffering, I tell myself. Besides, the shock is part of what wakes you up, right?

After what feels like two long, Lord Saeros says, "Release and stand," in his ever-calm intonation, and there's a rustle of clothing and crunch of snow as sixty-something elves and one mortal get to their feet. Now that our limbs are stretched, it's time to hit the Circles.

They aren't literal circles, but I've long suspected some cruel irony in the name, because messing up on one means you have to take it from the top over... and over... and over. The Circles are stations arranged in a ring around the outside of the training field, each devoted to a specific skill or trial: sprinting and balance, climbing, and weapon stances. Each day, the order is slightly different, but it can stretch anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours, depending on how bad you are at it.

As soon as Lord Saeros dismisses us from leithad lín, the company disperses in orderly pairs and trios, breaking towards the starting marker. I spot Lariel moving off at a clip and hasten to follow. My legs protest, still stiff from kneeling in the snow, but I force them into motion and ignore the cracking of my knees. The outer perimeter of the field has already been staked with markers, each one driven into the frozen ground and painted with red or green to indicate direction. We're supposed to sprint between them, zigzagging like those dogs that love obstacle courses. It's supposed to sharpen awareness, develop lateral strength, and make us impossible to catch.

It mostly makes me want to vomit. To be honest, I don't dread the Circles as much as I did two months ago; I can't exactly keep pace, but more often than not, I can finish the course in one go without starting over. The path is wide enough to go two by two, and I find myself standing next to an Eldar whose name might have been Arandur. He audibly cracks his neck in preparation and I wince.

"One circuit," calls a senior tîrwaithon, gesturing with a lifted hand. "No stumbles, no collisions."

We start at the whistle.

The first sprint sends my heart hammering. My feet barely grip the slushy mud beneath the snow, and I almost go down rounding the second stake. Beside me, Arandur - I think - barely breaks pace, twisting in a turn like wind through branches. I grind my teeth and focus. Drive forward. Push through. The cold in my lungs burns hot now, every breath a rasp, and my legs feel like someone swapped them out for lead posts. I manage to finish without falling, but there isn't time for congratulating myself. The next circle is climbing, and I'm already falling behind.

I always dread this one. The climbing structure is three trees lashed together with crossbeams and ropes, all set with uneven, shifting grips that are harder to find and cling onto when there are more than three bodies on the ropes. We're to ascend, dismount, sprint to a second structure, and do it again. The second time is bad, but the third is the worst.

The elf ahead of me flows up the first post like a squirrel and is halfway through her second climb before I even get started. I huff once, then grasp the first limb.

Fuck. Cold wood bites my palms. I swing a leg up, haul my weight with a grunt, and scramble. One foot slips, and my shin knocks hard against a knotted branch. I curse under my breath and cling tighter. Halfway up, a rope trembles under my weight - too much bounce - and I have to pause to steady it, teeth clenched. Below me, someone hisses a warning. "Leoma, do not take me down with you." I can't look down to find out who it is. I just have to keep moving. The top is some twenty or thirty feet off the ground, and once there, I try my best not to focus on how high I am. I lower myself over the other side, scuttling down gracelessly until I'm at a decent height to fling myself off. I land with more force than grace, mud splashing up my calves, and start the run to the second stand. My thighs are burning. My breath is ragged.

Two more climbs, slower than I'd like. On the last descent, I catch up with Lariel. Or, more accurately, she'd been waiting for me, arms folded. I suppose she's high-ranking enough that she won't be punished for it, but I still feel a twinge of guilt for making her wait.

"You're slow this morning," she says. No judgment. Only fact. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "Yeah. I'm working on it."

I start to bend over to take a resting breath, but she shakes her head and joins the stream of Eldar sprinting to the next circle - swordwork. I don't mind this one as much. The staves we'd used for tharathad lín are swapped for wooden swords, their edges rounded to soften the worst of a blow. We pair off in rows, each with a designated partner. Mine is a slight, dark-haired elf whose name I forget. She remembers mine, though. What can I say? I'm hard to forget.

We bow, and begin.

The exercise today is rhythm work: three strikes and a parry, over and over, matching breath to motion. Our faux-blades clap together, wood against wood, in staccato rhythm. I focus on the beat of it, the shifting of weight between my feet, the twist of my wrist. Everything Curunír drilled into me. Strike high. Strike low. Parry left. Reset. Again. Again.

The cold has burned off by now. My muscles are tender, but my core is steady. I block my partner's upper left strike and respond with a quick thrust to the lower right that earns me a raised brow. Not bad. When it's done, I allow myself a small smile of pride. Curunír probably wouldn't be impressed, but that doesn't matter, does it? I'm almost done with the gauntlet, and the only thing left is archery.

The last stand is a short sprint away, where a rack of unstrung bows waits by a line of targets. To complete this circle, you have to string the bow, hit five consecutive targets without missing, and un-string the bow again. Elvish war-bows are finely crafted, with enough tension to kill a man if improperly handled - at least, that's what I was told - and the strength required to draw one makes my arms shake. It doesn't matter. My aim has improved, and there's no wind this morning. Should be easy enough. Gotta get hype. You got this. Don't fuck it up, or you have to start from the top.

I grab a bow from the rack. Without its string, it's as straight as the staves we were using earlier. I place the lower limb of the bow on the ground, bracing it against the back of my ankle as I step on the stringer's loop and use my full weight to flex the upper limb towards me, attaching the string to its second point. The wood bends under the force. Fetching five arrows, I join a line to one of the target stations. The snow has muffled every other sound aside from the sharp twang of released bowstrings. When it's my turn, I have to force myself to focus on my target and none other. Each station has five; one on the ground, two on either side of it, and two hanging in the air. Each a different size and height.

Breathe.

I draw, anchor, release.

It lands on the inner ring of the first target. But this one's easy. They get harder as I progress through them. The fifth shot is a target hanging fifteen feet above the ground, still swaying gently from the force of the last person who used it, and I narrow my eyes in an attempt to zero in on it. My arrow whistles through the air and for a sick moment, I fear that I've missed it by a long shot, but with a dull thwack it anchors itself in the outermost ring and I breathe a sigh of relief.

There's no point in stepping to the side to allow someone else their turn. I'm the last person on the field, which I'm used to. Unstringing the bow is the worst part, and I feel no guilt taking my time with it. With the top limb up and my foot firmly on the string near the lower limb nock, I pull gently upwards, slowly sliding the string off the upper limb's nock. The bow gently flexes back to its straight-and-narrow position, and I replace it on the rack.

Back in the field, the other tîrwaith have already gathered in a loose semi-circle around Lord Saeros. The snow in the field has already been thoroughly trampled to brown slush. As I walk, I pull off the woolen jerkin Lariel had given me this morning, welcoming the chill over my sweaty skin; I'll get cold again, no doubt, but that's a later problem. I find a place on the outer fringes of the gathering, looking towards our commander. Lord Saeros has a gentle face, but his stance means business. His gaze sweeps over the company, completely unreadable, and I wonder if he clocked how long it took me to finish. Probably. The Eldar don't tend to miss much.

"Well done," he says, letting his voice carry through the morning air. "Some of you showed marked improvement today. Remember that consistency and dedication matters more than pace - though you should strive for all three. Partnered drills will commence this evening, following your daily assignments, which you will find posted outside of the mess hall." A scribe next to him passes him a roll of paper, and Lord Saeros squares his shoulders as he examines it. "An incident occurred last night on the path outside the northwestern gate, and patrols have reported suspicious movement near the tradesmen's bridge. The taurhoth will investigate these matters, but I advise you all to be vigilant, especially my tîrwaith on the forest paths today. You are not to engage unless directly ordered. To those posted at outer gates, keep your eyes open and your hands off your weapons unless duty calls for a drawn blade. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Captain." The chorus returns to him, and a murmur of curiosity and concern ripples through the crowd. I, too, wonder what could have happened for everyone to suddenly be on edge, but there's no one near me that I can ask. Maybe Ettrian, later, would be able to divulge some information, but then again, maybe not. I frown as I wonder if I really want to ask him, and if he'd even be able to tell me.

Nonetheless, Lord Saeros continues, "There will be no further drills tonight past partnered combat." Another ripple, this one of relief. "You are dismissed until the second bell. Captain Virel will handle questions about postings. Company, at ease."

That's our cue. The elves move with smooth, wordless efficiency, breaking into small groups to walk together, but I stretch my shoulders once before trudging off in the direction of the mess hall. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I can already smell the hot bread and salted bacon spilling from the open doors. The mess hall accommodates members from every faction of the guard, but only half are free now to enjoy early breakfast; the other half are still on the night shift.

It's a quiet morning, and the tables are groaning under the weight of casks of hot pottage, oat-and-chestnut bread, griddle cakes, and stewed apples. My stomach grumbles, too, with desperate need. I glance over at the postings board, which has drawn quite the crowd, and decide to wait to see my assignment for the day, heading first for an empty seat. The pottage today is a thick stew made from dried beans, barley, parsnips, and mushrooms. I slop some into a bowl and inhale the garlic-scented steam as it warms my nose. I'd never considered eating beans for breakfast before Felegoth; that seemed like a frankly British (and therefore backwards) thing to do. But one thing Galion knows how to do is season his food, and the savory warmth is very much welcome.

Mess hall porridge is always packed with protein and carbs, efficient for making it through the day, especially since the Eldar don't typically do a mid-day meal; that's why I fill up in the morning. The oat bread is dense and chewy, somewhat toothsome and dotted with chopped hazelnuts, and not my favorite; with a smear of soft cheese on top, it's much better as a vehicle for the stewed apples. The griddle-cakes are the most recognizable thing - flat pancakes with crispy edges. Instead of syrup, they're dusted over the top with salt and easily dunked into the pottage. There's no coffee here, but I prefer the tea made from birch bark, which tastes warm and spicy and slightly minty, to the bitter barley drink or the warm goat's milk that truly nobody touches. I'm a quick eater, and almost finished with my meal when Lariel sits down and reaches for the ladle in the pottage. Elves don't typically eat as much as I do, but hey, I'm a growing girl.

If I had to name my closest friends in Felegoth, she'd be one of them. For all the larger faults of the Eldar - crass, hurtful speech, insulting gaze, and the cold, inflexible sense of condescension that only comes from someone who's lived too long - she'd been by my side since the day I was let out of the dungeons. Eruest is kind, but he still turns suspicion on me too much for my liking; Lariel does no such thing.

She doesn't speak right away, and so neither do I. Lariel only says something when she means every word, which is helpful for a novice Sindarin learner. She doesn't mince things, and her movements are practiced, neat - ladling the pottage into her bowl without spilling a drop, tearing a small piece from the dense oat bread and setting it to the side, barely eating yet. She sits with her back straight and her hair pulled back with a leather cord, every inch the composed, reliable senior that the other recruits watch with no small amount of deference.

We sit like that for a while. I finish chewing a mouthful of griddle cake dipped in beans and glance at her from the corner of my eye. She's not looking at me. She's chewing slowly, methodically, eyes fixed ahead as if the grain of the wooden table is fascinating. The silence starts to stretch uncomfortably. So I venture to say, "You've been quiet lately."

And she has. Since I'd returned from Dale and joined the guard. She hadn't chastised me for it; she hadn't said anything, but there was a look of disappointment in her eyes back then that she'd tried her best to hide. I had a feeling it wasn't aimed at me but at whoever's decision it was to let me take this position. There's a lot of power in the oath I'd taken, and I knew when I took it that I didn't fully understand the depth of it, but I understood the severity. Mortal life is short, whereas an elf has centuries to find purpose. Mine was thrust upon me rather unwillingly, and she, I fear, is the only one that acknowledges it. But in not so many words.

Her jaw works, but I know she's not chewing. "Have I?"

I nudge her gently under the table. "Don't do that. Don't act like you don't know what I mean."

Lariel's green eyes catch mine and she has the decency to demure to me. "I know what you mean. But I'm afraid I have nothing to say for it."

"Nothing? Not one single thing?" I push and prod, which I'm very good at doing. The teasing smile on my lips does a lot to hide the inner turmoil I feel that she could say something I very much don't like.

She looks back down at her pottage and stirs it clockwise. "Dale was not so long ago." No, it wasn't. "I... well, I feared that you may have been forced to take a path not meant for you. But you've come a long way in training, so congratulations are in order for that." Her mouth is a taut line of displeasure. "Did Ettrian say anything to you?"

I wrack my brain. "The last time I spoke to him was the evening I took my oath."

"And?" Her question is one of mild interest, but I know her. She's worried about something.

Ettrian... well, he might not be exactly harmless, but that conversation was. "He wished me well. Got me some wine. What are you implying?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her fingers tap on the table, and she won't look at me. I reach over to still her hand, which forces her gaze to level with mine. Finally she says, "I know him well. And I know the way he looks at you."

"He - " I blink. This is relatively new information for me. "What?"

"You may not see it," Lariel continues, suddenly avoiding my eyes again, "but others do. He watches you like he's waiting for something. And he thinks no one notices." She pauses. "He is not exactly subtle."

My pottage is forgotten. "You think Ettrian has a thing for me?"

"I fear he may. Winters in Felegoth are long, and wintry hearths foster many different kinds of warmth. I just - " Her fingers tighten on the table underneath mine. "Forgive me. I only said this because I do not trust his interest."

After a moment, I retract my hand. I no longer feel hungry. This isn't exactly the type of bomb you drop at breakfast, but I did push her to it, and as I said, Lariel never says something she doesn't mean. Still, I find myself denying it out loud. "That can't be true. I know Legolas forced him to babysit me. It's not that hard to figure out. That... that's all. And I'm human. He's immortal. That doesn't mix."

"No," she agrees. "It doesn't." My friend stands, taking her bowl with her. "I apologize for giving you discomfort. Just... remember what I said. We're friends, are we not? I would not mislead you."

"Yeah," I say faintly, and watch her go.

✦

I'm assigned to watch the stableyard gate with Maldor, who I'd never met before and only exchange brief pleasantries in the entire six-hour shift. He's not a talker, which I expected from his introduction - a simple nod, a tight-lipped "Leoma, yes?" followed by companionable silence. He shifts his weight occasionally, leans into the haft of his spear, and scans the sparse traffic moving in and out of the gate. This gives me a lot of time to ruminate on what Lariel had said that morning, which I, regrettably, do not allow myself to forget.

For months, Ettrian had been a constant hover over my shoulder. He was never kind in the way that Lariel was, or Eruest, or even the prince, though Legolas had only appeared in front of me a handful of times. But, more importantly than his behavior towards me, Ettrian is Eldar, and I am not. And I certainly, definitely, do not have any feelings towards him at all.

I think about Dale, and the panic I'd felt when I'd thought the company had departed for Taur-nu-fuin without me. I think about the relief I felt when I saw him, and I cringe. He's handsome, but not enough for me to forgive how horribly he'd made fun of me for days and weeks and months when I'd first met him; not enough for me to forgive the way he'd treated me after the ungol hunt; not enough for me to forgive the way he'd acted during Teluyavië.

The cold settles into my shoulders before the third hour, and stays there. The sun, such as it is in early winter, never quite breaks through the dense cloud cover, and a thin crust of frost clings to the rim of the old water trough near the stableyard gate. I'd donned the jerkin again, and standing still makes me wish for more layers. If Maldor notices my teeth chattering, he says nothing. I say nothing, too. I try to stop thinking about breakfast, and by the sixth hour, I mostly have. Mostly.

And then, damn it all, I hear his voice.

"...spotted west of the ridge?" It comes in quiet tones, and a second, unrecognizable voice answers, "Too quick to make out. One of the scouts swears warg, but they always do."

Ettrian comes into view down the path, walking with the same casual confidence that all Elves do. He isn't wearing armor. Must be off-duty. His hair is wind-tossed, and he carries a coarse, full sack slung over one shoulder. The male next to him casts the pair of us a look, especially as Maldor raises his hand in greeting. "Captain."

Hearing him referred to as Captain gives me a strange feeling. Maybe because I don't like acknowledging the power imbalance layered on top of the immortality-mortality thing between us, and maybe because I really, really don't like thinking about him in general. He pauses and waves at his companion to go ahead before greeting us in kind. "Maldor. Leoma."

I don't look at him. My hand tightens on the spear shaft as I keep my gaze fixed on a low-rolling wagon being drawn into the stables. I don't trust my face not to betray something.

"I heard you returned at the second bell last night." Maldor is very obvious in his intention to get more information about the so-called incident Lord Saeros had mentioned this morning. "Anything eventful happen in the woods?"

We all three know something did, but Ettrian isn't giving in his answer. "Nothing worth reporting."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maldor shrug. "If it were nothing, would we have heard about it at muster?"

Ettrian reaches out and flicks his forefinger against the other elf's head. I startle at the sudden movement. "You know how it is, Maldor. Some dogs don't come when called." He shifts the sack higher on his shoulder and chuckles. "Best not to be too curious. You'll join a hunting party soon enough, and orch-flesh won't seem so novel to you then." I can feel his eyes on me. "Enjoying your post, Leoma?"

"Well enough." I do not look up.

"Staying warm?"

Please, god, stop talking to me. If I look at him, I'm afraid he'll see everything written plainly on my face. I answer honestly. "Not really."

"Ah, well." If he's at a loss for words, good. For some reason, I feel Maldor's eyes on me. He needs to stop that. Ettrian's boots crunch on the snow as he begins to walk away, and then he stops and turns back. "When your post ends, meet me in the stable. If you like."

I do not look up until I'm sure he's gone, and then I glance at Maldor. He's still staring at me. "Was he talking to you?" I ask, and the other shakes his head.

Dammit.

✦

It isn't long before Maldor and I are relieved of our duties, and I know I should take the path back to the barracks, I know. But instead, I walk towards the stable, passing through the gate into the stableyard. It's cleared of snow but wet with chilly mud, which clings to my boots and tracks across the floor when I step into the stable. The building is about thirty degrees warmer, and the horses in their neat stalls are wearing covers of homespun wool. Many regard me with dark, glittering eyes that I like to think means that they recognize me.

I take off my helmet and leave it, along with my spear, on a bale of hay near the entrance. Ettrian is at the far end, next to an open, emptied stall. His sack is on the ground next to him. It looks to be full of fabric scraps. As I approach, I peek in the stall to see him lining a neat, hollowed nest of hay with a threadbare blanket.

"What are you doing?" I ask, in lieu of announcing my arrival.

Ettrian sits back on his heels and looks up at me. Further in the stall, a massive, gray-furred dog lifts her head; her tail thumps against the straw. Her belly is distended, breathing shallow, the rise and fall of her chest tight with effort. She's going to have puppies soon. Within a day or two, maybe less. She regards me with solemn amber eyes, but the singular wag of her tail is the only other motion she makes.

"This is Mey." He says, resting his elbows on his knees. "She had a bit of a late love affair, and now we're both reaping the consequences." Ettrian rubs the back of his neck. "She was one of the prince's prized hunting dogs, but she's in my care now. Maybe I should give him one of the mutts for Turuhalmë." A pause. "No, he would not find that funny."

My fingers itch. I want to help her. I'd specialized in large animal care - horses and cows - but veterinary medicine is still veterinary medicine, and I'd studied and shadowed too many farm births to count. The good thing about them is that animals are pretty good at labor without human intervention; the bad thing is that if something were to go wrong here, it would be in an unsterile space with zero modern medical tools. "Why did you invite me here?"

Ettrian studies me. "Just to talk. Am I not allowed to?"

I try not to grimace. "I suppose." Leaning against the open door, I cross my arms on the ledge, peering over it. He stares up at me and I down at him, and then finally he looks away with an exhale. "You seem to be improving well in the tîrwaith. I hear you're learning Westron, too." Something in his tone makes me think he's asking a leading question. Planning to go back to Dale?

"Who told you that?" I feel a bit invaded. Ettrian smiles up at me. "I'm the captain of the taurhoth. I hear everything eventually."

"You make that sound creepy."

To his credit, he laughs. I change the subject and tilt my head towards Mey, who gets up slowly, paces in three circles around the nest, and lays down again with a heavy sigh. Her fur is coarse and silver, long around her face, and thinning on her belly. If she were standing, her head would come up to my ribs. She looks like a wolfhound, but only loosely; she's bigger, heavier-set with broad shoulders, and her face is wider. It makes sense that breeds of dogs wouldn't be the same here, either, so I can't pinpoint exactly what she is. "How many is she carrying?"

The red-headed captain shrugs. "I don't know. She's had small litters before, but none since spring before last. I didn't think she would have any more pups."

Before I can catch myself, I cross the threshold of the stall, crouching near her. "May I?"

Ettrian watches me with that queer, silent gaze of his and nods once. I offer the back of my hand towards Mey's muzzle and she huffs, nudging her cold, wet nose against my knuckles. Once she's used to my scent, I place my hand softly on her belly, palpating with gentle, probing fingers. Mey heaves another sigh beneath my touch, but she doesn't move away. Her wiry fur parts easily under my hand as I ease my palm along the curve of her swollen belly. I can feel movement. A kick or the nudge of a snout, I'm not sure. Without x-ray imaging, there's no way to be certain how many she's carrying, but abdominal palpation gives me a rough estimate. "Six. Seven." I announce, pressing down in the last spot. "No, six. They're wiggling."

"And how do you know?"

I lift my hand as if saying no duh. "I counted." Mimicking him, I sit back on my heels, rubbing Mey's shoulder. "I studied this. Before." The all-encompassing before, the only word that I use to describe Earth. "That's why I wanted to learn Westron. I, uh, saw a book. I wanted to be useful."

"Do you feel you are not?" Ettrian asks quietly.

"Everyone has their place." My hand moves up, around Mey's flat ears. They're covered with silky fur, the softest on her body. She stretches and whines. "If you're planning to stay here with her, you should put something up to cover the stall. Shield her from drafts. And water with broth, if she can take it." I stand and dust my hands on my thighs. I should get going if I don't want to miss partnered drills.

He stands too, after I exit the stall. When he speaks, it sounds urgent, like the words tumble out before he can stop himself. "What are your plans for Turuhalmë?"

"Nothing," I respond, biting my lower lip to keep from reminding him that I do not know what that is, I did not ask, and frankly, I do not care.

"Will you come?"

Lariel cannot be right. She can't be. I tell myself, and I try to imagine a world where Ettrian is asking me this without an ulterior motive; I try to imagine a world where I might have played along.

In the end, I do not give him an answer. In a hurry, I grab my helmet and spear, hefting them both under one arm. "I have to get going," I say quickly. "Good luck with Mey."

It's only slightly embarrassing to hurry out of the stable and leave him hanging like that, but I tell myself I'm absolved. I still have work, after all. Drills. Practice. Dinner. Curfew. I don't have time for this.

With each step, my heart thuds. I don't have time for this. Time, time, time...

✦

Turuhalmë, Lariel tells me, means the Log-Drawing. It's a winter festival of snow-sports that culminates in the winning sportsman cutting down a tree and leading it back to a massive outdoor ruimen called the Tale-Fire. After that, she says, is much singing and drinking and feasting. It's two weeks away, and the majority of the tîrwaith are allowed the day off, barring essential personnel, so she invites me to come with her.

I take her offer over Ettrian's and do not tell her about what happened in the stable.

Back home, this time of year comes with frost, trips to department stores, Christmas lights, and carols playing on a constant radio. I wonder what day it is in Atlanta, and I try my best not to think about my mother, my grandma, my friends. How they were celebrating, and if I still had a stocking hung up for me. Three nights in a row I cry myself to sleep because I cannot help but imagine my mother doing the same. On the fourth night I stay up past midnight, making gifts for my friends. I don't know if gift-giving is a part of Turuhalmë, but that doesn't matter. 'Tis the season, and all that.

For Lariel, I take a small pressed piece of fern against a disc of wood that I'd sliced from a branch, and seal it in a cooked varnish made from pine resin and some type of fragrant oil that I'd taken from a shelf in the armory. It makes a pretty enough necklace, if not somewhat crude, when strung on a twisted leather chord. The pile of similar wooden discs left on my bedside table is a reminder that I could turn it into a small business if I found that the Eldar were particularly wanting for shoddy crafts, or if I had the several hours to spare. For Eruest, I take a scrap of gray wool from an old undershirt, tracing out the shape of a hound to make a small doll; it's stuffed with lavender and soft felt - also stolen - and two small yellow glass beads make the eyes. In the end, it looks more like a pig than a dog, but it smells like spring. They're finished quickly enough that I have a few nights to spare, and I have to wrack my brain thinking of others to make gifts for. Ettrian is a quickly murdered thought, and I end up polishing scrap leather for Curunír to make a grip wrap, burning his initial into it - calma, which looks like an upside-down "h". Pleased with my handiwork, and two nights until Turuhalmë, I tuck the gifts into the chest at the end of my bed.

And, man, I'm excited for a day off. The concept doesn't really exist for the elves of Taur-nu-fuin. The last time I had a solid day with nothing to do was... oh, wow. Back when I was in the dungeons.

That morning is the first that I'm allowed to sleep in. There's no knock or horn to signal me to get up, but I wake up anyway within the hour following dawn, my body, like clockwork, not allowing me to fall back asleep. The single glass window in my room is so frosted that I can't really see out of it, and I let myself luxuriate in bed for a solid thirty minutes before dressing. No uniform today, I think smugly, pulling on thick, brown woolen pants, a straw-yellow quilted jerkin, and a deep green, knee-length surcoat with brass buttons. All of it comes second-hand, delivered from various people who claimed they didn't wear it anymore. I think it's more likely that everyone felt sorry for me wearing the same thing over and over again. The sleeves of the surcoat fall just below my elbows, and I add a hood and gloves and boots. The cold hadn't reached me under my blankets, but with no central heat and air in Felegoth, it had started to leech in once I'm up and moving.

The gifts are all small enough to fit in the deep pockets of my surcoat, and with that, I stride down the corridor towards the mess hall. No surprise that it's buzzing with energy, warmer and louder than usual. That means crowded. I shoulder my way to a table of unfamiliar guardsmen. Breakfast, predictably, is more indulgent than usual: griddlecakes still warm and drizzled with honey butter and preserved berries, soft cheese studded with pine nuts, roasted root vegetables slicked with oil, crackling sugar, and warm spices. Porridge is still on offer - no escaping that - but today it's just oats, cooked with spiced apples and topped with more honey. There are slices of smoked venison, too, and boiled eggs, and a stack of small, scone-like cakes studded with bits of dried fruit.

Naturally, I pig out. Lariel finds me halfway through my second stack of griddle-cakes, squeezing into the seat beside me and smelling like cloves. "Enjoying the slow morning?" She asks. My mouth being full, I can only nod and give her a thumb's-up. She returns it with a puzzled smile. The Eldar don't quiet know what to make of that one.

She looks just as good today as she usually does; evergreen tunic so long it's nearly a dress, belted at the waist with silver, and finely tooled leather boots on her feet. The tips of her nose and pointed ears are red with cold; evidently she'd just come in from outside, where the snow piles waist-high along cleared pathways.

"Give me one of those," she says, and reaches over me for a scone. The hall is too loud to make much conversation, and soon after, we head outside, following the steady flow of Eldar towards the city gates. Beyond, a swath of forest has been swept, snow packed firm for the festivities. A tent has been erected among the towering trees, hosting braziers, tables groaning with wine and cakes, and a nice seat for the Elvenking, where even from this distance I can see him knocking back a chalice and speaking with his advisors. The seat next to him must be meant for the prince, who is absent. Banners of silver and green flutter from the field's edge, some marking pathways into the woods. Small signs with glittering-frosted Tengwar script read Archery This Way and Balance Challenge This Way.

Lariel notices me looking and her hand grasps mine, pulling me closer. The crowd is dense, with the field quickly filling up with spectators. "Are you planning on joining any competitions today?"

"What's on offer?" I ask. Naturally, I don't expect to win anything, but that's not the point of it. Lariel draws me over to the sign-board, which is tacked with papers listing the activities and names scrawled beneath it. We wait for the throng of elves in front of it to disperse as I squint my eyes and read the unfamiliar word at the top of the first list. "Rain-nadad? What's that?"

Lariel scratches her chin. "A race on a... hmm... board, with runners. Hlimbon. Children's races first, down the smaller hills, before the adults race the bigger course. It's quite fun, despite the constant danger of turning over into the snow."

"Sledding?" I wonder, in English, and, as the Eldar are wont to do when I speak my native tongue, she does not acknowledge it. Without dwelling on it too much, I continue in Sindarin. "Do you think I should sign up?"

"The adult races are teams of two. Typically practiced for quite a while before Turuhalmë. I don't suppose you have a rare talent for it, do you?"

I wrinkle my nose, sore from the cold, and shake my head. "I don't think I've ever seen snow before this year. Trees stay green most of the winter."

"I should like to see that one day." Lariel smiles down at me. "A green winter."

I open my mouth to tell her that she won't, and then decide better of it. After all, I'd seen maps of Ennor - many had been shoved in my face in an attempt to figure out where I'm from - and there definitely were plenty of kingdoms, or at the very least, named lands to the south and east. Maybe she'd travel there one day. Maybe I would. Instead of dashing her dreams, I simply say, "Maybe I shouldn't sign up for that, then. What would you suggest?"

"You fare well in archery. But, Leoma, there is no requirement saying you must -"

"Thank you for the vote of confidence." I've already picked up the small charcoal pencil, smudging my fingers black as I scrawl my name in looping Tengwar script: something that looks similar to Tímï, if the 'm' shape had a feather sticking up from the top and a line underneath, and the second 'i' shape had a diacritic of three dots instead of two. Despite knowing that it transcribes my name in Sindarin, I can't help but read it as if it were in English, and every time I'm hit with the disconcerting thought - that's not my name, that's not my name, that's not my name.

Lariel only raises her eyebrows, waiting for her turn with the charcoal pencil, and writes her name on two lists - one game that I gather is a sort of cross-country skiing-and-marksmanship competition, and the other stave-dueling on ice. I'm contented with my choice of archery, eager to both participate in the games of the day and watch from the sidelines. The crowd has already drawn thicker in the field. So many bodies in close proximity has created a sort of shield against the cold, and as I squeeze through the crowd for a good spot near the first challenge of the day.

The course for rain-nadad is, as one might expect, a slope that begins near the field and travels on a cleared path downwards through the trees. I'd seen several children diligently trampling the snow earlier this week, and now it's hard-packed and smooth. The crowd begins to funnel towards it, lining either side. I snag a spot near the top, against the ropes that hang from tree to tree, designating the edges of the course, gripping the cold rope to stabilize myself against the jostling of the crowd. For a moment, I'm afraid I've lost Lariel, and then she reappears at my side, one hand on my shoulder to let me know she's here.

"The children's races are about to begin," she says, and I can see that they are. About a dozen teams of young elves are boarding their hlimbon. The boards are narrow and slender, many of them painted colors that are so bright against the snow they cast rainbow reflections when the light shines just so; the runners are slicked with wax and I feel a brief tinge of panic, wondering just how fast these are allowed to go with children on board. But these children, despite being half my height and still chubby in the face, are still decades older than me, and that's something I don't like thinking about. When the race starts by the blowing of a horn, it's all a mess of shrieks and flailing limbs as the chîn desperately push with small legs to gain momentum, careening down the curve of the course. The spectators are shouting, too - parents and friends hollering their encouragement so loudly I'm not sure how anyone could pick out a single word. But I'm won over, leaning over the rope to high-five a kid that whizzes by, cheering as the first team reaches the finish line at the bottom. They must do this often, because they dig their heels in the snow to brake themselves, whereas several other teams tumble out or lose control of the sled and keep hurtling into the woods.

"Oh my god!" I clap my cold hands over my mouth in horror. "Shouldn't someone go check on them?"

Lariel gives a hearty laugh. "They will find their way back. There are several guards on patrol today, and the course continues down the same hill for the adult's races. They're simply getting... a little more experience."

I'm not allowed to be worried for long, as the second round of races is preparing to begin. Teams of tall eledh begin to gather at the top of the slope, their sleds longer, runners dangerously sharp, and less decorated than the childrens'. They chatter amongst themselves, too far to hear, but from the way they push each other around in good sport, I can only assume it's a bit of heckling before the games begin.

And then there's a hush that falls over the crowd, a very brief one, before it erupts again in excitable cheers. It was almost as if the Eldar had collectively decided that one-and-a-half heartbeats of reverence is sufficient before descending into shrill enthusiasm, all stamping boots and shouting his name.

"Greenleaf, greenleaf! Hail Prince Legolas!"

Though he'd been absent from the king's tent when I'd first made my way to the field that morning, the prince strides into view now, dressed in warm red wool, his garment fitting quite nicely over his broad chest. His golden hair is kept back by a band of matching fabric wrapped around his forehead and covering the tips of his ears, making him look not unlike some sort of hair rocker from the 1990s, and he seems quite amused at the over-excited crowd.

Prince Legolas, I've come to realize, is quite different than Captain Legolas. Prince Legolas walks as if the snow were laid out as a carpet for his royal feet. When he clasps hands with his competitors and draws them in for a brief embrace, I can see that it's for cordiality more than true brotherhood, because I've seen the same thing happen in the guard, seen him smacked around as his fellows - all ranked much lower - jeer him on. But this Legolas belongs utterly to the admiration of the crowd, to the sea of cheering voices, and he looks more like the Elvenking than I've ever seen him.

I envy him, he who is adored without condition.

That envy bubbles up in my throat as the crowd jostles around me, and when he greets his teammate, a tall elleth in a more muted red tone, I find that they look perfectly matched next to each other. Both tall, muscular, and moving in sync as they board their hlimbon. It's cute as a kid's sport, but I almost can't take the sight of full-grown Eldar perched on sleds seriously.

The crowd quiets in anticipation of the blow of the horn, and at its signal - a sound like the call of an elk, a deep and resonating bellow - the sleds tip over the edge of the hill and plummet downwards. Snow flies upwards in white plumes as they race by, runners shrieking against packed ice, and all around me people are frenzied, much more so than they were for the childrens' races. These teams are more skilled, too. There are so many, and move so quickly, that I can't pick out which among them is the prince's sled until I see his blond head and red scarf careening into a banked turn much further down the course.

"Do you want to bet on who wins?" Lariel says in my ear, more of a shout than anything in order to be heard over the crowd. I shake my head with a grin. "No! You've seen more of this than I have. That's an unfair advantage."

"Ah, you got me. Our prince does hate to lose."

I can see that. His team is clearing the course with ease, reaching the bottom well ahead of the other competitors, though I have to crane my neck to see. All the way at the bottom of the massive hill, past the finish line that marks the end of the children's course, the prince helps his partner off of the sled, bows, and by the time he turns to the crowd to accept his victory, there are already two children brandishing wreaths of evergreen running towards him. He hands one to his partner and tosses the other rather rakishly around his neck.

"Wow." I mutter, and Lariel pinches me in the side. I raise my eyebrows at her. "I didn't mean it like that. I was... objectively observing."

"So say they all," she returns, with a look that says she doesn't quite believe me, but I have to lay it frank for you now: Legolas is not my type. The Eldar as a whole? Too pretty. Too perfect. Too... old.

In time, we turn away from the rain-nadad course as the crowd fall back to the tents laden with food. Lariel and I gather around a brazier for a brief respite from the cold, shoulder-to-shoulder with other elves, many of them giving well-wishes of the season. One woman tucks a fruit into my hand, fragrant and warm as if it were still the height of summer, looking like an oversized, sunset-colored plum. How they grew them or kept them fresh, I don't know. But I inhale the fruit and dry my sticky fingers on the edge of my tunic, feeling warmth spread throughout my bones.

In between taking snack breaks and chilling in the tents where the air is somehow a good forty degrees warmer, I wander over to the other contest fields. The balance challenge draws my eye first. There, two ellon face off on a slender birch log, mounted horizontally some five feet off the ground, staves in hand. The goal of the game seems to be to knock your opponent into the snow, which happens not long after I pull up. One of the contestants plummets with such an undignified squawk that I have to hide my laughter behind my hand. Just as the victor grins and bows, teetering for a hair of a second on the log and then regaining his balance, a new challenger vaults up; the red scarf around his blonde head is unmistakable.

Of course, it's the prince again. The crowd is foaming at the mouth as one of the referees - or maybe judges? I'm not sure - tosses up a staff, which Legolas catches easily. He bows, one leg extended behind him, utterly graceful, and when he straightens an anticipatory hush falls over the gathered pack of Eldar. The duel is not long. His opponent lunges, overcommitted, and Legolas parries with a sharp crack of wood, sidesteps, and - very politely, might I add - plants the flat of his staff against the ellon's chest and shoves him off the beam.

The crowd goes wild. For my part, I clap, but I can't say I'm the biggest fan of the prince. He's… well, I've always been the type to bite my thumb at people in power. I wasn't a huge fan of my sixth grade class president. Legolas is fine as a captain, but Legolas in prince mode makes my skin crawl a bit. He's too… good. His smile too charming. And he's dispatching three more opponents in a succinct and similar fashion.

"He can't always win," I say to Lariel, who has found her way to my side again, my statement somewhat incredulous.

"He does." She is incredibly honest. "Last year, he yielded to an ambassador visiting from Lothlorien out of courtesy, though he could have pressed the advantage. Barring that, the prince has not lost a game in…" She counts on her fingers thrice over. "Ah, many years. You get it."

"Yes." I agree weakly. I don't like to be reminded just how many winters any one person here has seen. It makes me feel quite small. "Yeah, well, courtesy. I guess that's nice."

She rests her hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm, and gives it a squeeze. I've packed on more muscle in the past few months, which Lariel seems to take note of, slapping my upper arm in encouragement. "You put your name down for archery, yes? It will start soon. You'll do well."

Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten that, only an hour ago or so, I'd scrawled my name down on the lists. I'm not going into it with any big ideas of winning, don't get me wrong. Maybe if I were going up against toddlers, I'd have a chance. After all, we're talking about six months of skill training versus the centuries that the Eldar hold over my head.

I put on a winning smile. "You think I'm nervous? Ha!" My laugh is incredibly wilting.

The archery field is some few hundred yards away. It's marked with a neat row of targets, maybe two dozen. From the wear and tear, I assume at least a few of them were dragged from the Circles. As the names of the contestants are called by what I assume is another referee, the contestants step up, bows of every kind in hand. I take a good long look at them - sleek yew recurves, tall longbows, even one that looks to be carved horn. Then I look down at the one in my hand, provided by the ref when I stepped up empty-handed. Guard-issue and rather pitiful in comparison.

But it's also the same type of bow I'd handled every day, and I know it does the job well. I know just how much weight that bowstring carries. I know just how much pressure will be lost when I let go.

I stand in front of my target, narrowing my eyes against the chill of the wind. Somehow, now, exactly when I need to concentrate, they decide to leak, blurring my vision. I hurriedly wipe the back of my hand across my face, wool rubbing raw against my skin. I waste no time looking over at the other competitors as the command comes to draw. The first round is the focus round. Five shots on the standard target, judged on time and accuracy. My bowstring creaks as I draw it back, cold fingers brushing my cheek, my chest swelling with breath that aches to hold, and then… on the sharp command of Loose, I let my arrow fly.

I'm already notching another in the bowstring, my breath quickening with a sudden flood of anxiety, hearing dull thuds on either side of me as another volley of arrows find their home in the target. By the time I raise my bow and sight my arrow, I see for the first time that my starting arrow has landed nicely above-right of the center circle. No time to dwell on that, or on the dim sound of my name shouted in encouragement somewhere behind me. I steady myself and launch my second arrow.

Again, just shy of the bull's-eye. Three more arrows are stuck in the ground before me. I pull the third, notch, and loose. Twice more, barely thinking. It shows. I'm the last one to launch an arrow, and when it's done, I see that only one has made it to the center circle, but the other four are buried in a cluster in the second circle. Even if my aim is slightly off, at least it's consistent. I step back, joining the others as I relax my bow arm, while a flood of younger Eldar scurry out to retrieve our arrows. When mine are returned to me, I punch them in the snow at my feet and ready myself for the second round.

Above my still target hangs a floating one, swinging from the bare branches of a tree. I've practiced with these targets before, most mornings in the Circles. I wouldn't say I've ever been particularly successful. My fingers curl around the fletching of an arrow as I draw it back, bowstring creaking in time with twenty others, and wait for the call to loose.

When it comes, I fire my arrow, feeling the string snap back against my forearm - padded by my woolen sleeve - and jerking from surprise. The arrow whistles past the target, burying itself in a cluster of gray, wiry bushes behind the field. I let out a huff. Can't get distracted. Keep going. One more - landing in the target and sending it swinging, but in my haze I can't exactly see where, which doesn't bode well for my aiming. The Eldar, I suspect, have eagle-sharp eyes, whereas mine probably need glasses, and if there's an optometrist in the Greenwood, they can't possibly have a very successful practice.

My third arrow also lands in the target, but by now it's swinging so wildly that I can barely focus enough to aim the fourth arrow; it ricochets off the rim of the target, landing solidly in a birch tree. That earns a sympathetic groan from the crowd behind me. I'm painfully aware that I'm the last one shooting, and that means all eyes are on me. I wish I could take my time. The horrible ordeal of public perception makes heavy the weight of a few hundred pairs of eyes, and I notch my final arrow. The target has returned to a gentle swing in the wind.

Breathe. Pull back. Sight. Loose, I tell myself, and fire.

It soars through the air and fixes itself on the outermost ring of the target, near the bottom, quivering with a pathetic vibration like it's nervous for its performance, too. A hair of an inch and I would've missed. Behind me, someone stifles a laugh. I must fight the urge to turn around and give a rude gesture. We aren't done with the competition, after all; there's still round three.

I lower my bow and stand at ease, casting my eyes down the row of hanging targets with their arrows bristling proudly like an army of decorated birds. Mine has three, jutting from wildly inconsistent areas of the target, with one shaft sunk into the silver birch and the last so deep in the bushes that the young runner spends an embarrassing amount of time looking for it.

"Thank you," I make sure to tell him when he returns my arrows to me. His fingers are cold and wet from digging in the snow. His expression is carefully schooled into one of politeness, but he nods with a quick duck of his blonde head and scurries away. I jab my arrows tip-down into the snow in front of me. Thank god for Elven craftsmanship in arrow fletching; I doubt man-made arrows would've survived what I put them through.

The final round, naturally, is the hardest, and by now, one must assume I'm not placing anywhere near first. In the final challenge, you're given three tries to shoot a flying plum. At first I thought they meant some sort of bird, but then a fellow in a helmet - the only protection against stray arrows that he's wearing - strides out onto the field with a basket, stops near the first contestant's target, and tosses a ripe red fruit straight into the air. It's almost lost among the branches, the ellon looses his arrow, and the fruit falls back down to earth with the arrow-shaft neatly through its middle. So it proceeds down the line, with some contestants nailing the flying fruit on their first try and others using up all three of their chances. By the time it gets to me, I feel a bit sick.

Though he's standing just before the grounded target, the guy in the helmet seems miles away, and the red fruit in his hand seems miniscule. He waits for half a beat longer before throwing it into the air, though maybe that was my imagination. I fumble with my arrow and loose, much to the horrified gasps of the audience as it whizzes past his head; he already has another fruit in his hand. I notch my penultimate arrow and try to sight the trajectory before letting it go. Another wild miss.

I reach for the last arrow - the last chance - and, dimly, somewhere behind me, I hear a roar of my name, over and over. Not the crowd - no, just two voices - and I don't dare to look over my shoulder. It fills me with a false sense of confidence. I draw back my arrow and loose. The plum falls, untouched, to the snow, splitting open and spilling its juice like a deep red bloodstain, and my arrow whistles into the bushes beyond.

Somehow I manage not to let my shoulders slump. I stand rigid with my bow gripped between white knuckles and firmly keep my eyes in front of me, not daring to look down the line; especially not when I hear the crowd go wild after, presumably, Legolas's turn.

But now the contest is over, and I turn to face the crowd as scores are read, each contestant in turn with their name followed by a series of numbers I can't keep track of. The crowd murmurs appreciatively when someone's name is met with a perfect row of marks. I can already imagine what the referee will say when she reaches my name.

"Leoma. First round, forty-two marks. Congratulations on your accuracy with the still target. Second round, six marks, two arrows astray. Third round, zero marks. A total of forty-eight. Well done."

It doesn't feel well done. There's a round of polite applause. I feel the heat of embarrassment climb up my neck; if my cheeks weren't already red and raw from the cold, I probably would have flushed bright enough to match the ridiculous scarf Legolas is wearing. Lariel, Eruest beside her, are huddled up against the rope that lines the edge of the field, and give me encouraging smiles. I return it. I'm well aware that there's no way I could have placed above last, but that I won't see until the final ranking is posted on the notice-board.

As the last of the scores are read, we're released from our line-up and I return my bow before going straight to Lariel and Eruest, holding the rope down to clamber over it. "Very well shot, Leoma! At least you were consistent!" Lariel says enthusiastically.

"Consistantly low? I definitely placed last."

"Last place in a contest of Eldar is not exactly a dishonor." Eruest grins. "Let me see your hand."

I obediently hold it out. He grips my fingers to examine my callouses. "These are not yet six months old, see? You've competed against those who practiced for centuries. I have no doubt that next year, your score will double."

I swallow. I don't want to be here next year. But I don't want to tell him that. "Hey, I made you guys gifts."

Lariel raises her eyebrows at the quick subject change, and both watch me as I rifle around in the pocket of my jerkin for the wooden pendant and lavender-stuffed little dog. Without much ado, I hand them to each. "I know it's not much. I, uh, well - I don't get paid. Very well. Um, at all. For now. So I had to get creative."

Lariel's cheeks grow pink as she gently takes the wooden pendant, decorated with its pressed fern, and holds it up to her neck. "I don't know what to say, Leoma. Thank you. I've never received a gift for Turuhalmë before. I wish I'd gotten you something in return, but until then, please have my dearest thanks." Her deft fingers tie the pendant around her neck, and then, impulsively, her hands grip my cheeks and pull me close. Warm lips press against my forehead and it's my turn to flush with embarrassment. "Please, it's nothing. It's tradition. For me, at least. Um, Eruest, do you -"

He's brought the little stuffed dog up to his nose and his green eyes are flooded with delight. "Lavender! I'll keep this as a reminder of spring soon to come. Thank you, my friend. Let me buy you a drink sometime in return?"

"I don't need anything," I try to say, holding my hands up in defense, but Eruest wraps his arms around my shoulders to steer me away from the field, and Lariel throws her arm around the both of us; three walking in awkward tandem. "Nonsense!" He says. "Everyone needs a little alcohol. The day grows late, and I'm not yet drunk!"

I glance up at the sky. Late? The sun is barely past its peak. But my throat is dry, and the scent of warm, spiced wine is thick on the air. A competition like that takes a lot out of you, you know. I'm eager to get my hands around a cup of hot alcohol and chase off some of this cold. Behind us, the crowd chants louder. Greenleaf, greenleaf. I cast a look back to see the prince collecting another wreath of evergreen. He almost doesn't have enough room on his body to wear it.

"Yeah, let's get wasted." I agree, content in the warmth between the two of them, and we march towards the spice-scented tents for our bounty.

✦

By the end of it, Legolas had won all but two games, and I heard the final one was because he'd finally gotten drunk enough that his opponent was able to edge past him in some sort of boxing-on-ice game. Though I hadn't watched it, Eruest's brother had, and recounted to us that the prince went down heavily and lay groaning until the ten counts were up and his opponent was declared the victor. Then, apparently, the prince could only be roused by waving another cup of wine under his nose, after which he - again, allegedly - bounced right back to attention.

By then, the sky had grown pale with oncoming twilight, and the trees appeared more black than silver as the sun started to dip below the horizon; a solitary bell tolled across the field to announce the ending of the games. Most of the Eldar, by now, were giddy with alcohol, satisfied from the games, and very, very hungry. I'd eaten continuously throughout the day - warm fruit, layered cakes stuffed with nuts and dripping with honey, salty and crispy sliced parsnips and potatoes that reminded me, almost, of French fries - but all of the sudden I'm hit with a massive wave of hunger. When the king rose to his feet in the great tent, the crowd seemed to flow as one back down the hill to where the bonfire had been prepared.

I had seen it earlier, tucked beyond the archery field, half-hidden by snow-laden firs: a great stack of wood, higher than any house I'd ever lived in. Logs upon logs laid crosswise, thick as tree trunks - because they were tree trunks, I realize now as I huddle near Lariel, whole oaks felled and dragged here, dried and split and set carefully so that when fire touched them, they would burn for days.

But it isn't lit yet. There is one more that must be added. It's a massive trunk, carved with pictures I can't quite make out, words I cannot read; it must be about five feet thick, and rests on its side, posted on a pair of stumps to keep it from the snow. Several chords are wrapped around it, dragging on the wet ground. Those at the front of the crowd, Thranduil's court, carry torches hoisted high to wash the trunk in light, but the eyes of the crowd are not on the wood-pile or even the Elvenking; instead, they turn back up to the tent, from which Legolas emerges. He's taken off his many wreaths of victory and even the scarf that tied his hair back. On his brow instead lays a circlet. He's flanked by seven others and looks rather... royal.

A hush falls as the prince reaches the front of the log and grasps the straps, tightening them across his chest. As the others follow him, each taking a set of straps on one side of the trunk, I realize Ettrian is almost among them, and my mouth goes rather dry. He doesn't notice me. Why would he? They're like a set of sled dogs, utterly focused on their tasks. With a collective heave, they begin to lift and pull. The log rises off of its stand and does not sag even for a moment as the eight Eldar, muscles taut, begin to carry it towards the ruimen.

I crane my neck to see. A song has begun to play, a deep and lilting song, a plea to bring forth light into the winter darkness. The Eldar love to sing, and their music has a way of touching deep into the soul, like some otherworldly fingers were grasping my ribs and pulling them apart to squeeze my heart. I can't stop thinking about... the age of these words. How this must be done every winter, every year since the first forest was grown. How every person here, besides me, is so old that they've known every tree in the ruimen since it was a sapling. How they would be doing it long after my own bones turn to dust.

God, I need to stop drinking, don't I?

The eight elves reach the base of the massive ruimen, dragging it into place at the bottom, releasing the straps and straightening out their backs. The Elvenking steps forward, his beweled fingers holding a torch of his own, his voice, as ever, steady and deep and rich as the mulled wine he partakes so deeply in. "May this flame shine against the long dark." He touches his torch against the braided ropes around the log's middle, and then to the pile of dry kindling at the base. It goes up quickly, leaping upward to catch on the dry bark until sap hisses and bubbles forth. The Elvenking steps back, just as heat rolls forward, bathing the entire crowd in a gust of hot air that drives back the cold. I feel it deep in my toes and wiggle them in my boots, eager for the blessing to hurry up and be over with so I can dig into the feast that covers the tables just past the edge of the crowd.

The tables in question had already been set up alongside the ruimen, close enough to bask in its heat, each heavy with platters of food. Throwing such a feast for the entirety of Felegoth must have cost the Elvenking quite a pretty penny, but, then again, currency doesn't seem to be a huge deal here, since I'd never particularly seen anyone counting coins (or, for that matter, offering me wages. Not that I have to buy things, since everything is given to me freely, but it would be nice to have financial independence. Maybe this is what Karl Marx wanted all along?). The Elvenking continues his blessing - "May the snows be gentle, the nights warm, and the hearts of our people steadfast" - but hunger gnaws at my stomach and I have to admit that my attention is no longer on the man that I'd pledged loyalty to. Go ahead, lock me up. The roast pig was simply begging for me to tear into it.

When, finally, the crowd disperses to attend the feast, I grasp Eruest and Lariel both by their forearms and drag them over. "Come on, we're getting a good seat. I've had my eye on this guy for a while."

"There's plenty to go around!" Eruest says, a nervous twinge to his voice, but I'm not afraid to push my way through the crowd to get to the prime spot: right in front of the roast pig with crackling skin, spices laid on so thick it forms a crust, and fat dripping from its carved slabs. "Come to mama," I say in English, grasping the heavy iron fork to pile some on my plate and then offering a choice piece to Lariel, on my right, and Eruest, on my left, who declines. I sample the edge of my cut. Salt, pepper, juniper, garlic, marjoram, sage. Thank god these white people know how to season their food. There are crumbly honey-glazed biscuits, orange in color, dense with a taste reminiscent of sweet potatoes. Whole turnips roasted under embers, peeled back and salted. Red cabbage braised with vinegar, cloves, and apples, and carrots and parsnips roasted until their edges are crisp with their own sugar. Mushrooms, brushed with oil, skewered and grilled. Trout that had been cured with berries until its flesh was dark reddish-purple and smoked. Besides that, hard cheeses, soft cheeses rolled in nuts or herbs, long slices of bread, toasted chestnuts and hazelnuts, and baked plums. My plate is piled embarrassingly high.

I eat until I can hardly move. Conversation flows as easily as the wine does, which is with great fervor. Not Dorwinion, I'm happy to report. I just get normal drunk instead of lose-your-memory-and-twerk-on-royalty drunk. The singing is ever-present in the background, and Eldar move freely from table to ruimen to join the song or sate their hunger. Occasionally a minstrel would stop at our table, spinning a story in return for a poured cup of spiced wine. I hear many stories that night. The tale of Tinúviel and her mortal lover Beren, who stole a Silmaril for her hand in marriage (the minstrel did not do a good job at explaining what a Silmaril was, and by the end of the story I was too lost to ask). I heardof the tale of the many names of Túrin Turambar, a child of man who lived among the Eldar, and his adventures in the wilderness with Beleg the woodsman. I hear of Tuor, the first Man to see the sea, and his journey to Gondolin, the city of Seven Names. I'm nodding off as they sing of the Fall of Gondolin, and wake with a start as the song hits its final note, looking around with bleary eyes. It's late now, nearly midnight, but the feast still rages and the food is still piping-hot. The ruimen burns brightly, and at the edge of its firelight stands a red-headed ellon, his face half-hidden in shadow.

I squint at Ettrian, and he does not look at me. Somehow, I guess I'd expected that he'd come to me. He does not. He stands at the edge of the throng until someone else engages his attention, and then he slips away.

I stand up abruptly, and Lariel looks up. Her cheeks are flushed from heavy drinking. "You alright?"

"Yeah." I find an excuse. "I have a gift for Curunír. Keep drinking. I think I'll head back soon, too."

"If you insist," she says, her voice thick with grog, and pours herself another drink. I have a smile pulling on my lips as I scoot over the bench and hunt down my sparring teacher. He's a hard one to find, but after asking around, I find him at his own table - flush with other captains of the guard - and he had indeed been smiling and laughing before he sees me, after which his expression falls into a severe frown. "I know you did not come to me for a sparring lesson, Leoma."

"What, on a holiday?" I crouch next to his seat, digging around once more in my pocket. From it I draw the long strip of hide, wrapped neatly in a circle, burnished dark and smooth with his initial marked on one end. Curunír glances at it, then at me, eyebrows raised. I offer it to his hesitant hand. "It's a grip wrap. For your sword." I begin over-explaining. "So it doesn't slip. You don't have to use it, I just - I wanted to thank you."

He takes it in silence, running deft fingers over the edge of the leather. Finally he speaks. "You made this?"

I nod, somewhat meek under his scrutiny. His lips twitch, and he slips it into his belt, where it won't fall. "This is a thoughtful gift. I will use it, Leoma."

I suppose that's his way of saying thanks. With that done, I feel no need to stick around. I stand up, the alcohol hitting my head and making me dizzy. From there, I think it's time to call it a night.

As I walk back alone in the dark and the cold, I remember the first banruist I'd been to, and how Ettrian had walked me back. I was scared of the woods then. I'm not as much now, especially with the path marked and well-traveled. But it wouldn't hurt to have company. The sounds of Turuhalmë fade into the distance. Naturally, the halls of Felegoth are empty, save for a few guards on patrol. Everyone else is still at the feast, driving away the cold, dark loneliness of winter. And here I am, peeling off my woolen tunic wet with snow, dropping it in a heap on the ground and reaching for clean, dry pants and a thick shirt to serve as my pajamas. I shove my feet into a fresh pair of socks and step to the foggy window, wiping away condensation to peer outside. I can see the blazing fire through the trees, and, faintly, hear the songs of the Eldar.

I cannot stop the tears from rising, or the uncomfortable knot that forms in my throat. They are there, just through the trees and yet impossibly far, and I am here. Untouchable. Like my mother. My family.

Don't cry. You made it all the way through today without crying. I rub my nose. Don't do it, Leo. It's not even the worst Christmas you've ever had.

I crawl under my covers and create a cave for myself, where I can hide until morning. Tomorrow I must return to work.

✦

The days that follow Turuhalmë feel quieter, maybe because the anticipation of the feast has slipped from the air. Snowfall covers the paths that had been dredged out for the contests, and the great outdoor ruimen burns until it's no more than a pile of ash that then, too, is blanketed with snow. I spend my mornings in the training yard, the hours at my posts, and then my evenings at the indoor ruimen in the guardhouse, much like I have been since joining the guard.

The winter has settled in full now. It must be January, and I'd never seen trees groan with the weight of so much ice. The guard of the Greenwood seem to welcome the stillness of winter. They drink less, speak softly, and laughter is not so quick to rise, but they are not solitary. Evenings are spent gathered together, reading or shining their blades or speaking in hushed tones. The noise and blaze of Turuhalmë seems like it had been a last hurrah, and this is the long breath after.

But silence also makes room for thought, and thought makes room for longing. Of family and home and things I fear I can never go back to. I shove those thoughts away with drills and chores. The body obeys better than the mind.

It's on one of those evenings, when I've just left the guardhouse fire and come back to my chamber, that the knock comes.

It's firm and measured, and when I don't immediately answer, it comes more frantic. I yank open the door with a sharp, "What?" And I see Ettrian standing before my door, a small blanket clutched against his chest.

"I need your help," he implores me.

I stare at him, flabbergasted. In his arms, the blanket twitches. I can only repeat myself, softer this time, and more confused. "What...?"

The bundle squeaks, high and desperate. He pulls away the wool to show me a small, twitching black nose, and mottled gray fuzz around the face of a puppy, maybe a week old. Its eyes are sealed shut, its ribs visible even beneath its soft coat. The tiny creature squirms weakly, mouth opening and closing with a mewling sound that goes straight through me. You know me, I'm a weak soul.

I stare. "That's... Mey's?"

Ettrian shifts the bundle in his arms, and the puppy stretches out a tiny leg, muzzle searching for something to nurse. It latches onto his tunic and must be sorely disappointed that the fabric doesn't lactate. "The runt of the litter. She hasn't milk enough for one so weak. It will starve among the rest. I've tried to help it nurse, but my duties keep me farther than I'd like to be, and -"

"And so you bring it to me?" The words come out sharper than I intend, half out of surprise, half out of the sting that he thinks me suited for this when I can barely keep myself together most days.

"If you cannot, there is nothing else I can do." He says quietly. "I only thought to ask. Sometimes a hound can help where a person cannot. I thought if there was a chance, it would.. it would be with you."

His dark eyes beseech me. It's in that moment that I realize what would happen to the runt if I didn't do anything. It would starve, but Ettrian would sooner have to put it down rather than let it suffer on its own, fighting for a chance at life against stronger siblings. I look down at the little scrap and reach for it with a gentle hand, rubbing the bridge of its nose. "I-I don't know. It's so little. But I can try?"

I'm a bleeding heart. For animals especially. Not for him. Not for the way his eyes soften as I take the puppy from his arms, tightening the swaddle around it so that its little legs don't stretch out so blindly. "At least get me some warm goat's milk from the kitchen before you go."

"Anything you need." He steps back. "You look quite charming with that look on your face, you know."

I blink. "What look?"

He grins and retreats down the corridor. I stick my head out the door. "Hey, what look? Answer me!"

Of course he doesn't.

I don't bother undressing as I wait for him to return. I curl into my bed with the bundle wrapped against my chest. My tunic smells of smoke and wool and now, faintly, of animal musk.

When Ettrian delivers the bowl full of milk, I dip a scrap of linen into it, and let the pup suckle. At first it doesn't manage, milk dribbling down its chin. I whisper encouragement in English - "come on, little dude, you got this" - and slowly it gets the hang of it. Milk runs down its small chin onto my blankets and I know it's gonna be a bitch to clean up later. When it's done, it nestles into my palm, belly rounder than before. Its breathing evens. I rub its side gently with two fingers to stimulate breathing. Hours pass like this: feeding, warming, dozing in my bed with the pup curled beneath my chin. My back aches, my eyes sting, but I don't care. Each squeak jolts me awake, each tiny sigh soothes me back to calm. By dawn, I'm half-delirious with fatigue, but wake when the puppy stirs and a small pink tongue licks my chin, and I laugh, raw with relief.

The next days pass in a rhythm dictated by the pup. Feed it. Warm it. Rub its belly when it cries. Sleep in snatches. When I show up to morning drills with a baby sling wrapped around my chest and the small creature tucked inside it, snoozing, I'm teased mercilessly.

"Time for us all to trade in our swords for swaddling clothes, eh, Leoma?" One asks, and I flip up my middle finger. Lord Saeros grants me temporary reprieve from the Circles. Everyone seems to think it's amusing that I've found myself a sudden new charge, and I'm well aware that bets are being placed on if it will last. That only makes me all the more determined to see the pup live. I nurse it until its eyes open, blue-gray and dull at first but brightening each day. Its ears perk when I speak to it, tail giving wags so clumsy it nearly tips over. It chews my sleeve with new, needle-sharp teeth, and when I'm confident enough to let it roam my floor, it does the same to my boots. I haven't named it yet; naming feels almost too hopeful, and it's been awhile since I'd sexed a puppy and know I won't be able to for a few more weeks.

Finally it's big enough to turn it over and see what we've got going on. The pup had stuck by my side for long enough that many of the guard were interested to know, too, like a baby's gender reveal. I announce it loudly and proudly at drills one morning, with the small mister clutched in my arms, "It's a boy!" And a cluster of Eldar who, a couple weeks ago, had made fun of me now stand around and tickle his belly.

"Do you have a name?" Lindur asks, lifting the end of his braid to tickle the pup's nose until he sneezes.

"Not yet. I've got a suggestion box." I inform him, feeling rather like an overprotective parent. Lindur says he'll think on it as he gives the little guy a final scratch and saunters off to catch up on his drills.

If anything, the puppy has made me more popular. I suppose that's as good an incentive as any to keep him around, but I have to admit - as I am loathe to do - that maybe Ettrian was right. Sometimes you do need a dog when you're sick of all the people around you. The puppy grows past the danger zone, and I return to my normal duties, confident to leave him in my room alone. Where puppy pads don't exist, I have to get creative; old blankets, waxed, covered in hay and all the milk he could possibly desire.

When I return to my room one night to find him curled on my bed in a tight ball, twitching as he dreams, I realize I finally know his name. He wakes when I bend down, tail thumping faintly against the floor, and lets out the softest yawn before tumbling into my hands. I lift him against my chest, and he nuzzles beneath my chin with a sigh so content it undoes me.

"Had a good day, Finn?" I mumble, burrowing into bed without bothering to strip. "Me, too. I'm beat." He takes his usual spot under my chin, near the warmth of my chest, where we can feel each other's heartbeats.

Lying awake in the dark with his small body taut against mine, I feel that this is the first time in a long while that I do not feel alone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Following Turuhalmë, Felegoth seems effectively snowed-in. The city itself, connected by endless networks of corridors snaking under the earth or through and up massive trees, remains traversable even on the coldest days when, rightfully, nobody should be outside. But outside the city gates, the snows pile in high drifts. This means that patrols rarely leave Felegoth to travel beyond its walls; travel is too difficult, tracks too easily seen, and if anyone was caught in a snowstorm out there, they likely wouldn’t come back. 

Besides, what need do you have for tracking spiders when the snows had sent the few that remained back into deep, warm caves somewhere in the forest? And yrch, the great enemy - who I’d still never once laid eyes on - wouldn’t even make it within a hundred yards of the walls of Felegoth before they’d be shot down where they stood in the snow. All of this, I’d heard from senior members of the guard, some of whom had taken a little care to explain it to me. More importantly than that, with each heavy snowfall, the training grounds became more and more inaccessible. There had been a valiant effort, for a few days, to clear it from snow in order to practice drills or run the Circles. And then, when it was apparent that the snowy season had come in full force, we in the Guard were granted reprieve. 

But being absent from college for the past seven months has not absolved me from the responsibilities of homework. I meet with Eruest’s father, Léofir, thrice weekly to study Westron. Where Sindarin had been a shockingly easy language for me to grasp - primarily because I had no other way of communicating with the people who essentially held me captive - Westron makes me feel like a dunce. I had thought that, since it’s apparently the common tongue of Ennor, it might share at least some commonalities with Sindarin. But that would be too easy. Even the name of the language is different in the tongue of the Eldar. Annúnaid - the language of the Dúnedain. I try my best to compartmentalize both tongues in different areas of my brain. The Sindarin part files everything away automatically. It doesn’t translate into English in the back of my mind, it just is. It’s not that I don’t trip over vocabulary - I do - but by now it feels almost like breathing, a thing I’d hardly noticed until I had Westron to compare it to. Learning the common tongue is clunky, full of me desperate to find rules and structure and oftentimes confusing it with Sindarin grammatical forms as if they are at all similar. 

English lives in a weird middle ground, mixing with Sindarin in my thoughts, yet almost completely overwritten by it as my main communicator. It bursts out less and less when I speak. Even Finn, six weeks old now, cocks his head to the side in confusion when I switch from the Elvish tongue to English, full of sounds unfamiliar to him. But then, he does the same with Westron. 

It’s such a confusing language that I feel like it’s only meant to be learned by children who have eight years to stumble through the awkward period of figuring out deferential and familiar pronouns and the necessary clauses and syntax and compound-complexes. Or if you were, for example, immortal, with a few thousand years to spare. 

Without my morning drills to worry about, I’m allowed to take the first few hours of the day to myself, and that means that I can stay up later at night. My room, small as it is, can accommodate a half-sized desk and stool, on which I’ve scattered a few bound-leather notebooks, a dictionary, a primary reader meant for six-year-olds, and a stack of animal husbandry manuscripts that I had big dreams of translating. Now, that seems like a lofty goal.  I’m about as literate as your average serf.

Sitting at my desk with one leg tucked under, my back aching, I hunch over the page of my notebook. It’s dotted with ink and no small amount of tearstains. Léofir had given me a series of sentences to translate from past to present tense: The King sat in his hall. The guard lifted his sword. The child had an apple. I’d already crossed out mistakes I’d made - confusing Sindarin and Westron vocabulary more than once - and have to wrangle with mutating had into has, not have, not is, although they’re almost all the same word. 

I mutter the words to myself as my quill scratches against the page, feeling them against my tongue, in the back of my throat. In Sindarin, ‘i aran hamadir imi i-thamas’. It makes sense: subject-verb-tense-preposition-article-noun. To make present-tense, simply drop -ir from hamadir. In Westron: ‘king sat hall-his’, to ‘king in his hall sits’. The past-tense subject-verb-object becomes subject-object-verb in present tense, with verb-final occurring only in present tense except for some weird arbitrary rules where it makes sense that ‘that man bread ate’  but not ‘that man ate bread’. 

Léofir has also tasked me with translating the sentences back and forth from Sindarin to Westron, which feels somewhat like pulling a rope through a two-small hole and getting snagged with every inch. The apple is red: in Sindarin, i gordof caranarn. In Westron, an karan razares. The problem is, my brain insists on filtering everything through English first. I read gordof, and gordof must become apple, and apple must be wrangled into Westron vocabulary. There’s too many bridges to cross. By the time I’ve crossed them, the apple is rotten. 

After I write the last sentence and blow on the ink for it to dry, I glance wearily at the stack of manuals with their Westron titles that I have yet to understand: Sûra bakar-balak, and the gilded illustration of herd-animals on the spines. But, Leoma! You might ask. Why not simply find pre-existing translations of said manuals? Wouldn’t that make your life so much easier?

And to that I say, yes. Boy, it would be. Except Elvish knowledge, specifically those kept in the archives of the Elvenking, is pretty severely gatekept. Any book I’d previously gotten my hands on had been given to me by a teacher solely for the purpose of learning the language, and once when I’d tried to enter the library, I’d almost been skewered by members of my own guard. Lord Saeros, when I’d gone to him to ask permission, had peered at me with a curious look and asked, “And why would you need access to the records of the Eldar, child of Man? That knowledge is not yours to seek.” No matter how much I’d tried to explain that I only wanted to read about cows and not whatever king or council had stored their secrets in there, he hadn’t believed me, and I didn’t dare to go above his head about it. 

And the act of translating from one language to another would force me to analyze the text more critically, rather than just taking notations. If I ever got to the level of fluency that I would be able to transcribe it. I lean back in my stool with a groan, which startles Finn, who is curled up on my bed. He lifts his shaggy little head and yawns, forcing out a whine, and I realize it’s past time for a snack. 

“Wanna go beg Galion for some leftovers? Huh?” I ask him, gathering him into my arms to shower his noggin in kisses. For a six-week-old pup, he’s growing fast. Probably due to my (mostly) undivided attention. From the size of him, you couldn’t have guessed he’d been the runt of the litter. It’s a tricky stage, with his body growing fast but his stomach still too delicate for adult food. And I didn’t have prescription puppy food to start him on, or any kind of medication; as a veterinary student with a net-zero understanding of Medieval puppy care, I’ve had to do a lot of random shit and hope for the best. 

Finn has grown fat on four meals a day, his tummy round as a drum. Most of his food now has been stolen from the mess hall table, soaked in milk for his puppy teeth to be able to chew. Coarse brown bread-and-egg  mash mixed with goat milk is most common, because it’s easy to pocket all of that at breakfast. It smelled foul at first, but I’d gotten used to it. He has a warm nest to crawl into when I’m out, and he always sleeps tucked up against my chin at night, where we can chase off the winter’s chill together. Whenever he dirties himself, I use warm water and a dry rag to clean him, and gently brush his teeth with a birch or blackgum twig. He waddles around my chambers and has learned where the pad of hay is to do his puppy business on. He’s already responding quickly to touch and praise, which - hopefully - means he’ll be easy to train. When he’s a bit older. For now, he’s doing a good job just growing.

With Finn in my arms, I wrap a cloak around myself and shove my feet into a pair of ankle-length unlaced boots, trudging out of my door into the dim hall. By this time of night, almost everyone is asleep, except for the tîrwaith on night duty. There are fewer of them, given that the snow has effectively kept everyone indoors, and Felegoth doesn’t have a huge crime rate anyway. By this time, I’m very familiar with the path to the Elvenking’s kitchen, one such place that you would expect to be heavily guarded but somehow isn’t. Galion cooks for the court, but the massive royal kitchen is connected to the one that serves the guards’ mess hall. We are, by extension, part of the Elvenking’s court, through the pledge of loyalty that binds us to him. I’m grateful for the small privilege it gives me to sneak in his cellar for a late-night snack. 

I enter the kitchen through a door in the far corner of the dark mess hall. Smelling faintly of herbs and a long-dead cooking fire, the kitchen, too, is dim, and as my eyes adjust, I navigate between the prep tables and head towards a hallway further down. One door takes you to the wine cellars, one to the cheese room - pantries upon pantries of food, enough to last us through several months of winter. Even this far into the depths of the city, a slight chill reaches its fingers through my cloak, and I curl my upper body around Finn to protect him from it as I pass through the corridor. I might have stolen from any one of those rooms if I didn’t want to curry Galion’s favor so badly; you don’t make an enemy of the people who feed you.

At the far end is the wide door to the royal kitchen, ajar, from which spills a gentle light. Like me, Galion works late into the night. That’s how I’ve come to know him on a first-name basis, though I’m not quite sure he feels the same way. Though the entirety of the kitchen is his domain, he sits at a small table in the corner, a lamp casting dim light over the stack of papers in front of him, and a goblet of wine fisted in hand. 

“Hello,” I say, very softly, so as to not disturb him. Galion sets down his goblet and glances at me - first my face, then my chest. “Bringing that mutt into my kitchen again?” 

He’s quite the grouch. Finn is still sleepy, and thankfully not much of a wiggler, so he stays curled in my arms as I take the chair across from Galion and try to peer at what he’s working on. A list, cross-referenced with a page of numbers. “Working hard, or hardly working?” 

“Be silent, or I’ll throw you in the stew-pot.” Galion keeps his eyes on the page as he pours me a glass of wine and slides it across the table towards me. I give it an expert sniff. I might not be a sommelier, but I know the smell of Dorwinion - one of Galion’s well-known favorite drinks - and this, thankfully, isn’t it. I take a sip, mulling the acrid taste of blackcurrant and clove and something earthy I can’t quite place, almost like soil. It isn’t my favorite, but I’m not one to turn down a free glass of wine. I should have brought my homework, I realize as I sit across from Galion. At this hour, it seems like we are the only two awake in Felegoth. 

“Damn it all.” The elf suddenly swears under his breath and pours himself more wine. A drop spills on the tabletop and he takes out a linen square from his surcoat and gently dabs up the red stain. I almost venture to ask what’s wrong, the question on the tip of my tongue, when he does me a favor and answers it ahead of my asking. “My numbers.” He splays his hand against the page before him. “They don’t add up. Barrels gone missing. Chickens counted twice, or not at all. Flour diminishing faster than it ought, even with your lot eating as many cakes as you do.” His braids fall forward, and with a short-tempered swipe of his hand, he pushes them back again. “And the king’s coin only stretches so far. I do not have unlimited access to his coffers, as so many seem to think I do. All my expensive wine…” He trails off with another huff.

“Do you think someone’s stealing?” I ask, resting my chin on my hand. Finn wriggles on my lap, and my other hand smooths over his back. 

“I think,” Galion responds, his tone slow and measured as he resumes his reading, “that eledh cannot count. Which is perhaps worse, since no thief can be punished for that. I make lists, I count, I cross-check, and still the figures lie. No - if anything is stolen, it is sleep, and it is stolen from me.” 

I’ve lifted my goblet to my lips, and I snort into it, almost spilling. Since I’m not as meticulous as the butler and lack a pocket-square to mop up my spills, I’m glad that I manage to avoid it. “I’m sure the Elvenking appreciates your sacrifice.” 

“Would that he paid me for it.” Comes the dismal response, and I wonder if he’s salaried or paid by the hour. Do the Eldar have a concept of minimum wage? Questions for another day. 

We sit in companionable silence for a moment, Finn squirming awake in my lap. He noses at the air, snuffling like a piglet, then whines faintly. I set down my wine and shift him up, against my shoulder, where he licks my neck and I chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, I know, buddy. Food time.”

Galion watches this with something like reluctant fondness. “You mean to tell me I must feed you and that thing?”

“You’ll feed us both,” I say sweetly. “Because you’re secretly a kind old man beneath all the grouchiness.”

He snorts, stands, and lights a second lamp above the hearth. The kitchen stirs awake with an orange glow. “Flattery does not work on me, girl.” But he’s already fetching a pan.

For me, he tosses bread into the pan with a little butter, toasting until each side is crispy-golden, then slices a little smoked venison paper-thin and sets it on the plate. For Finn, he crushes a hard roll into a bowl and soaks it with warm goat’s milk, then beats in the yolk of a fresh egg until it turns into a soft, gloppy mush. He sets it on the table with only minimal grumbling. “There. A feast for the hound and his lady.”

I’m not often called a lady, so this is a nice change. Galion, for all his grumbles, is a big softie. I grin up at him, tearing into my bread as I bring the bowl down to my lap for Finn. He dives into it paws-first, probably getting more on his body than actually in his mouth. I’m used to cleaning him up, so I don’t care about a little mess. “You’re going to spoil him,” I say, but I can’t keep the gratitude out of my voice. 

“I’d say he’s already well-spoiled.” Galion takes his place across from me with a plate of his own. “Not unlike a certain mortal I know.” He has something more to say, but he takes his time with his bread before continuing. “When you first arrived in Felegoth, I thought you like a feral cat. Hissing, scratching. Ready to bolt the moment the door opens.” I wince, remembering my frenzied escape only a few months ago. “Now look at you. Partaking of the Elvenking’s wine and fattening up a mongrel under the guard’s oath, like you mean to stay here.” 

“People change.” I rub Finn’s ears, not entirely knowing how to swallow Galion’s statement. The bread suddenly feels thick in my belly, and I chew another piece just to have something to do with my mouth.

“They do not.” Galion says flatly, washing down his food with another sip of wine. “But they do, perhaps, sometimes grow into what they were always meant to be.”

“Huh.” I sit with that for a second, wondering how the Eldar can so easily go from being backhanded to strangely motivational in seconds flat. “Maybe you’re right about that.”

✦

When I leave the kitchen some forty minutes later, my cloak smells of egg mush and Finn desperately needs a bath. The corridors are still and dim, lanterns guttering in their sconces high on the wall. It’s spookier than it was an hour ago, and for a while, my boots softly padding against the floor are the only sound. Then I hear a low voice as I approach an open door, and, despite me fully knowing better than to eavesdrop on the Eldar, I slow my steps. 

“...clear in the snow. More than twenty.” Someone says. “Moving along the north side of the river, beyond the river-gate.” 

Another voice, lower, replies, “What would you have me do? Send a patrol into drifts higher than our horses? We’d lose more than we gain.” I recognize it as Lord Saeros. 

“We can travel over the snow on foot. A small party, that’s all. We cannot leave them unchecked, my lord.” 

A pause. Then: “The snows will bury them. Come the melt, we will hunt them like wolves. Until then, I am not sending my men to die in the ice.” 

The door closes, voices muffled once more, and I stay still for a few moments longer for fear they could hear me breathing. Then, clutching Finn tighter, I hurry back to my chambers. My door shutting firmly behind me feels like enough to keep the ghosts and boogeymen away. What had they been talking about? Yrch? With snow this high? Really, it’s not that it has anything to do with me. I mean, I’m not volunteering for any patrols. My job exists entirely within the safe, warm walls. I don’t even know why they call yrch the “great enemy”, or what the supposed great enemy even looks like. In my head, I’d envisioned them as looking a bit like anthropomorphic bears, because anything else feels very racist. 

Once clean, warm, and dry, I let Finn burrow into the woolen blanket covering my bed as I do a haphazard job of tidying up. Outside, the snows have begun to fall again. Even in the darkness, I can see fat snowflakes drifting down to clump on the branches outside my frosty window, and I wonder how long winter will last here. 

The next morning, when I rouse myself at the tenth bell to attend a late breakfast, I hear no mention of yrch. No mention of anything past the gate at all, really, which is a little strange, considering that sometimes those on night patrol share their sightings of anything from squirrels to sparrows for lack of anything else to say. I’ve left Finn in my room, still sleeping, and pick through what’s left over of breakfast. Pottage suits me just fine. Finn will get egg mash and a small bit of sliced liver. 

After grabbing a wooden bowl and spooning a bit of mash into it, I sit alone at one of the tables. At this hour, the mess hall is quiet, with only a few Eldar sitting about, enjoying a bit of brunch for themselves. The pottage is still warm, but slightly gummy. I scrape my spoon along the sides of the bowl, wishing that I’d gotten up a bit earlier when they still had griddle-cakes out. It reminds me a bit of my college dining hall. You never missed waffle day. It’s the same here. The earlier you come, the better your chances of getting something other than oat-and-barley porridge and bread heels. 

Still, pottage suits me fine. It’s salted and barely spiced, but it’s filling. I’ve gotten used to the taste of it. Finn’s breakfast is a little more luxurious, but Galion was right; the little creature is spoiled. 

The other guards who linger over their bowls don’t look at me. Or rather, they do, but obliquely. Their gazes snag and slip away.  If I expected companionship, I really should have learned by now. Sometimes I feel a bit like a dog that’s been let in on a rainy night out of pity. Sitting in the corner, dripping and shaking. 

I lick my spoon clean and prepare another bowl for Finn before standing, clutching my gruel in hand. My posting will be on the board, as per usual. It hangs near the side entrance of the mess hall: parchment tacked up with neat rows of names inked in Tengwar. My name is near the middle, which I find after a moment of scanning. Leoma: west gallery, 12  - 20. Timekeeping, at least, is one thing that stays consistent between Earth and Felegoth. Their day is twenty-four hours, kept by a bell that sounds every hour, and counted by a system similar to military time. So I’ve got an eight-hour shift of standing in a corridor on the western side of the city, a well-trafficked area that leads between the court’s administrative chambers. It’s better than the tunnels, though, and it’s for damn sure better than the outer gates.

I’m still staring at the board when I hear the scrape of boots behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. Two elves, both tall, both in the green and brown of the guard. I know them by sight - everyone in the company is familiar by sight, if not by name - but I’ve never exchanged more than three words with either. After they stand there for longer than a breath, it’s clear that they’re here for me. I turn fully, trying my best to summon a polite expression. “Morning.” 

The taller of the two gives me an eyeful. “Last night, between the first bell and second, you visited the kitchen.” 

“Yeah. Puppy business.” I hold up my bowl of gruel, as if Finn’s existence explains everything. Which, honestly, it should.

She does not smile. “And what time did you return to your chamber?” 

“I assume you know already, since you guys are always watching my ass.” I squint up at him; all of these Elves are irritatingly tall, and you know I’m already annoyed. My gruel is getting cold. “But I guess it was about an hour later. Maybe forty-five minutes. I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention.” 

“Lord Saeros does not permit you to walk past curfew unaccompanied.” The companion interjects, and I curl my upper lip in disdain. “What was I going to do? Stage a coup from the kitchen?” 

We should be over this by now. When the taller of the two settles her hand on her belt, I see it as a threatening move. Hand too close to the hilt of her blade. My heart quickens. It’s starting to feel like the cops. And I don’t like cops. “We are only tracking the slipping of certain items from storage,” the taller says, her tone slow and deliberate, like she’s talking to a child. The Eldar have a habit of doing that to me. “Several crates were counted yesterday evening. This morning, they were not where they had been placed.”

“Oh.” My shoulders loosen, just a little, though I still eye her suspiciously, especially with her hand near her waist. “So this is about missing inventory? Then it’s not me. I mean, come on. You think I’d steal?” I shift the bowl of gruel to my other hand. “A barrel of wine? Some flour? You think I’m hauling contraband around under my cloak?”

The two glance at one another. I wonder if they drew the short straws to have to come deal with me. The shorter cocks his head.  “You admit to walking near the storerooms last night.”

“I admit to walking near a lot of doors last night,” I shoot back. “Which is what happens when your chambers are at the far end of every corridor. You walk. Past. Doors.” 

The tall one doesn’t flinch. “Then you did not hear anything unusual? See anyone?”

And there it is. My brain, already on edge from last night, instantly leaps to the conversation. The voice that I’d heard behind the door: more than twenty… moving along the river… the snows will bury them. And I’m still long enough for them to notice.

Their eyes are on me now. The silence stretches, and stretches, and I should say no. I should just shrug, laugh, tell them I’m too tired to remember. But instead, because my mouth likes to betray me at the worst possible times, I blurt: “I didn’t mean to overhear Lord Saeros. It was just… I was walking by.”

In an instant, the air between us changes. The taller one’s gaze narrows. The shorter one’s brows lift, just slightly.

“…Overhear?” The tall elf’s  voice is soft, far too soft. “What, exactly, did you overhear?”

Oh, man… do they give out awards for idiots? Could I place top three?  I have to think about the best response, and it ends up being a slow “Nothing…” I bite my lip. “I mean, not nothing, but - it wasn’t important. Just a few words. Not even a whole sentence. Honestly, you can’t expect me to - ”

“Tell us,” the tall one cuts in, sharp as a whipcrack. “What words?”

Finn’s breakfast sloshes in the bowl as my hands tremble. “Something about, um, something they saw. A patrol. I don’t know, it was muffled, I swear. Look, I wasn’t spying, I was just - ”

The two elves exchange a glance so brief and subtle it makes my stomach drop. They don’t believe me. Or worse - they do.

The shorter one steps in closer, lowering his voice. “This was outside the council chamber?”

My throat is dry. “Yes.”

“And you told no one?”

“Of course not! Who would I even tell? My dog?” I give a feeble, brittle laugh. “I don’t even know what half of it meant.”

The taller one’s jaw works, silent for a long moment. Her hand has left her sword, but that doesn’t make me feel safer. Finally, she says, “Then you would be wise to forget what you claim to have heard.”

The shorter one adds, almost gently, “And wiser still to keep your answers to the questions asked, Leoma. Nothing more.”

My face is burning. I want to protest, to explain, but my mouth has already dug me deep enough. So I just nod stiffly, clutching Finn’s bowl in front of me with both hands. It isn’t a shield. It’s just a cold, sad little bowl of gruel.

They step aside, wordlessly dismissing me. My knees almost instantly weaken and I catch my breath, leaning back against the posting board as I watch them go. I don’t move until I see them leave the mess hall, and only then do I scurry off to safety. But as I march back towards my room, my heart hammers in my chest. Finally, finally, I’d begun to feel like I was out of the realm of suspicion. But if that had been true a day ago… I’m certainly under suspicion now.

✦

My stomach is in knots all throughout my shift, half-expecting a new interrogation. But Lord Saeros makes no appearance; nor does Ettrian, or Legolas, or even Daelen - my worst enemy - which probably means the dungeons are not in my immediate future. After that, the days begin to blur together. Work, eat, study. Sleep, eat, study, work. I’m doing exactly what I did back in Atlanta, only with more immediate danger and no promise of a degree. They told me to forget about the conversation I’d heard, and so I try my best to. I shove it into a corner of my brain with all my other humiliations and douse it in bleach. But sometimes at night it comes crawling back, and the wind howls outside, and I wonder how many yrch are out there now. 

In the meantime, I double down on my other responsibilities: training Finn, grinding through Westron, studying like a rusty cog, and wait for them to forget about their suspicions. The thing with the Eldar, though, is that - much like elephants - they do not forget. 

Finn, for his part, proves to be both a comfort and a headache. As he rounds the eight-week mark, it’s time to get serious with him. Lord Saeros had told me, when Ettrian had first given him to me and in no uncertain terms, that he would not tolerate an untrained hound in the barracks, and if I couldn’t control Finn, we would both reap the punishment for it. Other guards, I knew, did have dogs, but these were the ones that lived in their own homes outside of the guards’ barracks, and the dogs kept by the Eldar seem to be more for working than leisure. I wonder if that means that I’ll have to find some sort of job for Finn to do. If he grows as big as his mother, he could probably pull a cart. Looking at him now, stubby and round-bellied, I can’t help but laugh at the thought.  

He’s learning simple commands. With his attention span of, at most, ten minutes at a time, I’ve managed to instill sit and stay. He’s learning to come with a snap of my fingers, reinforced by a small soft treat - usually his favorite, egg - but stop that and heel are both hard commands for him to follow. That’s okay. We’ve got plenty of time.

Training myself is a harder task. Learning Westron is, like we’ve established, sluggish and largely unrewarding. By nights I scrawl out, over and over, The apple is red. The horse drinks water. The cook bakes bread. Léofir is one of the kinder teachers I’ve had, but my progress is slow - too slow - and frustration leads to anger. Anger leads to outbursts. And outbursts typically lead to being posted in the cold, dark, less-walked pathways of Felegoth. 

My luck, which has never been particularly lush, finally seems to be running dry. 

Halfway through the month, the temperatures warm just enough for the falling snow to turn into a sleeting rain. The banks of snow that encase the city begin to wash away for all of forty minutes before the rain turns to sleet, and the surface of the snow freezes, making a thick, hard crust. This is a phenomenon I’d never seen before. Having witnessed many Eldar walking on the surface of snow, even freshly-fallen, I had assumed that, with the hardened surface, I might be able to do the same; forgetting, briefly, that it was now almost entirely a blanket of ice. I slip and fall on my way to my shift near the stable-gate. More than once, actually. And by the time I arrive there, my green cloak doing little to keep out the freezing wind even if water droplets seem to slide right off, my calves are already aching. 

I have six hours of this to look forward to. 

The Eldar have no problem, you see, with seeing in the dark, or in the rain, or any combination thereof. Like eagles, any one elf can seemingly see a mouse from two miles away, or can count every leaf on the highest branch of a tree without leaving the ground. 

I haven’t been to an optometrist in about three years, and regardless of how perfectly average my eyesight is in the daytime, all I can see in front of me now is a sheet of gray, rain freezing into needles as it falls. It’s washed the path, small rivulets running down towards the stables from the high embankments of snow. Luckily, the Eldar had carved out a path here. The horses still need their exercise, even in the depths of winter. The path I watch over, , sloppy and muddy and cold,  leads directly to the doors of the stable, shut tight against the weather. Once it might have been a refuge for me; now I can only look longingly at the lights that shine out from the crack in the door and wish I, too, was curled up in the warm, dry hay. 

My watch is long and lonely. Don’t get me wrong - it’s not that I’m alone. All guards are posted in pairs, and today my partner is Amros, and we get along just fine by way of simply not speaking much to each other. To be honest, I’m more concerned with the future of my extremities than who’s going back and forth between the yard - which is to say, absolutely no one, because why would they in this weather? - and every so often, I stamp my feet to regain feeling in my toes, splashing icy water across the edge of Amros’ cloak. He gives me a look and I give him one right back. We’re both cold and damp; you can’t really be picky as to whether the cold and damp is coming from above or below. 

And yet the rain continues to pour down, freezing as it runs down the stone wall behind us, freezing on our cloaks, and freezing along the  edge of the path. Eight hours feels like almost too long to be out here, but I can’t fault Elven clothes-making. My layers and boots keep the important parts warm and dry, and everything else is just a bit mind-numbing. 

It’s somewhere near the sixth hour of my shift when the commotion begins. The rain had been coming down too heavily to hear the bell that marks the hour, but only a few minutes ago, a stablehand had rushed out of the doors of the barn and sprinted up the path. Now he’s coming back, blankets in hand, and the head groom behind him - Haldôr, my old boss. The stablehand looks frantic, whereas Haldôr looks unreadable. Amros puts out a hand to stop them. 

“Anything we should know about?” He asks, since the tîrwaith do generally make it their business to know what’s causing a ruckus, and this is starting to look like quite the ruckus. The stablehand is pale, cheeks red from the cold, and I realize he’s not dressed appropriately for it. “There’s a- in the stable, there’s -”

“A sick gelding.” Haldôr interjects. “Nothing for you two to worry your little heads about. Now, let us move on!” 

Amros slowly retracts his hand, brows creased in concern, but as soon as I hear sick gelding, I’m stepping forward. “I’ll come with you.” I cast a look at Amros, whose expression seems to say that doesn’t sound like a good idea, and Haldôr eyes me up and down with a grunt. “You’re the little one that used to take care of my horses, eh? Yes. We need an extra pair of hands.” He thrusts a finger at Amros. “That little captain says anything about it, and he’ll answer to me. Get a move on!” 

The stablehand is shaking as we run to the doors of the stable, and it takes two of us - Haldôr and I - to pull open the heavy doors. The wind pushes us inside, and we shut out the cold. The sharp change in temperature has me shivering as warmth rolls over me. Now that we’re inside, I can hear more clearly what had been previously just a dim roar of noise. Several horses, stamping and whinnying and flashing the whites of their eyes, but one sound rising above them all; the desperate, high-pitched cry of a horse in pain. 

Near the end of the stable there are more stablehands crowded around a stall, their voices tight and anxious. Haldôr leads the way towards them, already throwing off his cloak and rolling up his sleeves. I do the same, shedding the thick wet wool and yanking off my gloves. Before I even know what I’m looking at, I say to the stablehand beside us, “Go to the water-pump and boil water. Lots of it.” 

When we reach the stall, my stomach drops. It’s a huge gelding, and his coat is lathered in sweat despite the cold. One more stablehand is in the stall with him, grasping his leather halter and trying his best not to get yanked to and fro from the horse’s frantic pacing. The gelding stamps, thrashes, kicks his legs out hard enough to splinter the wood, and his nostrils flare as he struggles to take in breath. 

The two elves on the outside of the stall have wedged a board across the door, where one of the hinges hang loose; the gelding might have tried to make a run for it, maybe, and now they’re trying to keep him in. Haldôr pulls one back by the shoulder and ducks into the stall, placing his weight against the horse’s breastbone as he grabs the collar to try to keep the gelding still. “How long has he been like this?” The groom barks, and someone says, “At it since noon. Won’t settle! He’ll do himself harm if he keeps up like this! Or one of us.” 

After too long, my brain finally regains the ability to think. This is colic, and a bad case, by the looks of it. “Let me in.” I say, too quietly at first, and then more forcefully. “Let me in! Now!” 

Haldôr snaps his head up. “Are you mad, girl? You’ll be crushed!” 

I’ve stopped listening. I can see the gelding’s knees buckling, and the other stablehand holding his halter is too tired to keep him upright. I’m already pushing my way through the stall door as he tries to drop, planting my weight against his chest. “Hey, hey, no, big guy. I’ve got you. Come on - up!” As three, we haul him back up. The gelding swings his head around, narrowly missing mine, lip curling. Saliva froths around his mouth, foaming as it drips to the floor of the stall. With a practiced sidestep, I shove the stablehand holding his halter out of the way. “You’re tired,” I tell him. “Get out of here. I’ve got it.” 

With one hand on the halter, I reach for the rope attached to it, slowly gathering the line, shortening it enough to keep his head steady. Haldôr and I have caged him in enough to keep him from thrashing and bucking, but I have to move quickly. “He hasn’t laid down, has he?” I ask, only to receive no answer, and I have to repeat myself, voice and glare both sharp as a knife. “Has he?” If he had, his gut might have twisted, but it’s unlikely he would’ve gotten back up. That would mean game over. 

“No,” Comes a meek response, and Haldôr grasps the rope from my hands. “You know what’s happening, girl?” He asks me, and I move my hand along the gelding’s shoulder, towards his heaving gut. Palpating as I go. Feeling for obstructions, pockets of gas. “Walk with me,” I tell Haldôr in lieu of a response, my voice shaking, and we both move backwards, guiding the gelding as we go. “Keep him moving. Keep going.” My hand continues feeling down his side. Colic is a catchall term. Could be impaction - I’d be looking for undigested material, foreign bodies like stones, maybe nails. Could be gas, if he got into something sugary and it started fermenting in his gut.Could maybe be parasites. Could be intorsion. And I’m in no way prepared to slice him open. 

“Do we bleed him?” Someone outside the stall asks, and both Haldôr and I say sharply at the same time, “No!” Bleeding will kill him faster. Whether or not Haldôr knows exactly what’s going on inside the gelding, he’s not head groom for nothing. We both know bleeding is a bad idea, especially in an unsterilized environment. The gelding lurches again, sides heaving, and from his foaming mouth a rank smell rises. Stomach acid and half-digested feed. He retches, then shudders violently, muscles trembling against my body. My heart sinks. Horses can’t vomit. If he’s forcing it, that means his stomach is close to rupture.

I have to think. Think. Keeping the horse from laying down is taking all of my strength. I have to tag out. “Haldôr, you got him? Don’t let him lay down!” I lift my hands and back away until my back hits the door of the stall. It opens for me, courtesy of those outside of it,  and I stumble out. “Help him,” I say weakly to one of the stablehands as both of them gape at me. “Go - help Haldôr. If the gelding fights, turn him in a circle. Just - just keep him upright and walking.” Then I begin to pace, my brain automatically switching back to English. All the things that lived inside my textbooks back home are terms I hadn’t learned in Sindarin, of course, and probably don’t exist. Mineral oil, banamine, stomach tubes - all things I don’t have here. Think, think - what do I need to do to get his gut moving? 

“Those blankets,” I finally say, gesturing to the last stablehand, who’s bracing the door. I wave him off from that task. It doesn’t matter, anyway; it’s better if we can move freely from the stall. “Cover him. Keep his muscles from, um -” I can’t think of the word for seizing and I wave it away. Doesn’t matter. “Hot water, where’s my hot water?” Thinking aloud seems to help, because Haldôr calls out, “Hot water and bran mash!” From his place braced against the stallion’s shoulder, his arm stretching across the barrel as he keeps the animal from trying to lay down. Step by aching step, they’re keeping him moving. From this angle, I can see the distended belly. My throat is dry. I really, really don’t want to have to operate. 

Leoma, you have to think. Time is running out. Water and mash is good, but I need a more immediate solution. “Buckets.” I announce. “Rope or cloth or something long and thin. And - and a pipe, a flute, something long and hollow. What’s the word?” I’m frantic as I wrack my brain, but I just don’t know what the term for tube is. “We need to relieve the pressure now, before he tears himself apart from the inside.” 

Haldôr, for all his faults,  doesn’t ask questions. He bellows what I said, but louder,  snapping the Eldar under his employ into motion where they had been lagging for me. Buckets are fetched, fabric is ripped, and someone shoves a length of hollow reed into my hands, thicker than my thumb, used for watering troughs. Crude and splintery. I turn it over in my hand as I stride back into the stall. We’re gonna have to make it work. 

I wedge my body against the gelding’s shoulder, speaking low while I measure the reed in my palm. “Easy, easy boy. I know, it hurts. I know.” My hands are shaking, but I steady them by sheer force of will. I’ve never done this outside a sterile barn with proper tubing. I’ve always had a professor observing, ready to step in if I falter. There’s no one to fall back on here; Haldôr may be capable, but if he  doesn’t even know what colic is when he sees it, it doesn’t give me a lot of hope. The Eldar live for thousands of years, but horses are mortal, and succumb to mortal diseases all the time. If colic had happened before, did they just hope for the best? Put the horse down if it started to look grim? I can’t settle for that. 

I grab a strip of cloth from a wide-eyed stablehand and knot it around the horse’s jaw, fashioning a crude mouth gag. My fingers are raw from the rope burns of his tether, forearms slick with his sweat and saliva, and the very air is thick with the stench of sick horse. I don’t really have the time to care about all that. “Hold him steady,” I tell Haldôr, and he plants his massive frame against the gelding’s neck, pinning him to the stable wall. 

It’s go time. I let out a breath as I slip the tube in the gelding’s nostril, directing it downward and inward, into the ventral meatus. Applying pressure with my thumb to keep it away from hitting the turbinate bones in the nostril, I guide it towards the pharynx. The gelding jerks his head and blood begins to drip from his nostril. Fuck. A nosebleed. The least of my worries now. I need to blow into the tube to coax the gelding to swallow; it tastes of dirt and bitter water and something foul and acrid. 

“Come on, come on, swallow, damn you -” I curse under my breath, feeling the end of the reed bounce slightly as it moves over the rings of the esophagus. The resistance makes bile rise in my own throat. Another blow, forcing him to swallow again. 

Then - it all slips into place. When I blow gently into the tube, I hear a bubbling sound in his gut, and the smell that rushes back at me makes me turn my head to the side and gag. Not done yet, I tell myself. This is the hardest part. Making the siphon. I have to suck quickly on the end of the reed to force the gas out, then angle it back into the bucket at my feet. The gelding shudders. A moment later, sour-smelling gas and brownish liquid bursts out the other end of the reed tube, splattering into the bucket at my feet with a hiss and gurgle that makes the Eldar recoil. The smell is horrific, eye-watering even, but to me, right now, it’s the sweetest thing in the world.

“He’s venting,” I gasp, relief flooding me. Sweat has made my forehead clammy, one braid sticking to my cheek as I bend over to steady the reed. “It’s working. Keep him steady.”

The gelding’s sides twitch as more pressure hisses out. His eyes, still wild, lose a fraction of their panic. I keep one hand on his neck, murmuring nonsense in English and Sindarin, while my other steadies the reed tube. Crimson blood drips down the side of it, staining my fingers. A bad mistake of mine, but unavoidable with the tools I have; he can recover from a bloody nose. The bucket keeps filling with froth and stench, until finally the flow slows to a steady drip. The gelding shudders. His head droops, lips hanging open and foam flecking them. My knees are close to giving out, but by some miracle of God I keep myself upright. The relief in his gut is only step one; if the blockage doesn’t pass - if he bloats up again - we’re right back at square one.

“We need to keep him walking, get his guts moving. No lying down or rolling until it’s passed.” I repeat what I must’ve said many times by now, voice hoarse, as the fluid finally stops to the point that I can - very gently - pull the reed out of the gelding’s esophagus and drop it to the stable floor. My fingers are shaking as I untie the mouth gag, splattered brown and green with refuse. Someone, I don’t know who, grabs the bucket of foul stomach contents out of the way, making way for Haldôr and I to guide the gelding in circles once more. “The bran and hot water,” the head groom asks one of the stablehands as we pass the door. “You have it, yes?” 

The stablehand nods, eager for a task, and totes a steaming pail of hot, thick mash, walking alongside us as Haldôr plunges one hand in. I watch as he coaxes back the gelding’s lips, smearing mash on his gums and tongue. When the gelding finally begins to show interest in it, we slow the walk to let him eat. Haldôr’s fingers are covered in thick brown goop, but he works with a tenderness I’d never before seen from him as he scoops mash onto the gelding’s tongue. My chest eases as the horse sighs again, not quite in total relief but no longer in pain either, and it’s then that my body begins to feel utterly wrung out. 

I’ve done all I can. Any more would be surgery, and I am not a surgeon. I would not trust myself to even try. The thought alone twists my stomach.

“Haldôr,” I croak, and he looks over at me around the gelding’s bent head. In an instant he measures me, sees that I’m seconds away from keeling over, and with his dismissive nod, I peel away and stagger towards the stall door. It’s been left open, and I barely make it towards the barrel of water we use to wash our hands after work. I clutch the edge of it, keeping myself upright, and then plunge my hands in frighteningly cold water, splashing it up to my slimy elbows. I still do not feel clean. The stench of fermented bile surrounds me, along with that of stale sweat. I’m furiously scrubbing when someone’s heavy hand settles on my shoulder, and I flinch. It’s only one of the stablehands. “You should sit.” He says. “You’ve done enough tonight.” 

“I want to  help,” I murmur weakly, and he shakes his head, pointing to a bale of hay. My knees weaken further with every step I take towards it. My hands, a bit numb from the cold water, tingle back to life, and with it, my skin - rubbed raw from the rope tether I’d held - begins to burn. I sit, leaning my back against wood, and wish that I could sleep, but I cannot move, not even to force myself to leave. My shift outside must surely have been over by now; I do not care about explaining to Lord Saeros why I abandoned my post. All I can do now is watch.

Haldôr is still by the gelding’s side, and the animal is swaying slightly; the circle they walk is uneven and lurching. His ribs heave like a pair of bellows. The mash smeared on his tongue keeps him interested enough to swallow a mouthful now and then. That, at least, is good. Haldôr never loosens his grip, his thick arm barring the animal’s neck, his voice the gentlest of commands. “Step, step with me. That’s it, lad. Step again.” 

Haldôr’s methods are rougher than mine, but not wrong. He thrusts his hand under the gelding’s tail at intervals, checking for movement, for any sign the blockage will loosen. Each time he withdraws with a grim shake of the head. I wish I had my textbooks. I wish I had my colored diagrams. But it’s all only scraps of memory and how much would it have helped, anyway? 

Minutes drag into an hour. Then another. My body aches with stillness, and as the adrenaline fades, it aches with cold. I only get up once to fish my cloak from where I’d dropped it near the door of the stable, what seems like hours ago. Then I return to watch Haldôr work his craft. Buckets of steaming mash are fed in careful handfuls, never too much at once, until the horse swallows willingly. The stablehands rotate, becoming visibly weary as the night grows longer,  but Haldôr never lets go, never once yields the rope.

At last, a sound splits the silence that makes us all freeze: a wet, bubbling rush from the gelding’s hindquarters. The smell hits a moment later, almost worse than the venting. Haldôr exhales like a man reprieved from the gallows. “The worst is gone,” he announces. “He’s passed the blockage.” 

I don’t want to take a closer look. The rancid smell is enough to keep me away. Inside the stall, the gelding still trembles, sweat lathering his body, but Haldôr keeps a hand on him, speaking sweet nothings in quiet Sindarin. When his eye catches mine, he says to me, “He’ll not burst tonight, girl. You should go home before you fall over.” 

“I can still help.” I offer, but I must look quite pitiful, because he shakes his head. “You’ve done well.” It sounds like thank you. My legs are numb as I wrap my cloak tighter around my body, unsteady, unsure, and then all of a sudden I remember Finn, alone in my room for the past several hours. Shit. How could I have forgotten? Now I must make my way to the door of the stable. They feel heavier than usual as I push them open. 

The night is freezing, but the clouds have broken. High above me, the stars wheel clear and pitiless. Ice hangs heavy from the branches of the trees of Felegoth. The smell of sickness clings to me, but I’ve gotten used to it by now. Still, a bath is very much in order.

The path is slick, and it leads past the stable-gate, where two more guards stand. And, surprisingly, Amros, who hasn’t left. I stop before I pass them, blinking at the three of them for a moment before I find my words. “How long -?” 

“Five hours,” Amros responds before I even finish my sentence. My brow knits. It had felt like double that, and also like no time had passed at all. No wonder my body feels a bit like a wrung out rag. The panic and filth all telescopes into a single stretch of endless night. But it has ended, and I am hungry, but more tired than that, and the ache in my belly may be comforted more by laying down with my dog. After everything I’d smelled and seen, I’m not too sure I want to eat. I can still feel the slick on my hands, despite washing them. 

“Why did you stay?” I venture to ask, and Amros shrugs his shoulders, an almost imperceptible motion under his cape in the dark. “I did not know when you would return. It is dangerous to walk alone in the winter, you know.” 

“But I left you.” I thought he might hate me for that. Why would he stay three hours past the time our shift was supposed to end? That’s what I don’t get about the Eldar. They are weird and distant and untouchable and condescending and somehow still kind.

“It sounded like Haldôr needed your help more than I did.” Amros begins to walk back up the path, and I force my legs to follow. “Besides, I can withstand the cold much better than you mortals can.” 

“Ha, ha.” My cheeks are ruddy. “Well, thank you, anyway.” 

He says nothing in response to that, and we walk in silence until we reach the warm corridors of the guards’ barracks, and that’s where we part. I stagger to my room, shaking less, but my hands fumble with the latch when I go to open the door. My fingers are still cold and stiff, not yet used to the warmer temperatures of the inner city. 

My room is dark and smells of dog. “Finn,” I whisper hoarsely into it, closing my door behind me.

There’s a stir from the floor, then a soft whine, the sound of claws scratching against wood, and a collide against my shins. Finn’s whole body shakes with enthusiasm as he jumps, clawing at me. I collapse to my knees and gather him up in my arms. “Thank god,” I murmur as I press my face into his fur. I don’t know why I’d thought I’d return to something much worse than this. His damp nose pushes insistently against my chin and neck. He smells of the faint milkyness of a puppy, warm and comforting. I doubt he cares about my stench. “I’m sorry I forgot about you. I’m so sorry, buddy.”

He whines, wriggling in my arms, and I set him down gently. His tiny nails click against the floor as he scampers toward the small bowl I’d left for him earlier. Empty now, of course. Guilt bites me again. Five hours without food is too long for him. His water bowl is half-full. I refill it from a jug beside my table and wish I’d brought some more fresh, making a mental note to grab more water before I sleep tonight. Then I scoop a bit of the soft mash I’d made this morning - bread softened with goat’s milk, mixed with shreds of the softest pieces of venison jerky I could find - and set it in a second bowl. Finn laps at it greedily, the force of his tail whipping his body from side to side. 

I sit cross-legged beside him, watching him eat. My hands still tremble, so I press them against my knees until the shuddering stops. When he’s done, he waddles back to me, his belly round from gorging himself. He flops against my leg with a sigh so theatrical it makes me laugh despite myself. “Drama king,” I whisper, stroking between his ears until his eyelids droop. Within moments, he drifts off, breathing quick puppy-breaths against my thigh.  When I’m sure he’s asleep, I tuck him into my bed with the edge of the blanket pulled over his tiny body. Only then do I let myself think of the bathhouse.

✦

Lord Saeros is not happy with me. 

The following morning, I’d overslept through breakfast long enough that someone must have noticed my absence, and wake with a start to the rapping of a fist against my door. Finn begins to bark, and I shush him quickly, throwing off the covers and padding over to the door to yank it open with a surly, “What do you want?” 

It is Eruest. He gives me a once-over, hazel eyes dripping with sympathy. “I’m afraid Lord Saeros requests your presence immediately. Are you not dressed…?”

I glance down at my wool jammies. The answer to that obvious question is no. Then I rub my face, sleep having crusted my eyes. “What, uh, what time is it?” 

“Past the eleventh bell,” he says in return. “You missed breakfast this morning. It is unusual that you rise this late. I did bring you something for Finn.” 

“Thanks.” I take the bowl from his hands and inspect it. Looks like egg mash. Good enough. “Nothing for me, I see? What a friend you are. Wait there.” I hold up my finger to him, closing my door and set down the bowl for Finn, then grab some fresh clothes to tug on and thrust my feet in my boots. I’m still tightening my belt around my waist when I open the door again, cloak draped over one arm. “So, Lord Saeros. He must be mad. Where is he?” 

“Let’s not make assumptions,” Eruest responds hesitantly. “In his chancery. Come with me.” 

Seeing as Eruest does not ask me about yesterday, I wonder if gossip has made the rounds yet. What would people even say? Oh, Leoma, what a loser for abandoning her post to go save that horse? She’s gross as hell for doing all that to save a mere animal’s life, huh? Or maybe they’d bring the ‘witch’ talk back up. Or maybe I’m just an incredibly anxious person. 

Eruest drops me off in front of Lord Saeros’s office and wishes me good luck. I square my shoulders and lift my fist to knock, but before I get the chance to, the captain of the tîrwaith says from within, “You may enter.” 

I’d never been inside Lord Saeros’s office before. It isn’t the same room I’d passed on my way back from the kitchen. It’s small, with a small window that casts light on his desk, and it smells of paper and the burning of oil lamps. There is no chair for me to sit down in. I stand in front of his desk, rigid and straight-backed, hands folded behind me. He is writing something on a slip of paper before him, taking his sweet time before his gaze finally finds me, and when it does, his dark brows knit together. 

Lord Saeros is one of the few Eldar I’d met with strands of silver hair. To me, this means he is at an age completely incomprehensible. His eyes have fine lines around them, which I’d previously taken to give him a look of gentle kindness. He looks at me now with no emotion readable on his face at all. 

“So,” he begins, voice low and measured, “you thought it proper to abandon your post yesterday.”

It is not a question. So I do not answer. I bite my tongue to keep myself from jumping to a defense. Typically, the Eldar do not like excuses.

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him. “You swore an oath to serve in this hall. Your duties, Leoma, come first and foremost. Before charity, or curiosity, or whatever else may tempt to drag you from your post.” 

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, my lord.”

For a long moment he studies me, eyes narrowing as if trying to catch some flicker of deceit. To my credit, I’ve learned to wear my heart on my sleeve in front of the Eldar. Everything I am, I lay bare in front of them, every day. How much more can they ask of me?

I suppose it works, because Lord Saeros  exhales slowly, from deep within his chest. Whether it’s a sound of disappointment or relief, I can’t tell. “Haldor commended your readiness to help, though he is less forthcoming about the details. The prince’s gelding yet lives, thanks in part to your… interventions.” His tone dips on the last word, suspicion threading through it.

Prince’s… oh. I didn’t know that. I try my best to keep my expression from jumping. Not that I’d use this as a networking opportunity. Please, of course not. And yet, if it presents itself…

“I only did what I could,” I manage to say. “I’ve seen something like it before.”

“Indeed?” His thick brows rise slightly. “You knew what even Haldor, with all his years, hesitated to attempt. That is curious.” He lets the thought linger in the air before setting it aside. “Still, readiness and presence of mind are not without value in a guard. You acted swiftly. You endured foul work for the sake of another’s charge. These are not traits I would discourage.”

I blink, caught off guard by the faintest glimmer of approval in his tone. 

“You will, however,” he continues, voice sharpening, “remember where your first loyalty lies. Next time, you inform a superior if you wish to lend your help where you think it is needed. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” 

He nods once, as though that closes the matter. But then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Your sparring teacher speaks to me of your diligence, and I have observed it myself. Perhaps it is time you took on more responsibility. You will serve on a patrol in a fortnight. Let us see what this diligence has taught you.”

Oh. Now I wasn’t looking for a promotion. I bow my head, not knowing what to say. I cannot argue with him, and I really should probably take this opportunity with a smile. Yet somehow the words come crawling back to me: the snows will bury them. Come the melt, we will hunt them like wolves. 

Surely the snows cannot be melting already. I don’t want to be out there, with the ungol and boogeymen and the great enemy. I’ve come to rather like it inside the city. Safe and low-stakes. 

But my mouth betrays me. “Thank you, my lord.” 

Lord Saeros returns to his quill, already dismissing me with the scratch of ink across parchment. “Do not make me regret it.”

I bow again and take my leave, stepping out of the chancery with my heart lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat. The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and I’m left alone in the corridor. Eruest has not waited for me. Damn him. I guess he has work to do, and I - I need to figure out my post for the day. 

My footsteps quicken as I hurry along the corridor to the mess hall, hoping I’m not already late. Outside, the sun is shining bright on walls of snow. It is a bit warmer today, even in the bowels of Felegoth.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWELVE.

The melt begins in silver rivulets that drip from the eaves of the city. The snow does not yet surrender in full, but it slouches under its own weight, growing soft, thin, and rather treacherous. Winter in Taur-nu-fuin, it seems, comes swiftly and heavily until all of a sudden it's simply gone. By my reckoning it must be February, or Nínui as they call it, and I've been living among the Elves for almost ten months. 

After about five or six of those months, I’d begun to wonder if it was even worth it trying to count the days and weeks as they rolled together; if tracking it made any sense at all when I don’t know if time here and there aligns, because even the face of the moon they use to track their lunar cycles looks utterly different to the one I remember. But, nonetheless, it must be February, and I’m not entirely sure if I’m looking forward to spring. 

I get it, I get it. I complain a lot. The weather’s too cold, and I complain about my frozen fingers and toes. The weather begins to warm up, and I complain because I’m not yet ready to go beyond the walls into the great unknown of Felegoth. I remember all too well what happened to me last time. I’m none too eager to come face to face with another ungol. Especially if they hunt in packs. 

It doesn’t particularly matter that I won’t be alone this time. I’ve never made grand claims about being brave. 

The patrol is expected to last a day, from dawn till dusk. I spend the day before making arrangements for Finn - writing out his exact measurements of food, gathering enough blankets to wrap at least five Finns, and begging Lariel to watch him for me. Luckily for me, rare is the elf that can resist Finn’s charms, and she agrees readily. The pair of them cuddle on my bed as I get my pack ready for the next morning. It will be a day’s ride, I’d been told, but prepare for longer. So maybe I’m overpacking a bit. The Eldar can handle exposure a lot better than I can.

“Don’t teach him any bad words while I’m gone,” I tell her as I stuff an extra pair of socks in my pack, suddenly overcome by the fear of trench foot, and wondering if I should go for a third. “And no extra snacks, I know how you are. He won’t learn anything if you keep giving him treats out of nowhere.” 

“You are quite the diligent parent,” she says, lifting her head to look at me as I turn and place my hands on my hips. “It will be one day, Leoma. He won’t be ruined, I promise you.” 

“I know. I’m just - I’m worried.” I glance around my room, wondering what else I should take. I don’t want to overstuff anything, though, in case I need to run away. No - if that time comes, I doubt I’ll be thinking about my backpack. 

“It’s a routine patrol, my friend.” Lariel pats the bed, and wordlessly, I plop down onto the mattress next to her. It’s small, and sags under our combined weight. Her hand grips mine in comfort. “Nothing that you fear will happen.” 

“If I die, you’ll take care of him, right?” Comes a feeble croak from me. 

Lariel squeezes my sweaty palm and smiles down at me. “You will not die. I promise. You’ll return safe and sound and ready for dinner, as so many of us have before you.” 

“But you’re immortal.” 

As if carefully choosing her words, Lariel is silent for a moment, and settles on dropping a brief kiss to my forehead. “You are very observant. Yes, we live long, but die by the same arrows that fell mortal men. And I’m sure you will meet no enemy arrows tomorrow.” 

She gets up to leave, and I sit up as she does so, lifting Finn onto my lap and stroking his soft gray ears. “If I do die, I’m coming back to torment you specifically, alright?” 

At the door, Lariel dons her boots, and gives a small chuckle. “I believe you, Leoma. I’ll see you when you come back tomorrow.” 

I run through all the different probabilities in my mind. If I’ve been out there before,alone,  less armed and less experienced than I am now, then surely I’ll fare better in the middle of a pack of Eldar and with at least a couple arrows. Those ungol won’t know what hit them. But then, if there’s anything else out there…

More than twenty, moving along the north side of the river, I remember hearing. Come the melt, we will hunt them like wolves. 

Well, the melt is here, and I fear I must prepare to hunt. 

✦

I don’t sleep well that night, and rustle awake well before the fourth bell tolls. I move with robotic slowness as I dress, layering linen garments under warm woolen pants and a padded gambeson, extra wrappings around my forearms and shins, and boots that go nearly to my knee. My shoe collection has grown - I now own three pairs of boots, each of a different length, modestly decorated but, unsurprisingly for Elvish make, very comfortable. For my hair, I wrap a wide strip of fabric around my head, using it both to cover my ears and keep my braids away from my face when riding. Finn is still asleep when I grab my pack and dark green cloak and gently shut my door behind me. It’s too soon for breakfast, but I have a stash of apples and wrapped oatcakes in my bag, so I’m not too worried about that.

I’m very early to the stableyard. Dawn has not even attempted to show face yet. My eyes adjust to the darkness as I walk, gathering my cloak around me to shield against the chill, and after a few moments of waiting in the frozen, slushy yard I duck into the warmth of the stable. Lamps cast a warm glow over the rows of stalls. My favorite mare, Gwinig, gazes at me with soft, curious brown eyes as I approach, offering my knuckles for her to nudge, and then tickling her whiskery chin. The stables have always been a comforting place to me, even after the chaos of two weeks ago, with the prince’s gelding. The same gelding looks to be in high health now; he’d been sleeping on his feet but his ears prick towards the stable door in curiosity. He can hear what I cannot; moments later, the door opens again and an ellon steps inside the stable, a pack of his own (much smaller than mine) slung over his shoulder. I recognize him as Gwilain - definitely Gwilain and not his twin Gwestir - and know him as one of the captains of this patrol. The name of the other had not been supplied to me by Lord Saeros.

“Up early?” He asks me, giving me a nod. “I’m glad to see you. Choosing your mount already? Go ahead and saddle her up if you like. The rest of our company should join us before dawn.” 

He speaks with the ease of familiarity of someone who knows me, and yet he doesn’t. I’m not sure whether that makes me more or less comfortable, but I brush it aside for now, dropping my pack beside Gwinig’s stall so that I can grab her tack. Elven saddles are light and easy to carry, but I know Gwinig has a habit of blowing when she’s tacked up. I settle a saddle blanket across her back, then the finely-tooled leather saddle, and cinch it under her belly. She’s incredibly docile, patiently waiting for me to finish my task, but I know her tricks. Her abdominal muscles begin to tense under the pressure of the cinch, and I keep it loose while I finish attaching my pack and quiver  to her saddle and then brushing out her mane. One by one, other elves begin to trickle into the stable, giving good morning greetings. I recognize a few of them: Rovain, one of the bowmen, and Fierdan, a tîrwaithon like me, and a few more members of the taurhoth sprinkled in. I give greetings where they’re due, but whether it’s due to the early hours or the cold or both, nobody seems particularly talkative. 

Once I tighten Gwinig’s cinch for the final time, I lead her out into the yard, where the sky has begun to lighten in the east to the slightest periwinkle. I can see it only because of the bare branches of the trees. Once spring returns and the trees put out leaves again, Taur-nu-fuin will live up to its name as the forest of darkness. At least now, the sunrise reflects off the snow and chases off the shadows on the forest floor. I stand in the stableyard with Gwinig’s reins held tightly in my hand as the other members of the hunting party trickle out, mounts in tow. Breath plumes in the air from both horse and rider, and the bell is just now striking the fifth hour. Dawn will soon come, and we should be out of the gates by then. 

Then I hear him. The familiar timbre of Ettrian’s voice drifts over the head of the horses, and my stomach drops like a stone before I even see him. 

He emerges from the stable with a black gelding stepping light and eager behind him. He looks completely at ease with himself, cheeks ruddy and a smile on his lips, hood of his cloak thrown back and the reins of his horse held loosely in one hand. His gaze sweeps the yard, and then lands on me. I try my best to ward him off in my thoughts, but damn the bastard, he begins to approach. 

“Well, well. You don’t look too excited for your first patrol.” 

“I’m not sure why I would be,” I say, and I’m about to list off all the reasons. But Ettrian turns his gaze to my ready-to-burst pack and his insufferable lips twitch. “Are you moving house?” 

My cheeks feel warm in the chilly air. “I thought it was best to be prepared. I bet I’ll be the only one with dry socks while the rest of you are limping home.” 

“Oh, is that so? Perhaps I’ll beg a pair from you then, when the snow starts melting into my boots.” 

“You better not,” I mutter, though it doesn’t carry much weight. He chuckles anyway, bright and utterly irritating, before he clicks to his stallion and wheels it round to speak with Gwilain.

Is he the other captain of the patrol? I suppose it would make sense, given that he’s part of the taurhoth, the faction of the guard that scouts the forest. But it seems like ill luck to have him watching over my first patrol; for some reason, my mind jumps to the absurd. Did he do it because he knew I’d be here? Or did he request me, specifically? I don’t claim to know why the Eldar do what they do, but what Lariel had told me still rings heavy in my ears. The way he looks at me like he’s… like he’s waiting for something. It makes me feel a bit… icky. He doesn’t know me. And he’s not as disarming as he thinks he is. None of them are, really. I can pretend that it doesn’t really bother me, but at the end of the day, the weight of the age difference between me and the Eldar bears heavy on every relationship I have.

I’m still watching him suspiciously when the order comes to mount up, and I swing onto Gwinig’s back. She whickers softly under me, pointing her ears forward. In front of me, the pair of captains mount their horses next to each other. The rest of the company fall into line behind them, practiced without any orders given. It’s time to ride out. I square my shoulders in preparation, my spine spear-straight as we ride towards the exterior gate two-by-two. 

The doors groan open, hinges creaking in the cold, and Gwilain raises his gloved hand to gesture us forward. The company passes through the city gates in pairs. The path is narrow, banked by hard snow, and the air almost immediately sharpens, no longer caught by walls or roofs. The cold spears straight into my lungs. Beneath Gwinig’s hooves the road is frozen mud, slick and uneven, but she moves with quiet, placid confidence. Snow clings on the thicker branches overhead, but already the melt has set to work. Droplets from melting ice strike the ground like so many tiny little drumbeats, and the air is heavy with the scent of thawing earth, a raw and woody smell.

The forest had greeted us in silence, and the company responds in equal silence. No one speaks. Only the sounds of hooves on ice and the creaking of leather tack fills the air. 

I had imagined patrols quite differently. Some camaraderie, maybe; joking between riders, maybe a song hummed low. The Eldar always seem to be singing about something. But there is none of that here. Their silence is deliberate. They are listening. For what, I can only guess.

I ride beside Rovain, the pengyr who’d been on the hunt near Dale which seems so long ago now. She’s tall and blonde, not an uncommon look for the Eldar of the Greenwood, with sharp blue eyes and her bow strung across her back. Her eyes move constantly, scanning the undergrowth almost as if she expects something to reach out and snatch her at any moment. When I clear my throat, as quietly as I can, she does not so much as twitch an ear, and I know she can hear me.

Fine. Be that way.

The morning lengthens. Shadows crawl long across the snow, striping the forest floor in gray. The melt grows louder the deeper we ride, for here the trees crowd thick and tall, and all their branches sag with snow that spills in sudden bursts. Now and again a wet clump tumbles down onto the path, startling the horses where it falls. It isn’t yet warm enough for fog, though I might have wished for it; I can see the trees stretch on and on until they become more warped and distant, looking not unlike rotted skeletons. 

The forest surrounding Felegoth, and the trees within the city, are beautiful. Even I cannot deny that. But the longer we ride, the farther the path takes us from Eryn Lasgalen - the Wood of Greenleaves, the area of the forest that Felegoth is in - I can see where Taur-nu-fuin gets its name. It’s a wood of endless darkness. Even in winter, without leaves to mask the sun, the path ahead of us is dim and cold. 

Halfway through the morning, my stomach begins to rumble, beyond eager to break my fast, and I give a half-turn in my saddle to rummage through my back for one of the wrapped oatcakes. It’s dense and crumbly, and probably has made a bit of a mess in there, but I’ll worry about that later. Ahead of me, one of the horses breaks ranks and slows, allowing others to pass ahead of it in line. I do not pay any particular attention to the rider as I prepare to do the same, and then Ettrian reaches out to grab my reins to slow Gwinig down, and I let out an affronted sound. 

“Careful!” I snap, a little harsher than I intended. The captain is riding next to me now, and Rovain is ahead of him. I cast a look around. Nobody seems bothered by this. Softening my tone only slightly, I try my very best not to glare at him. He does make it difficult. “What do you want?” 

“To see how you’re doing?” Ettrian places a hand over his heart. “You always seek to accuse me, Leoma. I must say, I’m rather hurt. Hey, did you pack the entire larder, or just enough to share with your betters?” His grin is rather cheeky as he thrusts a finger at my pack, and I glance down at the oatcake in my hand. With a quick tie of Gwinig’s reins around the horn of my saddle, I break the oatcake in two, and hand him one half. 

“Thank you.” He accepts it with a nod of his crimson head. “This will surely help me to keep my strength when the ungol come.” 

I have no sharp retort. Instead, I choke on the oatcake that has suddenly become lodged in my throat, tears springing to my eyes. Ettrian leans over again, this time to thump me solidly on the back. I cough, then swallow, and ahead of me someone turns in their saddle to give me a suspicious look. Ettrian raises his hand in greeting until they turn back around, and then says to me, voice dropping low, “I would try to keep quiet.” 

“This is your fault,” I accuse, and his twinkling eyes ask me, is it really? I have to clear my throat a few more times before I feel like the obtrusion is gone, and suddenly the oatcake doesn’t look so appetizing anymore. He’d said ungol with such confidence, almost like they could come leaping around any corner. I cast my eyes to the trees around us, searching for any sign of massive webs. 

“Don’t worry,” Ettrian says, and it doesn’t do much to soothe me. “Each patrol drives the ungol further back. They stay mostly in the South, near Dol Guldur.” 

I do not have the heart to ask how far that is. “So, nothing will happen, right?” 

“I hope not.” He still has a twinkle in his eye, and it finally fades into something more serious. “But if such danger comes, don’t wait for orders, Leoma. A moment’s hesitation will cost you. Don’t think, just move. I’ll find you.” 

“You really want to be the hero, don’t you?” 

“Would you rather I didn’t?” Ettrian looks away from me, but not before I see him struggle to hide a quick look of embarrassment. My stomach has a pit in it. Curse me for always feeling sorry for pretty boys when they start looking a bit pathetic. And, to my dismay, I find Ettrian very pretty. “No… no. You can do whatever you want. But, just to be clear,  it probably won’t happen, right?” 

“Who’s to say?” Ettrian begins to spur his horse forward. “It’s been a long winter, and many things now crawl out from the cold. That is why we’re here.” 

“I don’t even have anything besides my arrows,” I call after him, trying my best to keep my voice low, and he makes it a couple rows ahead of me before he wheels his horse around again. As he rides, he pulls a sheathed dagger from his belt and flips it in his hand, offering the bone hilt to me. “Take this, then. Don’t do anything stupid with it, yeah?” 

“You still suspect me?” I don’t take it, mostly out of spite. Ettrian gives a sigh and leans over, stuffing the dagger rather unceremoniously into my pack. “You know I do not.” He murmurs, for my ears only, and straightens his spine. “Be careful, Leoma.” 

From the head of the column of riders, a whistle rises. Ettrian’s attention is immediately off of me, and his stallion leaps forward. Without another word, he rides away, leaving my cheeks flushed and warm. I lift a hand to touch them. Don’t you dare, I tell myself. You can’t be having a crush on one of these motherfuckers. Now is not the fucking time, Leoma.

Whatever called away his attention, I don’t see it. We ride on, letting Eryn Lasgalen fall further and further away behind us. Each step Gwinig takes is a reminder to me that the world of Ennor is much, much bigger than just what lies within the walls of Felegoth, and much, much more dangerous. Where the other riders scan the gloom with practiced eyes, I keep mine on the spot between Gwinig’s ears, watching her plod along. She is not half as afraid as I am.

The silence had been broken briefly by Ettrian’s company, but it now returns, more tense than ever. My teeth are clenched so hard that it sets my ears ringing, even long after I relax my jaw. In places, Taur-nu-fuin begins to feel alive. I remember that feeling well from my first night here - so, so long ago - where the trees had twisted in my path until I was forced in circles, how the air gave way to hallucinations. It’s strange how even in its silence, the forest isn’t still. There’s the groan of a distant tree settling, the occasional rustle of something far off in the brush, and the constant drip-drip-drip of meltwater. The air smells of that dripping water, and of thawing loam and rot, and every so often the sharp tang of resin when a pine limb snaps under its weight of ice. 

The riders keep their formation of two-by-two with the ease of long practice. I am once more riding beside Rovain. Not a word passes between between us now - between any of the company - and I keep my eyes ahead. In the front of the line, a few horses ahead of me, Ettrian’s hair catches what few weak shafts of sunlight penetrate the clouds and branches. 

Then comes the first word in a couple of hours: “Company, halt!” 

I rein Gwinig in and wait with a pit in my belly as I see the pair of captains dismount, stepping off the path to examine something in the dirt. After a few minutes, they mount up again, and motion for the company to keep moving. We move forward slowly, and when we pass the spot where Gwilain and Ettrian had dismounted, I see what had stopped them: hoofprints, deep gouges frozen into the mud beneath the thinning snow. Four long grooves running parallel, dragging deep enough to furrow earth. Snow has been swept away around the track, exposing its direction. Southward. 

Ungol. I bite the inside of my cheek, and my meager breakfast churns in my gut. The horses move faster at a steady lope, and the rest of the company seem loose and ready in the saddle, where I’m a tense ball of nerves. My bow bounces against my shoulder, reminding me that all I have is a handful of arrows and a dagger that Ettrian had unceremoniously shoved in my pack, and I’m not too good at handling either of them. 

The signs multiply as we go. Here, a low branch laced with strands of thick silk, white and glistening like frost. There, a hollow in the snow stained a rusty brown. Once, the smell hits us before the sight: the sharp, rancid sourness of meat gone bad. A fallen deer, half-buried by drifted snow, its body hollowed out and ribs showing through torn hide. The legs are twisted wrong, as if broken in the struggle. Webbing clings to its muzzle and the curve of its antlers, binding the carcass to the ground. It’s been there awhile, and we do not even stop to examine it. I’m thankful for that. I don’t want to be here when the ungol who killed it returns. But it doesn’t even really matter, because we’re riding south, straight into the nests. 

Somehow, the forest smells even more dank here. It’s a disagreeably musty smell, and the air is more humid. Every so often, fat drops of meltwater spatter down, darkening the cloaks and shoulders of the riders. It feels like the forest is bleeding slowly onto us, marking even the Eldar as trespassers in their own wood, but especially me. Shadows twist strange among the boles of the trees, and more than once I swear I see movement, quick and slinking, only to find nothing when I look harder. My fingers itch on the reins, and I keep catching myself reaching back toward my bow, though drawing it now would serve no purpose but to make me look green and jumpy. I am, of course, both of those things, but there’s no point in even voicing my worry. Everyone else knows. They hold themselves taut and alert, communicating silently through words and gestures. I am not privy to it. I cannot even bear to ask, with the words drying in my throat; it feels, somehow, very wrong to speak. 

When the column halts again, it’s because Ettrian and Gwilain have stopped and are conferring in low voices. Those that sit nearest them lean forward to hear, but I’m too far away. Rovain’s horse sidles a step closer, and her slender fingers play with the fletching of the arrows in her quiver. Finally, I venture to ask, because the quiet is unbearable, “What is it?” 

“Webbing, across the path ahead.” She murmurs. “We can go no further.” 

I crane my neck to see, standing up in my stirrups. And, yes - ahead on the path, stretched between two ancient and leafless oaks, is a sheet of silk that gleams in the dim light. It billows faintly in the cold air, looking like the ghost of a sheet someone had laid out to dry. 

Not a single ungol in sight, and yet the web itself makes every single hair on the back of my neck rise to attention. I feel like throwing up. I feel like tumbling out of my saddle and running off into the woods on my own. By the grace of God - and, probably, knowing that I would fare much worse on my own in Taur-nu-fuin - I stay seated in my saddle. 

Ettrian wheels his horse to face the rest of the company, his voice sharp, quiet but carrying across the path. “Rovain, Arveldir, Thalion, Nimriel, Sîrwen  - dismount and take the flanks on foot. Keep low and keep your blades ready. Galadhor, Damrod, Leoma -  hold the path. Guard the horses and keep the way open. If anything breaks our line, cut it down swiftly.” 

He leaves no room for argument and dismounts, Gwilain doing the same next to them. Damrod rides up to them, leaning over to smoothly grasp the reins from their hands. Ettrian unsheathes a sword from his saddle and gives a nod to the other captain. Together, they march towards the webbing. Ettrian’s sword gleams as he slices through it, spidersilk falling away like tiny little strands of hair. Behind it, there is more. Next to me, Rovain drops to the ground, drawing an arrow from the quiver on her back and notching it loosely in her bow in a fluid motion. Arveldir, another pengyr, follows suit; he carries himself unhurried, where I feel a bit more pep in his step might benefit us all. On the other bank of the path, Thalion, Nimriel, and Sîrwen fan out and begin to creep towards the webbing. 

The rest of us keep our places. Damrod has tied the reins of Ettrian and Gwilain’s horses to the back of his saddle, and Sîrwen’s; Galadhor has collected Arveldir’s, Thalion’s, and Nimriel’s, and somehow I end up clutching Rovain’s. The horses are less skittish than I. Near me, Galadhor’s hawk-dark eyes search the treeline, into which the rest of the company have all but vanished. As an afterthought, I fumble for the dagger in my bag that Ettrian had stuffed there earlier and attach it to my belt. If I need it, I’d rather have it close. 

Way ahead, Gwilain strides forward, then turns back, saying something I cannot hear to Ettrian. The latter signals - a swift flick of his hand - and two archers rise from the underbrush, body lines as taut as their bowstrings. Damrod spits into the dirt, and his horse prances. The three tied to his saddle pin their ears and huff. My knuckles are white as I clutch the two sets of reins in my hand. 

My eyes sting from staring ahead, half from cold and half from refusing to blink. The light here may be dim, and I may not be able to see as well as my companions, but I know well that the Greenwood is always alive with movement, even when it’s shadowed. This stillness is wrong. It’s the kind of stillness that comes when every living thing has fled, leaving only us behind. And, I think, we are fools for it. 

The web shifts. I do not think it comes from the wind.

Ettrian raises his hand again, flat-palmed. Hold, he commands. 

The spidersilk trembles - thrums - as though something heavy has touched it, something with enough weight to set the whole web quivering. A vibration passes through it, up into the trees, through webbing that connects further than I had originally. Up, through the branches, and over our heads. 

I do not dare to look up. Gwinig, placid as ever, does not so much as twitch.

Near me, Damrod murmurs, “Hello, there.” He sees the same thing Rovain does, as her arrow cuts clean through the web, snapping strands as it goes. White silk dangles, fluttering in the cold. For a heartbeat, nothing moves.

Then a spider heaves itself into view. I say spider because that is, of course, what it resembles, although roughly the size of a Subaru Forester, so big that I can’t imagine how the web doesn’t collapse under the weight of it. Its carapace is lightly furred and its abdomen pulses. I didn’t know spinnerets were supposed to look that… sharp. Almost like a wasp’s stinger, bubbling with both venom and the remnants of webbing. But I guess scientific accuracy flies out the window when you’re, again, a spider as big as a fucking sports utility vehicle. 

It drags its swollen body down the trunk of a deadening oak, the sound of its legs catching on the bark slow and grating. It clicks its pincers: click-click-click. A shudder runs through my body. I remember that sound all too well. Rovain’s horse begins to huff nervously (Gwinig, bless her heart, does not). 

It’s Gwilain’s voice that cracks the stillness. “Loose!” He cries, and the archers launch their arrows. I flinch, though they are not aimed at me. One finds its mark in the hide of the massive ungol and another between the cluster of its eyes and it gives a shrill scream. It does not exactly sound like one of pain. No, it’s calling, and other ungol are answering in kind. The branches above us begin to crack. Ettrian and Gwilain advance with their swords in hand. They are quick and practiced; Ettrian hacks two spindly legs off from underneath the ungol while Gwilain drives his blade through the pincers into the foaming mouth of the monster, and it collapses, thrashing against the ground, until finally it is still. 

There is no reprieve.

The ungol spill forth from the darkness. Spill from everywhere. They are large, and they are many, and they are overwhelming. The archers in the dead trees are shouting orders back and forth at each other that I cannot hear. One spider drops on the path in front of us, smaller than its kin, maybe only the size of a golden retriever, but spitting with anger. Damrod swears, grasping his spear in hand. The horses tied to his saddle cluster together, whinnying nervously, trying to pull away as he spurs his horse further, close enough to thrust his spear down into the ungol’s head. Black ichor splatters onto the ground, as far up as his boots. Nearby, Galadhor lifts his shield to protect his face against a strand of silk, thick and sticky as tar. It clings and binds to the wood of his shield, still connected to the spinnerets of the spider that threw it, and it begins to yank him forward. 

“Cut the webbing!” He yells, maybe meant for me, I don’t know. I can do nothing. The sudden and intense smell of putrid, very large carnivores has completely overwhelmed me. I feel vomit rising in my throat. It’s Damrod who rides further, using the point of his spear to slice clean through the spidersilk, and then wheels on me, leveling the haft in my direction. “You!” He says, not necessarily an accusation. “Do not just sit there like a puppet on horseback. Help us hold the line!” 

“I-I’m trying,” is all I can muster, and I wrench my gaze away from the two of them struggling in the path. They fight well for  the several horses lashed to their saddles. I only have one and even if I didn’t, I’m not sure I could do the same. Still, I reach for my bow, loosening it from my shoulder and fumbling for an arrow to notch. My fingers feel foreign to me, stiff and trembling, as I draw back, aiming at an ungol descending from the canopy. But the arrow flies wild, lodging harmlessly in the gray branches of a tree beyond. Another spider drops from those very branches, landing with a shudder of weight so close the earth seems to heave beneath us.

For the first time, Gwinig seems to enter fight-or-flight. She squeals and rears, kicking out desperately with her front hooves, and I nearly drop my bow as I wrench my hand in her mane to keep myself on her back, my vision jerking skyward. Someone shouts - I don’t know who - maybe Galadhor? When Gwinig’s hooves once again are planted on the earth, stamping her fury, I see Damrod riding towards me, leaning sideways to use his spear to sweep the path clean, and shouting again. “Steady! Do not give them your fear!” 

Too late. They have my fear in spades. I have to force myself upright again, have to salvage an arrow from my quiver, aim and hope this arrow hits true. If only the spiders would stop fucking moving. You’ll have to pardon my language. Anyone, I think, in the same situation as me would have a lot more foul things to say.  

This time, I let fly into the abdomen of an ungol at near point-blank range. The shaft buries to the fletching. Black blood sprays, hot and reeking, as it collapses onto its side. The noise it makes is not of this world. Beyond it, the Eldar are wading through the thick of it. Ettrian and Gwilain guard each other’s backs, a pile of shining black spider-corpses at their feet. They do not hesitate; their arms are not tiring like mine are. I cannot afford to let my arrows miss - I only have so many - and yet I miss and miss again. 

My work is clumsy; when an arrow finds a target, it’s more luck than true aim. But the forest is so thick with ungol that I’d have a hard time not landing at least a couple shots. Damrod and Galadhor tidy up after my wayward arrows, and the path ahead of us still seethes with more. Two of the company, Thalion and Nimriel, fight back to back and are pressed backwards nearer and nearer to the horses, hacking at legs and eyes as they come.

The noise is unbearable. The hissing and shrieking of dying ungol as the steel cuts away at them. The panicked whinnies and screams of horses as the ungol come too close for comfort. The smell is thick and clinging too, sharp and chemical, like rot left too long in the sun mixed with some acid tang that sears the back of my throat. My stomach lurches with each prance of Gwinig. Damrod’s words ring in my ears, do not let them have your fear, and I try my best to be brave. I notch another arrow, but Rovain’s horse gives a sharp tug on the line tethering her to my saddle, and my aim jerks sideways. I let it fly anyway, praying to whatever passes for God to the Eldar. I get no blessing. The arrow sinks uselessly into bark, as so many have before it. I lower my bow to catch my breath before I reach for my last arrow, and realize suddenly I’m down to two. 

Then something wet smacks into my back. I give a heavy “oof” and twist sideways, trying to get a good look. A rope of silk, thick as a sailor’s hawser, bright white against my jerkin. It stretches back into the shadows, quivering, still attached to the spinneret that spat it. My heart, having been beating at a level I can only assume would raise several cardiospecialist’s eyebrows, seems to stop altogether. 

The line goes taut. 

The force nearly yanks me sideways off Gwinig. My bow slips from my hands, clattering against the mud. I clutch at the pommel, at her mane, anything, but the webbing pulls harder, dragging me from the saddle until I’m half-hanging off. The world tilts sideways and suspends for a second. And then Gwinig, at the worst possible moment, realizes she may be in danger, and rears. 

My body slams against the earth. It is half-frozen, but what isn’t is stingingly-cold mud, splashing my cheeks. The impact drives the breath out of me. Stars burst behind my eyes, wheeling so fast across my vision that I cannot think. Then I realize that’s the dim light beyond the trees, and they’re moving because I’m moving. The line of the web is tight, reeling me in, the force dragging me along the muddy ground as I scramble for a foothold. 

“Leoma!” Someone calls for me. “Cut it! Cut the webbing!” 

“I can’t reach it!” I screech in response, pawing at the knife on my belt. The mud has coated my fingers, making them numb. My boots scrabble against the dirt as I’m dragged, faster now, toward the treeline. I dig my boots into the mud, but that really only helps if you’re being dragged forward, doesn’t it? I can’t even see where I’m going. My head bangs against a rock or a root and I’m suddenly dazed and quite ready to accept my death. 

You had a good run, Leo. It was weird, but you always knew you were here for a good time, not a long time.

Was it a particularly good time, though? A small, maddening little voice tickles the back of my brain. You’re definitely not on this patrol because everyone thought it would be a party. 

The line finally goes slack, and I lay in the mud for a breath. My fingers latch on the hilt of my dagger and yank. Gathering all the strength in my tired muscles, I roll over in the mud. There he is, lurking in the trees, descending branch by branch as it reels me in. The bastard that thinks he’s going to have an easy dinner of sweet, tasty Leoma. 

“Not today, bitch,” I rasp, and begin to saw away at the sticky cord. Elven blades are sharper than the edge of starlight, Curunír had told me when he first handed me a real blade to test the weight in my hands. I didn’t exactly know what he meant by that, but damn, I know now. The spidersilk would’ve clung to any other metal, but falls away like butter - wet, sticky butter - as I hack at it. I do my best to ignore the ungol slowly approaching, its mandibles frothing, lowering and lowering, the shadow of its body spreading over me like a shroud. Its saliva drips onto the crown of my head. I feel it hot and wet and tingling. 

Finally the dagger breaks free of the thick webbing with a wet thwap, leaving sticky strands across my back and hands, but no longer tethered to the ungol. I let out a gasp of relief and scramble to my knees. Oh - it’s close. Hovering above me, maybe five feet. If I stood up, I’d be in its grasp again. It looks down at me and I see myself reflected eightfold in its eyes. We both have the same thought at the same time: kill it, and kill it quickly. 

It pounces, and I roll to the side. Curunír hasn’t poured all those tears into teaching me for nothing. Mud cakes my arms, hands, face, everything - I drive my fingers down deep into the muck to push myself up, as the ungol’s eight legs leave deep gouges where I’d just been. I clutch my dagger - Ettrian’s dagger - in my frozen fingers and brace myself. 

Don’t chase it. Let it come to you. It will come. 

It does come, all hissing mouth and skittering legs, stinger pulsing under its body and ready to bury itself in my gut. I reach down, grasp a handful of icy-slick mud, and sling it into the ungol’s eyes. It screeches, a sound that threatens to burst my eardrums, using its pedipalps to desperately try to wash the muck from its vision. 

With a hoarse cry, I drive my dagger in the center of its head, once, then again, and again, and again, until it lies twitching at my feet. I fall on top of the body and keep stabbing, just to be sure. Hot black ichor sprays me down. I’m already too wet and cold to care much. 

When, finally, I pull my dagger from the carapace and struggle to my feet, I see the carnage behind me. The path is littered with twenty or maybe thirty ungol corpses, some still twitching. They’ve left the ground a churned morass of blood and ice and mud. Damrod rides between them, thrusting his spear downwards to finish them off. Beyond them, the Eldar hold a tight line against the last of the spiders. Four, then three, then two, and the last one is finished off quickly and mercilessly. 

My legs feel weak again. It’s over. It should be okay to take a little rest now, right? Just a little one. I go down on my knees, staring down at the ground as I try to wipe mud from my face with my free hand. I’m not sure if I succeed. There is a weird silence now. Moments ago everyone had been screaming, horses and elves and ungol alike, and now all that’s left is a few voices and Damrod riding up and down the path. 

It is over.

My shoulders slump. My fingers are still clenched around the hilt of the dagger, frozen there so that I can’t seem to let go. My chest is rising and falling too fast, air hitching in my lungs. I do not want to cry, but damn it, the tears decide to come anyway.

Boots splash in the mud beside me. Then strong hands grasp my shoulders, keeping me upright. 

“Leoma.” 

I look up as Ettrian kneels in the slush. He’s discarded his sword maybe a foot away. Those hands that had held his blade now cup my face. His palms are rough, cold, slick with ichor. His thumbs press into my cheekbones as he tips my head this way, then that, his eyes raking over me. I bet I look crazy, but so does he. He’s drenched in blood, red hair matted to his head. His lips are a thin, concerned line. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks, ever so softly. 

“I-I don’t know,” I croak, dazed and confused but honest. It doesn’t hurt anywhere, but that could be the adrenaline. When it fades, I’m not sure what I’ll feel. 

His thumbs brush mud from my skin, his eyes narrowing as he examines a spot on my head where I must’ve hit the ground. I wince as his fingers ghost over it, and feel myself pulling away. Ettrian sees it, and does us both the favor of standing up first. But he offers his hand to help me up and I take it, his grip firm and solid in mine, and a searching look in his eyes as he looks at me. It is not like him to be silent. 

“I’m okay,” I say before he asks again. 

“We will see,” comes his uncharacteristically gentle response, and then he looks away from me to the other members of the company. They are gathering around Damrod and Galadhor - around their horses - but Rovain stands alone, and that’s when I realize Gwinig is not there. Gwinig, with Rovain’s horse tied to her saddle. 

My heart plummets. “My horse is gone.” 

I twist in a full circle, as if that might help matters. The trees are thick, the ground so marred by battle that there’s no hope for figuring out which direction she might have bolted. Homeward? I can only hope. But if she chose any other direction… 

“No - no, no, no, no, no.” Ettrian’s help is utterly forgotten as I shove past him, boots slipping in the muck. “Gwinig! Gwinig!” 

Rovain approaches me, her face grim. She, too, is streaked with blood, though less of it. “Both of them bolted, Leoma. Wherever they are, we cannot waste time trying to find them. You know this, don’t you?” 

I shake my head. Her horse was lost, too. Why isn’t she freaking out about it? “We can’t… we can’t leave them. Are you saying we have to leave them out here?” 

I lurch forward again, towards the treeline, and feel Ettrian’s hand close around my wrist to stop me. I whirl around with a nasty look, the words how dare you upon my lips. 

“We do not have the time,” he repeats Rovain’s words, leaving no room for argument. I wrench my hand away from him and clutch it close to my chest. His eyes are suddenly sad, a look I rather hate on him. “More may come,” he says quietly. “We must return to Felegoth.”

It feels like some cruel irony that I had saved one horse a few weeks ago only to lose two now. Makes me feel like I was childish for daring to hope that I had, maybe, found a purpose here. I feel it all crumbling down now. Angry tears spring to my eyes. I do not know exactly who I’m angry at. Ettrian would be easy, since he’s right in front of me and staring down at me with infuriating sympathy. Rovain, too, because she should be feeling the same thing as me, shouldn’t she? But it’s really Lord Saeros’s fault in the first place, for making me come on this stupid fucking patrol. Yeah - if it’s anyone’s fault that Gwinig is gone, it’s Lord Saeros’s. 

Because it couldn’t possibly be mine, right? 

I’m nearly shaking with fury by now, angry that I have to risk it all, down to my life, for these damn elves and whatever they want me to do. I cannot place my own body in danger without their direct approval. They can place me in danger no matter how I feel about it, and they act as if they’re the ones saving me. 

“If she lives, she will find her way. Horses know the path better than any of us. If she does not - ” Ettrian has begun to speak again and then stops himself, as if unwilling to finish the thought. We both know what he means. Sweet, docile Gwinig will die out there, to ungol or worse. “You must live. As captain, I cannot allow you to look for her. Do you understand?” 

No, I do not understand. 

It’s only another reminder that I am mortal, and the Eldar are of a different blood than I am. Looking around at the company, I can see that I’m the only one hurt. The only one even remotely winded. And the only one who made our side suffer losses. 

Biting down on a nastier word, I give Ettrian a quick nod. “Fine.” 

Near the horses, Gwilain utters an order. “Company, mount up!” It’s aimed at Ettrian, Rovain and I, the only three still unseated. Rovain turns and walks towards Sîrwen, swinging up into the saddle behind her. Ettrian overtakes me in his stride towards his stallion, mounting with practiced ease. I am the only one left without a ride. Ettrian wheels his horse to face me, extending his hand. 

I do not take it, blinking up at him with still-barely-masked rage. 

“Suit yourself,” the captain says, and rides past me. Gwilain follows, the company resuming their two-by-two formation, neatly split by me as they pass.

Galadhor and Damrod bring up the rear. Damrod gives me a pitying look. They’re seriously going to leave me, I think, panic rising in my throat. 

“Hey -” I begin to say, and Galadhor reaches down to scoop me up by the back of my tunic. His gloved hand fists in my muddy clothes as he throws me over the front of his saddle, belly-first. I let out a wheeze from the impact. “Couldn’t give me a warning?” I rasp from my prone position in front of him, jostling along as he spurs his horse into a canter. 

“Would you have let me, if I had?” He returns, and I pull a face. He’s kind of right about that. I am the type to scurry into the woods rather than let myself be yanked by some pretentious immortal. 

I have to struggle to right myself in the saddle, making no apology when I kick him - when you think about it, it’s rather his fault for dealing with me in that manner - and finally settle myself in an upright position. The company thunders down the forest path, leaving the ungol corpses far behind until the woods swallow them. 

There is an urgency in the air, though that may just be the remnants of the battle fading. No one speaks, partly because we are moving too swiftly to catch much noise over the wind. I sit stiff in Galadhor’s saddle, trying my best not to lean back against him no matter how tired I am; acutely aware of every bump and lurch. Whatever debrief will come after, whatever information or questioning, I hope I get no part in it. I only have three things on my mind: a bath, a heavy meal, and crawling into bed with Finn, in that order. 

The company presses on until the air shifts - brighter and cleaner and less oppressive - and I know that, finally, we are nearing the gates. Fading light strikes glints of pale stone where roots give way to carved archways, and at last the familiar lanterns of Felegoth shimmer into view. Relief slides through me now, though it’s tangled with exhaustion so thick I can barely hold my head upright. I’ve been shaken so thoroughly that I feel like nothing more than a pile of jelly, and I fear I might have a concussion that will, of course, be going untreated. I have no desire to spend any more time with elves that ask too many questions. I’d rather be concussed in the bath by myself.

We cross the bridge to the gate that leads to the stableyard, and it opens to welcome us. When we spill into the yard, stablehands rush forward to take the reins of our mounts and hold them steady. The elves dismount swiftly, utterly graceful despite being coated in gore. I, on the other hand, am unceremoniously shoved forward as Galadhor swings down, and I half-stumble, half-slide off the saddle. 

Ettrian has dismounted nearby. He speaks quietly with Gwilain, and before the two of them turn to go, his eyes cut to me. Just once. I meet his eyes and he gives me nothing. I prefer it that way, I tell myself, hugging my cloak tight around my body. I am only just now beginning to feel some small twinge of guilt towards him. Now that I’m once more safe within the walls of Felegoth, I realize that I did not truly want to go running off into the dark on my own to look for Gwinig, nor am I confident I even could have found her. He had been kind of right, though I would never admit it to his face. 

The company begins to break apart, scattering into their duties. Ettrian follows Gwilain towards the guard’s offices, where I’m sure Lord Saeros is waiting. Rovain shoots me a look before she and Sîrwen walk in tandem to the mess hall. I wait until I’m sure I’m not needed, and then I head straight to the barracks. I have a hot date with the bathhouse. 

The lower passageways that lead to the women's baths are warm and comfortably humid, the air becoming more like a sauna the closer I get. It’s only then that my body remembers how cold I am, and a violent shiver shakes me from head to toe. My feet begin to drag, but the thought of hot water and scalding steam and, God bless, soap to strip away the sweat and mud and ichor propels me forward. 

The door to the bathhouse is high and carved, the frame resembling two arching trees whose branches entwine overhead. I push open the heavy door with my shoulder, inhaling the scent of lavender carried on steam that curls lazily upwards. Lanterns glow low and soft on the walls and fixed to the ceiling, illuminating several massive marble basins fed by channels of rushing water from hot springs beneath the city. The lanternlight flickers gold across the surface of the running water. There might not be, you know, pipes and showers, but this is pretty swanky. There are a few muffled voices of other women, but I choose an empty bath by the far wall. 

I kick off my boots and shrug off my filthy jerkin with stiff fingers. There’s still spider-silk clinging to my clothes. I let them fall in a heap on the damp stone and carefully take off the wrapping that had held back my braids. Sitting on the edge of the basin in nothing but a thin linen pair of shorts that pass as underwear, I slowly begin to undo my braids one by one, knowing that being dragged through mud and ice has really done a number on my hair. A wooden comb and a small bottle of unperfumed hair oil salvaged from a shelf aid me in my task. When my curls hang loose and damp around my shoulders, I shrug off my skivvies and slowly drop down into the water. It sears at first, biting against the cold that’s settled into my bones, and I keep sinking until my nose just barely rests above the surface of the water. My body aches as though it’s been beaten, which I suppose is kind of true. 

I sit there for several minutes, just resting. The water around me begins to turn a muddy color as the dirt and blood is swept from my skin and hair. I utter a small noise of disgust and duck under the water to give my hair a preliminary rinse, and for a few brief seconds, the world is utterly silent. When I rise again, my curls are heavy with the weight of water. I slick back my hair and paddle towards the clean side of the tub, closer to the alcove built into the wall, stocked with soaps and bottles of perfumed oil and bristled brushes for scrubbing and soft cloths, and choose a bath salt that smells like gardenias to dump liberally into the water while I scrub my body clean until it prickles raw and smooth. I focus on my hair last, because it takes the longest; the Elves, for all their decorative little braids, don’t really understand textured hair that much, so I can’t rely on help like I would have back home, with my mom or Desiree or the ladies at the braid shop. Still, I’ve amassed quite the collection of soaps and shampoos and conditioning oils that get the job done. 

  I pour a decent amount of conditioning oil onto my fingertips and smooth it into my curls, working lock by lock and coiling each one around my finger to section it. My hair was short, jaw-length when unbraided, last summer. I remember, with a sad little half-laugh to myself, that I’d had a hair appointment that week. I wanted island twists for some pool party or other that I’d been invited to. Whoever was hosting it apparently wasn’t important enough to remember. My hair has grown since then, a coily mane that brushes just past my shoulders, and I’ll never be able to add colors to it again. That’s not the first time I’ve arrived at this dismal conclusion, but something I seem to think about every wash day. 

There are so many modern comforts I miss. A few nights ago, I had dreamed about being stuck in traffic on I-75, and I’d actually cried when I woke up and realized it wasn’t, in fact, Memorial Day Weekend and I wasn’t heading to my mom’s. No, for whatever sin I’ve committed in a past life, being stuck here without proper toilets and Krispy Kreme and clubs and beauty supplies. 

I get spider blood and guts all over me, and some organic shampoo for my trouble. 

And, yes, I think I’m allowed to be bitter. 

“Leoma, are you alright?” 

I glance up as I coil another lock around my finger. Lariel slips into the bath at the other end and paddles over to me. I’ve long ago been desensitized to the concept of public nudity and, like, everyone in the woman’s bathhouse seeing everything. Sometimes the girlies are chilling in here for hours. Whatever floats their boat. I try to make a move to cover up, but Lariel sure isn’t. 

“I thought I might find you here.” She says gently. “I, ah… I heard about today.” 

I overturn the bottle of oil in my palm again and work it into the ends of my hair. “I’m sure everyone had a lot to say, huh?” 

Her lips tighten. “Some. Not about you. I only say because you sounded suspicious.” 

“You said I wouldn’t die out there.” 

Lariel leans against the wall of the bath, tilting her head back with one eyebrow raised. “You do not look dead to me.” 

Fair point. I pull a face. “I almost did. You made it sound like it wouldn’t be that… well, dangerous.” 

“Nobody in that party would ever have let that happen, Leoma. Do you not trust in that?” She’d closed her eyes as she relaxes in the warm water, but then she straightens back, opening them to pin me with her blue-green eyes. “You do not. I know. I understand.” 

I tilt my head, examining her with raised eyebrows of my own, and ask a very uncomfortable question. “Do you understand? And you know I appreciate you, Lariel, and everything you’ve done for me. But you know nothing of where I come from, and what being here means to me. Every day. Every single day that I wake up here, I…” I’m past crying about it, but I let out a huff of air as the next words are too difficult to say. I settle on, “I wish I didn’t.” 

She swims closer, and lays one gentle hand on my knee. I flinch at the touch, but do not push her away. “You wish you were…?” And I realize she thinks it’s something worse. I’m too self-preserving for that. No, not self-preserving. I just want to find a way back home, you know? As useless as that dream may be by now. 

“God,” I chuckle to myself in English and dip my hands in the water to wash away excess oil, then rub my face. “You know how I don’t know any maps, right? How Ennor isn’t… my home?” 

She slowly nods, her brows creasing in concern. I don’t know why I’m telling her this. Something I’ve had months to explain to the Eldar and just… haven’t. But I keep confessing, as if the words are spilling from a broken faucet. “My home isn’t on these maps. It’s far, far away. And I don’t know if I can ever get back. Everyone I ever knew, they are gone from me, Lariel. Everything I know. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. We don’t… have kings there. And today, I almost died in service of one. I didn’t want this life, I wanted… so much more and so much less at the same time.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “Every day I’m reminded that my life does not belong to me. And… and… and I miss my mom.” 

Lariel’s eyes are filled with something I’ve never seen before. Something… no, I know what it is. Grief. Not sympathy, not sadness. She’s grieving for me. With me. And without a word, she hoists herself up out of the bath and pulls me into her arms. I lay my head in the crook of her neck and breathe in the clean scent of lavender. “You will see her again,” she murmurs, with a surety I wish I had. “My mother… she is no longer in Ennor. I have not seen her in a thousand years. She lives on in the Undying Lands, but she is all but lost to me. If I sail there, I lose everything that is beautiful about Ennor, everything that I love so much. If I stay here, I may die and be parted from her forever.” 

“That’s not the same,” I croak against her skin. The elves are always saying this weird thing about the Undying Lands, which I’ve come to understand as, like, the afterlife. Lariel’s just talking about death, isn’t she? It doesn’t make sense, but I’m not really in a mood to parcel out elven eccentricities right now. Lariel smoothes my hair with gentle fingers, taking care not to mess up the coils I’d spent so long on. 

“Isn’t it?” She mumbles. “Leoma, you are mortal. Your life is a precious thing, made all the more precious by the span with which you are given. And every breath of it is yours, I promise you. You will grow and change and one day you will end, but sooner than that will this grief you carry, my friend. And that is a gift, I promise. One that is denied to us.” 

Another thing I’ve heard before. The agelessness of the elves isn’t exactly a boon. With immortality comes a memory that never fades, a memory of centuries of war and love and faces that will never fade away, and the Eldar must watch it all diminish or depart while they remain unchanging. Theirs is an unforgettable and constant sorrow. 

Maybe I should cut them some slack. 

But tonight… no. I am still sore and hungry and tired and, to put it into a few words, quite unhappy with the state of things.

I pull away from her. “And my oath, you know, the one I swore to uphold until my death or release from the Elvenking’s service…” 

“The Elvenking is not so heartless that he would hold you to it forever.” Lariel frowns. “I… believe.” 

“Oh, wow.” I begin to get up, but I say it with some good-natured sarcasm. “You’re really confident about that one.” 

“Wait,” she says, holding out a hand to stop me, as I reach for a clean robe. “Please have a good night, my friend.” 

I summon a winning smile and grasp her fingertips in a goodbye. “I’ll try.” I pick up my muddied uniform to carry back with me. “You, too, Lariel.” 

✦

I round the corner of the corridor that leads to my room and find my rallying mood suddenly soured. 

Ettrian is leaning against the wall beside my door, arms crossed over his chest. He’s looking down at his boots, but glances up at me as I approach. I pull the robe tighter around my body and try to enter my room as if I don’t notice him, but the bastard sticks his muscular arm across my door to block my way.

“Rude,” I exclaim, and he cocks an eyebrow. “Not even a hello, is it?” 

“Okay. Hello, hi. Now let me in my damn room.” 

“Hello to you, too. How are you this evening?” 

I fear this might take awhile. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and scan my brain for the least offensive answer. “I suppose fine, considering the circumstances. Why? What do you want?” 

“To see how you are. You smell nice. What is that, rosemary?” He has a smile on his handsome mug that I find very annoying. 

Freak. Sniffing me? The Eldar already have super-sight and super-hearing. I suppose it isn’t far off to assume all of their senses are naturally heightened. I wonder about touch. Like, for instance, if I shouldered him out of the way, would he feel it more intensely? If I… okay, no, we’re not going there. 

“Yes,” I say, crossly. “Was there anything else you needed, or did you just want to play nice?”

Ettrian pushes himself off the wall. He looks hurt, and it doesn’t look like pretend. “You’re a very suspicious woman, Leoma. Do you know that?” 

“I’ve been told.” I heft my laundry in my arms. It’s all turned inside out and wrapped up in extra padding so I don’t ruin the hours I just spent bathing. 

His hand finds the doorknob and very smoothly opens the door for me. “I simply wanted to wish you a good night. Today was… very difficult for you, I think.” 

I do not respond, lingering there in the doorway. “It was. Thank you. I’ll have a good night once I’m, you know, in bed. Hey, buddy!” The last enthusiastic sentence is for Finn, who scrambled towards me, jumping up for my knees. I dump my laundry and pick him up. “Good night, Ettrian.” It’s a solemn farewell. 

He nods his head once. “Good night.” And still he remains. 

We stare at each other for a moment. Finn licks my chin. A quick glance shows me his puppy bowl has the remnants of his dinner. Lariel must have come by just before we returned. 

“Ah, and Lord Saeros requests to see you in the morning. To speak of the patrol. After breakfast?” 

I resist the urge to groan in his face.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

“Close the door behind you, Leoma.” 

Lord Saeros’s voice hovers behind his desk. I hesitate in the threshold for a beat, then fully enter and stand against the heavy door as it clicks shut, my hand still on the knob. He remains silent, focused on the work illuminated by the shaft of cold, bright morning sun shining through his high window, until finally he puts it away and deigns to acknowledge me. 

He extends his hand to the small armchair, round-backed and covered in somewhat threadbare green velvet, as a silent offer for me to sit. I take it, my spine rod-straight and my hands on my knees. “You requested to see me last night?” 

“I did. We will, of course, discuss your performance in the patrol.” Lord Saeros steeples his fingers on the desk in front of him. I’m distracted briefly by a stain on ink on them. I feel rather like I’m being called in front of a principal for misbehaving, even though - trust me - I was nothing but a model student back in school. He is regarding me in kind. I imagine the prominent bruise, a fresh yellow-green, on my cheekbone is a bit of an eye-catcher. I must have a similar one on the back of my head, where it’d smashed against a rock when I was being dragged. The rest of my body is similarly sore, but I try my best to keep myself from showing it. 

Lord Saeros makes a small sigh, and then says something I don’t expect him to.

“Chiefly, I must apologize.” The captain of the tîrwaith begins to rub his jaw and then abruptly stops, settling his hands back on the table, entwined. “I assigned the patrol to you because I felt it would bring a closer trust to your comrades. There was never an intent to place you in danger, and I have heard you feel that you were not prepared to meet it.” 

“That’s true.” I say, making no attempt to hide it. I was, indeed, absolutely not prepared to die by giant spider, and it’s good to see them self-aware. 

“I have gathered the events of the patrol from captains Gwilain and Ettrian, but I wish to hear them from you as well. I would have your account. Anything you wish to tell me, any questions you may have. Unlay such burdens.” 

My brows crease. It seems a bit like a loaded request. I have a lot of burdens, and I doubt he’d like to hear most of them. I was uncharacteristically vulnerable with Lariel last night, something I hadn’t allowed myself to be in, well, ever - at least ever in the Greenwood - but Lord Saeros and I don’t have quite the same relationship. Like, I doubt he would pull me into his comforting arms and kiss my forehead sweetly. 

He seems to be waiting, and I can only sit there silently for a few moments more, biting my tongue to keep myself from saying something without the appropriate amount of thought behind it. I’m an impulsive person by nature, but I’ve learned that that doesn’t always serve me. Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve can do a lot to gain the favor of the Eldar, but cursing them out tends to do the opposite. 

“We met signs of the spiders some few hours into the patrol. No one appropriately warned me that we would meet them. And… yeah, I was ill-prepared for it. I got hurt, and I cost the guard two horses, which I’m assuming I must take some punishment for. I’m sure the captains told you that.” I swallow, picking over my next words. “And I wanted to disobey their orders. Captain Ettrian had to hold me back from that. I guess I have to take punishment for that, too.” 

“There is no punishment being doled today, Leoma, I only asked for your account.” 

“Oh.” My hands come together on my thighs, picking at a hangnail forming on my cuticles. “Then I apologize for making assumptions, my lord.” My speech is stiff and jointed, overly-polite, with each syllable of Sindarin pronounced carefully so as to avoid offending the lord captain. He does not look particularly offended, but not amused, either. 

“That is not necessary.” He waves my apology away with a quick swipe of his hand, like it’s nothing more than smoke in the air. I watch the motion, how easily he dismisses my words. This isn’t really a hill to die on, I know. I wonder when the Eldar will start taking me seriously. To them, I’m a little more than a wayward child. I’ve tried my best to make amends with that, but I’m getting tired of it. The pussyfooting and over-apologizing out of fear that I need to, only for them to dismiss that, too. I’m a grown woman. My twenty-third birthday is this spring. I shouldn’t feel like a child dragged before her principal, expecting detention. 

“My lord, if I may,” I still speak in formal Sindarin, but I cannot stop the sudden question from rising. “I’m unclear on my role in the Guard. What am I to you? A soldier or a ward? Those seem to contradict each other. If I’m still a prisoner, I’d rather be told to my face.” 

The lord captain sits in the shaft of sunlight as if it has frozen him in place, a look of deep thought settling in his eyes. He knows the answer, but I think he doesn’t want to tell me. Instead, he answers my question with another. “You are under the king’s protection. You are housed, clothed, and fed. You are instructed in the ways of the Laiquendi, and given the honor of serving in the defense of Felegoth. What do you find this?” 

Honor. I cannot help but scoff. I was barely given a choice after my return from Dale. I swore my loyalty to the Elvenking, and at the end of the day, I know that was of my own volition - but they don’t understand why I had to do it. No matter how I feel about it, Felegoth is the only place on this god-damned planet that I have any sense of familiarity with. Anywhere else, I’d have to start over. And it’d probably land me in a few more dungeons. “I find it confusing, my lord. I wake up every day wondering what new test of loyalty is going to be shoved onto me. And you knew what would happen out there -” I clench my fists on the arms of the chair, hoping he does not argue me on this. “Even if you weren’t aware it would be ungol, everyone else on that patrol was more prepared than I. Just because I’m mortal, does that mean I should expect to die tomorrow? You have no idea what that feels like. My lord.” I add the last bit just in case it saves my ass. 

Saeros studies me for a long time, his face utterly unreadable. The silence between us stretches and stretches  until I almost regret asking, embarrassment burning high on my cheeks. At last, he leans back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the desk before they still. “You are none of those things, and yet in some measure, you are all of them,” he says, patiently and yet as though he is aware of how unsatisfactory the answer sounds to me. “You are mortal, Leoma. That is the heart of it. You walk a different span than we. To many of my people, that makes you only a guest here, a fleeting visitor, no matter your intent. But you have chosen to bind yourself to us in service. That makes you, by oath and deed, a soldier of the Greenwood. It is no easy balance.” His dark eyes appraise the bruise on my face. It has begun to pulse in discomfort as blood flushes my cheeks. “You are not a prisoner, but neither are you free to act without heed to those who command you. That is the condition of any guard, Eldar or otherwise.” 

“Ah.” I frown. I'm having a bit of trouble understanding him. Speaking in non-answers, riddles, running around me in circles so that I may be so confused as to not bring it up again. These are tactics that have been used against me before, not just in Ennor. I’m well aware of what it’s like to be talked down to, as a woman - a Black woman - in front of a white man. I try to pick my words carefully. “I don’t… want to fight, my lord. I'm not built to be a soldier. I think yesterday proved that. In fact, if I recall correctly, it was you who shortened my training with Curunír because of my daily postings.”

There is another brief moment of silence from the captain. His brow has been creased for several minutes now, frowning from almost the minute I first stepped in the door. “Your candor gives you credit.” He finally responds. “It is true that I thought your progress was more than enough to support you in the field. My judgment, too, can be wrong sometimes.” He says it wryly, like I might laugh (I do not). “Captain Ettrian speaks highly of your resolve, you know. He would see you happy here.” Lord Saeros’s eyes flick to me, sharp, gauging me, and I fear the redness on my cheeks hasn’t gone down, but it’s not because of Ettrian. Still, it’s ill-timed. “I would like to see you content, too, in your placement. If it is more training that you want, I shall allow you that time.  On the condition that, one month from now, you will join another patrol.” 

“My lord, I…” I swallow thickly. That is not what I want. Well, yeah, ideally, I would love to become more proficient with a blade. I have my guard-issued bow, but they count the arrows that they give me when I take a quiver from the armory, and they count them again when I return it. The spears I carry at my postings are blunted.  I’m not allowed to carry a blade of my own. The dagger Ettrian gave me is still in my room; I don’t want to be caught with it, even if I did get it from a captain equal in status to Lord Saeros. And I’m also completely aware of the danger I’d be in if I wasn’t allowed to become more proficient with a sword. Still… I’m not meant to be a soldier. I just said that. “I suppose my oath means I cannot disagree.” 

Lord Saeros studies me. “You cannot demand trust if you cannot prove you may bear it wisely.” 

I lean back in my chair, the weight of it forcing the wooden legs to scrape slightly against the floor, my mouth an unpleasant, creased line. “Then I’ll take the training. All I want is to be counted equal among the guard, my lord, as long as I’m here. If this is what that costs, then fine.” 

“It will be done.” The lord captain reaches for a quill and scratches out a quick note to himself on his desk, and then his eyes flick up to me once more as an afterthought. “Know this, Leoma, and take my small bit of advice. Your mortal nature will always temper your strength. You must not think of it as a weakness. Do not chase the shadow of what you cannot be.” 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I return, my cheeks flaming once more and a nasty bite to my tone, as I rise from my chair. 

“Good.” He watches me rise and gives me belated permission to leave. “Then we are understood. You may go.” 

I bow, stiff from head to toe, and take my leave. There is nothing more for me to say. 

Soldier or ward or prisoner, it does not matter. I am never one thing and never wholly the other. 

✦

“Come now, Leoma. Step with your left, not your right. You’re keeping yourself too open.” 

Curunír’s voice floats towards me lazily. This is an elementary mistake on my part, and he’s almost making fun of me for it. His sword comes down in a swift arc on my left. I block it. The sound of steel rings in my ears, sharp and shocking, but I’d had to force myself to get used to the sound of real blades. They are half-blunted practice swords, but the scars on my forearms - all reminders that I need to dodge faster - prove that they still pack quite the punch. 

I grit my teeth as his sword slides down mine until it reaches the hilt. My wrists are still jarred from the impact of his sword hitting mine, and the screech of iron against iron makes me cringe. I push back, forcing up and around until our swords disengage. My palms are raw. The leather wrapped around the hilt isn’t doing much to help, but I’ve been at this for two hours now, since morning drills had ended.  Naturally, Curunír isn’t even winded. I try my best to keep my edge up. The sting of his disapproval keeps me from complaining much. 

“Again,” my instructor says, stepping back, his shoulders loose and rolling as he prepares to charge me again.

Swordsmanship with him is nothing like sparring with the other guards. In practice rings, they often temper their blows, sparing me out of some patronizing courtesy. Not Curunír. His strikes are measured, but heavy and deliberate. If I miss a block, he will not hesitate to drive the flat of his blade into my ribs, leaving me gasping and bruised, which, frankly, is most of the reason I’m finally learning.

There’s a reason he’s the swordmaster of Felegoth, and had been for some few thousand years. It’s hard to believe that this man, looking barely a day over thirty, taught the prince when he was young, and Ettrian, and Lariel, and Eruest, and probably half of the Greenwood Guard. 

He circles me now, the edge of his blade a glint in the cool sunlight, and his gaze as calm as still water. “Fix your stance,” he chides, and I do so. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of my feet, knees loose. I’m ready to rumble. 

“What is the sword?” He asks me, and I narrow my eyes. “Is now really a time for quizzing?” 

Curunír tilts his head with a small shrug. He still hasn’t advanced, and that makes me nervous. He’s looking for my weak spot, and then he’ll utterly destroy me. I keep my front to him, guarding against the tip of his blade as he circles, and give him the answer he wants. “It’s a length of my body, not a weight to be carried. Something to move with, not against.” 

This is what he says almost every time he sees me stumbling with my blade. But, you know, it’s easy for someone with more than a few centuries of practice. His sword is like his shadow. His balance is unshaken, control absolute. Mine feels a bit like wrestling a wild thing that wants to drag me off my feet. 

Let me not mislead you. It has gotten easier. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to last two minutes against  Curunír. Now, well… now I can hit two minutes and about eleven seconds. 

His blade comes again, an arcing cut at my shoulder. I step left as he had instructed - but too far this time. He sees it instantly and the tip of his sword darts forward, a straight thrust that should have gutted me. I stumble back, heart thundering, and only barely smack his steel aside. “You were distracting me,” I accuse, and aim a gnarly slice at his legs. He sidesteps, as graceful and practiced as a dancer. 

“There will be many distractions in battle. At least now, you only have to worry about my sword in front of you, and not three more at your back. You’re wasting too much of yourself like this, now. Remember the economy of motion.” Curunír’s blade is once more at my neck, a hair’s breadth from doing damage. “Again.”

We go at it again and again, until the late winter sun climbs high. Sweat soaks my quilted tunic, and I’ve already shed my gambeson, despite the chill in the air. Yet my teacher’s strikes against me are precise and inexhaustible and never-ending. He is a river and I am the stone he is polishing, which he might have found rather funny if I had said it out loud. 

By the time we pause, my arms are trembling and I stagger towards the well. The water within feels freezing, but the thin layer of ice that had formed over it this morning had now melted. It numbs my fingers as I plunge my hands into the bucket meant for washing, biting away the ache in my raw knuckles. I splash my face too, and gulp a drink of water greedily, before wiping away a few rampant girls from my damp forehead. Curunír stands watching me, arms crossed over his chest. He has not yet broken a sweat. The Eldar rarely do, and I find that actually maddening. 

“You are improving,” he says as I join him again. Not expecting the sudden praise, I startle, eyes wide, looking quite like a deer in headlights. “Really?” 

“Do not get me wrong,” he says, lifting his hands to stop me from getting too excited. “It only means you are less likely to die tomorrow than you were yesterday, but you are improving nonetheless.” 

“Oh.” I huff a reluctant laugh, rubbing the ache away from my wrists. “That’s comforting.” 

“I’m a soldier, not a poet.” He’s already in motion again, raising his blade to guard, and I groan. My body is stiff as I bend over to pick up my own blade. The wrapped-leather grip has made its own grooves in my skin, and settles back there comfortably. 

We resume, and this time he shifts tactics. He slows his cuts, exaggerating each motion so that I can follow the arc of his sword arm. “Your stance is still too narrow. A wider base - yes, just like that. The ground is yours, Leoma, do not give it away.”

I adjust my body, my feet slipping on the stone. His sword sweeps low; I bring mine down to meet it, the shock jarring up my arm and into my teeth. I have to grit my jaw against the force of it.

“Better. Now, riposte.” 

I thrust forward awkwardly, and he sidesteps with irritating grace, my blade cutting nothing but air. “Too slow. Do not think about it. The opening is not a moment, it’s the action. The breath before your opponent’s next strike, the weight of the body shifting. Watch my hips and chest, then my blade.”

I bite back a snide remark about how now’s really not the time to be checking him out. But the next time that his sword dips, I catch the faintest twist of his torso, and I move before my mind has finished the thought. My blade lances forward. Curunír parries as he leans back, just barely out of reach of the tip of my blade, but his eyes gleam with rare praise. “Good.” 

He continues to hound me, and it is merciless. Step, strike, block, recover. Such is the pattern. He corrects me again and again, until I stop thinking about where my feet should go and simply go, which is, I think, more along the lines of what he wants me to do. By mid-afternoon, I’m more sure of my steps. My blade catches his, drives it back, and even though he recovers instantly, I feel a slight thrill. At last, Curunír’s brow shines with sweat. 

“Again,” he says, but softer now, and his sword arm drives a quick strike. 

I parry two, stumble on the third, but catch myself before I fall. He presses, and I feel the burn in my lungs as I brace myself against his attack. 

Finally he disengages, lowering his sword. I’d been leaning against the weight of his so that when he backs away, I sag immediately, stumble, and right myself without much pride lost. My breath is ragged. Sweat drips from my upper lip into my mouth. Salty. 

“Give it time,” he says, eyeing me, as if he can see my dissatisfaction with myself. He unwraps the leather grip from the blunted practice blade. It’s the same one I’d burned his initial in as a gift for Turuhalmë. He pretends not to see me smiling at it, and sheathes the practice sword in its scabbard, reaching out for mine as well. “You will kill no yrch today or a week from now. But you will improve, and perhaps next time not cause such embarrassment to yourself on patrol.”

Curunír isn’t very sentimental, you see. You have to look really, really hard between the lines to see the ways that he shows his affection, which is rarely given. I mean, you have to look really hard. You have to be digging for it. 

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I chuckle, tossing him my sheathed blade. He catches it easily. “It is also the truest. Be gone with you now, and rest.” 

“Yes, sir.” I salute and turn on my heel to make my way to a bench at the edge of the field, onto which I promptly collapse, legs spread in a careless manner, and stare up at the cloudless sky. 

There are three weeks until I must attend another patrol. 

✦

Two of those weeks pass in much the same manner. 

Now that winter is sluicing off into a steady melt, dawn training has once again resumed, and I’m summoned to the Circles early in the morning, followed by several hours of back-breaking training with Curunír. My postings are shortened, and occasionally there are days where I simply do not have one, although that does mean twelve straight hours in the field. My muscles, by consequence, are becoming quite toned, and also chronically achey. But the ache is beginning to feel a bit like a familiar friend, as is the training blade, and the blisters on my hands burst into rough callouses, and holding the sword does not hurt quite so much. 

It’s been three weeks since Saeros had given me that ultimatum, and with one week left to go before a supposed patrol that I’ve heard nothing about, I’ve started to worry. But, one morning after leithad lín one morning, my name, along with a few others’, is exempted from the Circles and called for a private meeting. 

I share a look with Lariel - uh oh, I’m in trouble - and peel away from the crowd to head  into the offices near the barracks. Some twenty others are doing the same. I have an uneasy feeling settling in my gut as I follow them through the corridors to a long, narrow chamber. It’s paneled with dark wood that has absorbed the scent of hearth-smoke over the centuries, a scent that still lays heavy on the air despite the lack of a fire burning in the fireplace. A long table stands in the center of the room, lined by several chairs, already occupied by members of other factions, and at the head of it stand the prince and the lord captains of the bowmen and the scouts - Aravir and Ettrian. Lord Saeros brings up the rear of us coming from our morning drills, and joins the other captains at the head of the table. 

I find a seat at the farthest end of the table and sink into it. The wood creaks noisily under me. I breathe out, squeezing my eyes shut as if to save myself from scorn. When I open them again, I find that not one single Eldar is looking at me. For once, thank god. 

The prince is the first to speak. He’s wearing a circlet that rather accentuates the crease of his brow into a frown. “You are aware,” he says, “that another patrol to the southern woods is scheduled one week hence. This will not be a simple foray. We will skirt the Narrows and go as far as the hill of Amon Lanc itself. Dol Guldur must be proved empty, or else we must learn what still lingers there.” 

I slide my gaze from left to right. Nobody else looks even a bit surprised. Clearly, I’m the only one who was markedly not aware. Wracking my brain to conjure up a map of the Greenwood, I try to recall the areas that they’re talking about, but to be honest, I’ve only ever been concerned with the areas immediately surrounding Felegoth. Anything more southerly than the Old Forest Road was where the spiders were, and I didn’t particularly like thinking about that. 

The prince looks at Ettrian now, who steps towards the wall and unfurls a map against it, tacking it up on two corners. Now, that’s helpful. I lean forward and squint to try to see, but the names are written two small, and Tengwar letters loop into each other until they are almost indiscernible even if they’re right in front of you. “Previous expeditions have showed yrch encampments here, on the forest borders -” He thrusts a finger at the most southwestern point of the forest. “ - and here, near the Gladden Fields. The woodmen on the forest’s western edge fell victim to their raids not a fortnight ago.” Then he gestures to an expanse on the banks of a long river I remember is the Anduin. “Though the Morgulon is long gone, his vermin remain. With the ungol spreading further from their caves of old, there may yet be some darkness stirring in the old fortress. This patrol will confirm how far the yrch encampments have encroached, and whether Dol Guldur truly lies abandoned.” 

There’s an uncomfortable murmur that ripples down the table. Others shift in their seats. I sit there, feeling an equal amount of discomfort but for what I can only imagine is a very different reason. I’d never heard the word Morgulon before, but vermin was a word I could translate easily enough on my own - the same word they used for rats, pests in the storehouse, flies, yrch and ungol alike. Even hearing the word Morgulon seems to cast a dark shadow over the table. Whether it’s a name or a title, I don’t exactly know, but I can see that it’s making the guy across from me look like he’s sitting on nails. 

It probably isn’t a good time to ask. 

The prince leans forward again. “While the stronghold has been abandoned for years, still rumor lingers. The woodmen again point their fingers to our forest. The longer they persist, the more power they gain. Best to show with certainty what we already believe to be true.”

“And if it is not true?” There’s an uncertain question from a guard somewhere down the line. All eyes turn to him. A ripple of unease flares out from around him.

“Then we must be ready for it.” Comes the prince’s firm, but in all honesty quite grim, reply.

At the head of the table, the captains begin discussing routes and supply lines. My eyes stay rooted on the map. Even from here, I can see the deeply inked lines of forest paths that lead in all directions, but my gaze is drawn only southward, to the black smudge that lies past the slender neck of the forest. The Greenwood seems small illustrated like that, all flattened against the parchment. Dol Guldur. The smudge seems to swallow the page, outward from its point of origin. A place I’d maybe only heard of once or twice, and never with much concern surrounding it, except… 

Except… 

Something tickles my brain. Something someone had said a very long time ago. 

Why can’t I remember? 

I tune back in as my name is mentioned once, and only briefly, in the captain’s explanation of numbers and supply packs and rotations. Lord Saeros reads from a list, and does not even look at me. “Leoma will aid with the horses and pack-beasts. No combat assignment.” 

Heat pricks at my ears, but I guess it could be worse. I’m not exactly sure what led them to this decision after last time - after Gwinig - but I’m no bowman and I’m certainly no proficient fighter. If I’m going to have to be out there again, yeah, I’d probably rather be with the mules. 

At the end of it all, Ettrian begins to refurl his map, and Legolas’s cool eyes glance down the table. “If there are any questions, speak now or hold your peace.” 

Some more uncomfortable glances towards one another, but the captains’ planning seems airtight. Nobody offers their hand. Until the prince’s steel-gray eyes land on me, right as I begin to lift my hand into the air. 

“Leoma.” He inclines his head, and my tongue feels rather thick in my mouth. 

“Sorry… um, sorry to interrupt.” Even though I didn’t. “Could someone explain what Morgulon means?” 

In an instant, everyone’s eyes are on me. I slowly lower my hand, picking at the edge of my gambeson. There’s a terrifying moment when nobody answers me, and then Legolas laughs softly under his breath, but it’s almost as if he’s afraid to do so. “The rest of you are dismissed. Leoma, I should like to speak with you.” 

I remain seated. The guy next to me pushes back his chair and gives me a long look on his way out. It’s a little worrying. 

Even Ettrian seems to hesitate to leave, giving his prince an inquisitive look, before Lord Aravir tugs on his sleeve with a sharp nod of his head to the door, which shuts behind the last of them with a heavy, solemn thud. 

I have not been alone in a room with the prince in a very long time. He makes me uneasy, as many figures of authority would, especially royal. Legolas is a man of unwavering calm, but his tone is also so even that he makes it quite difficult to tell when he’s angry, or irritated, or pleased. I stare at him, trying to parcel out which one it is. For his part, the prince looks out of the window, his jaw working. He must be parcelling out his thoughts, too. 

When he finally looks back at me, one arm leaning on the table to support himself, his face is completely unreadable. “Tell me,” he says, quietly but not unkindly, “do you truly not know the word?” 

I wet my lips. They’d suddenly been feeling quite dry, like all the moisture had been sucked out of my mouth. “No.” I admit. “I’ve never heard it, or… or even read it before, that I can remember. I can only assume it means something important, or is someone important, I mean…” Legolas had said he, as in a person. But I find it hard to believe that one single person could cause such unease in a room full of Eldar. “So, Morgulon, who is he?” 

“Careful, Leoma.” Now his tone comes sharp, and Legolas holds up his other hand to caution me. “It is not a word spoken lightly. And not a word I would have expected ignorance from, even from -” He stops himself before he says, even from you. I try my best not to take offense to that. “Even from someone so new to these lands.” 

Okay. A decent save, I guess. But I’ve been here near eleven months already, which isn’t exactly new. Though I suppose to him it might as well be yesterday. 

“Well,” I say, struggling to keep my voice as controlled as his, “if I should know it, someone probably should’ve mentioned it to me before now.” 

Legolas looks at me then with an expression that I’m unsure is reproach or not. His brow has been furrowed for several minutes now. “You are of the Guard, Leoma. To walk beneath these trees without knowing the darkness that once dwelt in their roots is… certainly ill-advised.”

Resisting the urge to throw up my hands in exasperation, I respond all too sharply, “That’s what I’m trying to fix right now, isn’t it?” I take a breath. “Your highness. I… apologize.” I wish I didn’t have to, but here we are. 

Legolas straightens and paces before the window. He stops in front of it, back shadowed, says something to himself, and finally turns around. “You would have me speak it,” he says, “and you should understand it all the same. But these words will bring no comfort to you.” 

“Okay.”  

The prince suddenly looks very old and quite sad. There are many times the Eldar appear to withdraw into themselves, seeming at once the thousands of years that they actually are. Legolas looks that way now. “The one they call Morgulon,” he begins, speaking it so quietly he sounds almost as if he’s afraid the word alone will set the room on fire, “was once a servant of a much greater evil, and he was a shadow that cloaked this forest for many years. His presence poisoned the roots of Taur-nu-fuin until even the trees turned against themselves, and the ungol and yrch made our borders their home.”

All I can do is stare at him, my jaw a bit slack. I’ve cast aside my disbelief up until now. Giant spiders, okay. Elves who live for thousands of years (though, having not exactly been witness to this, I do have my doubts on its authenticity), fine, sure. Necromancy? That might be a bit too far. 

“Okay,” I finally say again, and he must be able to tell I’m struggling to take him seriously. 

Legolas looks back toward the window, as if he’s trying to see what lies on the southern horizon, despite the trees that must block his view. “And so now you understand.” 

My fingers curl once more against the arms of my chair. “Excuse me, your highness, but I don’t. I just sat through a briefing about a patrol into whatever haunted ruin he left behind, and all I know about him is he was some sort of evil guy long ago?” I say it a bit incredulously. “Please. I think I deserve to know what we’re walking into.”

“You will walk where you are told,” he responds quietly, still looking out of the window, and there’s a dangerous and chilly calm in his voice that makes the air seem thinner. “And you will trust that those who lead you do not do so blindly.”

I hate the way that shuts me up. I hate the authority in his tone, the unspoken certainty that makes me small and foolish and mortal and temporary. It stings. “What do you even mean?” I mutter to myself, forgetting for a moment that the Eldar have stupidly sensitive ears. “What is he?”

The prince cuts his gaze to me again, blue-gray eyes as still as the surface of a lake. “Then I will leave you with these two things. His title means he who raises the dead. A sorcerer, but one of the darkest magic. His name -” He gives a small shake of his head. “I will not utter that black name here.” 

I rise from my chair so suddenly that it falls back onto the wooden floor with a great crash. Legolas, for all his calmness, jumps, his eyes widening for a brief moment. My voice is wavering as I clench my fists so tightly that my nails cut into my palms, a sudden rage sparking deep in my chest. “Black name?” I repeat back at him, the words souring in my mouth. “You mean - what, you won’t say it because it’s black?”

The word for black in Sindarin, by the way, is morn. This, I think, must be explained before I go further. I’d learned colors from Lariel when I was still in the dungeons. Luin for blue. Hithren for gray. Malen for yellow. Glân for white. Morn for, of course, black. I’d used this, and heard it used, to describe the sky at night, and shadows, and the color of my boots, and the mane of horses. I had not heard it or said it to describe my skin, but it’s what I thought of it all the same, equating it with the English term in my head, as so many Sindarin words automatically did. 

“Leoma -” Legolas’s eyes blow wide with sudden concern, and in that moment I hate him very, very much, probably more than I’ve ever hated anyone. 

To hear the word equated with evil brings a pain to my chest so sharp that I can barely breathe. It’s coupled with anger that nearly drives me to tears. 

“Apologize,” I demand from the prince of Taur-nu-fuin. “You talk about this great evil, and you call it black, and you expect me to keep -” My breath shudders. “Do you realize - how that sounds?” 

“I am sorry.” His hands have dropped to his side suddenly, and his voice is remorseful. I cannot quite see his face, because I’m clenching my jaw so hard that my vision is swimming a bit. “Leoma, I am sorry. To imply that you - I -” I’ve never heard him stutter. For a moment, I want him to wallow in his embarrassment, struggle for words. “It would be the greatest disservice to you. The word is not -” Legolas falters, rubbing his chin. “Môr means dark in spirit, not hue. Morn is the color, though these we do not use for the skin. I am sorry to have said it. I did not mean to cause you offense.” 

“Oh.” I say flatly, my hands still fisted. “Regardless, you have, your highness.”

“I am sorry,” he repeats once more, and I do not give him a reply. “May I go?” 

He inclines his head. I turn on my heel, step over the downed chair, and leave.

✦

With seven days until the patrol - six really, since this day is waning fast - I know I need more information, and I’m all too aware that the archives are closed to me. There is one place in Felegoth that I know is wall-to-wall with books, and it’s open to me. 

I stand outside the grand door of Léofir’s home, having knocked twice and about to go for another when the ellon opens it. I hold my fist back from hitting him squarely in the chest and give my most innocent smile. “Good evening. I was hoping to grab some books to take back with me to practice reading.” 

“Oh!” My teacher says with delight, pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose. He stands aside to let me enter. The door shuts behind me, settling me into the warmth of his entry. It smells like cloves and juniper and anise. The room adjacent is, indeed, lined with books upon books. “Do you know what texts you require? Shall I help you?”

I hate to let him down when he’s so eager, but I don’t really want him to know what I’m looking for. I bow my head. “I’m just looking, sir. I think I’ll know when I find it.” 

“Ah.” Léofir gestures towards the shelves, lit by bronze lamps that hang from the ceiling. “Then look freely. There’s a stack of texts in Westron you might like to have a go at, if you think you’re ready. Take what you will, as long as it’s returned to me in much the same condition.” The overstuffed chairs and lounges are empty, where most of the time Eruest’s siblings might be lounging there. I’m grateful for the lack of prying eyes. If Legolas’s reaction towards my curiosity is any great tell, the Eldar aren’t very giving with information about the Morgulon, or anything related to him. 

When Léofir leaves me to return to his work in another room, I stare at the meticulously organized shelves. I’m not exactly sure where to start, or how the titles might be arranged. Like, would he keep a biography of the guy? A grimoire? Be so for real, I tell myself, nobody can raise the dead.

If nobody can tell me a damn thing, they can’t really blame me for finding out on my own, can they?

I drag a hand through my box braids, tying them back with a thin scarf that I’d kept wrapped around my wrist. “Well, Leo,” I say to myself with a small sigh. “Let’s get started.” 

The first thing I look through are histories. They’re long and incredibly boring to flip through, much less read in their entirety. There are treatises on forest governance, songs recorded from the Woodland Realm’s earliest days, and dull-sounding scrolls about trade routes along the Forest River. I pull a few volumes out, flipping through them, skimming for anything that mentions the southern wood or Amon Lanc. Nothing. Just endless accounts of harvests and border disputes with woodmen who lived west of the river. 

I shelve those and move deeper into the study, where the books grow older and the air smells thickly of their age. Some spines are cracked, their gilt titles faded to ghost letters. My hand drifts across one that’s bound in dark green leather, almost moving past and then dashing back. Annals of the Greenwood, reads the title. 

It looks promising. 

The volume is heavier than I expect.  I carry it to one of the lounges and sink down, setting it open on my knees.  A cloud of dust releases up into my face from the pages when I crack it open, and I cringe, trying my best not to cough. The words are thickly inked, but legible despite the age. 

The first pages detail the passing of kingship to the current Elvenking, Thranduil, from his father’s death in the War of the Last Alliance. This was in the year 3434, Second Age. I wrack my brain to try to remember how long ago that was - it had been explained to me before - there are three great ages of Ennor’s history, each lasting thousands of years. I settle on it being too long to do the math in my head. Regardless, back then, Taur-nu-Fuin was called Eryn Galen, and ruled in its entirety by the Elvenking.

I flip through pages and pages with no mention of Dol Guldur or any sorcerer whatsoever. The years pass from the Second Age to the Third, starting over at one. My fingers begin to ache, and my eyes strain. I skim over the contents of the year 1050 T.A., prepare to move on, and then reel back to read it in full. 

In the year 1050 – In this year, a shadow fell upon Greenwood the Great. From the South there crept whispers of a darkness unseen since the Elder Days, and in the hill of Amon Lanc there arose a fortress of dread. The Wise knew not its master, nor could any among Elf or Man name the will that stirred there. The fair wood that had long been free beneath the stars grew dim and heavy, and strange creatures fled northward from its eaves. There the Necromancer took abode, and from that day forth the Greenwood was no longer wholly fair, for its southern reaches were filled with fear and unclean things. Thus it was first called Taur-nu-Fuin by some and among Men it was soon named - here is a word written in Westron that I cannot read. 

The year now, I know, is 3018. That’s some two thousand years ago. My eyes sting from prolonged focus on the words, but I keep reading nonetheless. There is no mention of the Necromancer again for several pages, but I’m lucky in that the annals list each year only by its chiefest events. 

In the year 2060 – The power of Dol Guldur waxed greatly, and from it came a terror that walked unseen. The Wise grew troubled, for the dark sorceries of the hill were of a might unknown among Elves or mortal Men. Many this year whispered that the shadow that haunted the South of Greenwood was not as it seemed, but that the ancient foe of the Free Peoples had again taken bodily shape. Yet proof there was none.

Even on the next page, there’s an abrupt change in handwriting, as if someone else has taken up chronicling the annals. 

In the year 2063 – In this year Mithrandir the Grey, friend of the Eldar, came in secret to Dol Guldur to seek the truth of the Necromancer. But before his coming, the enemy perceived his intent and fled from his tower. Long years of quiet followed thereafter, and the Watchful Peace began. The wood healed somewhat of its hurt, though the heart of it remained wary and dim.

I flip forward. The letters have grown so familiar to me now that it’s easy to spot the word Morgulon, the Necromancer, when it appears again. 

In the year 2460 – After long silence, the shadow returned to Dol Guldur. Once more the southern wood grew foul, and the creatures of darkness multiplied in secret. Many had hoped that the Necromancer had perished or fled forever; yet now it was plain that the same will had returned, more cunning and fell than before. Dol Guldur’s strength grew again, and none could doubt that the spirit of the Necromancer was of ancient lineage and malice enduring.

In the year 2850 – Mithrandir, returning at last to Dol Guldur in secret, uncovered the truth of the Shadow. For there he beheld signs and tokens beyond dispute, and learned that the Necromancer was indeed none other than Sauron, the Dark Lord of old, who had fled from the ruin of Mordor and hidden himself while his strength returned. When this was known, the Wise were dismayed, for it was seen that the Watchful Peace had been but the deep breathing of the storm before its breaking. From this time forth, the vigilance of the Free Peoples was redoubled, and the shadow of Dol Guldur fell long across the forest once more.

In the year 2941 – The malice of Dol Guldur grew beyond bearing. The Wise gathered their strength against the Necromancer, for the hour had come at last to cleanse the hill of its ancient taint. From the Southwest came the Lady Galadriel of Lórien, whose light is the bane of all that serves darkness. With her came Mithrandir the Grey, Elrond Half-Elven, and Saruman the White, chief of their order. Together they laid siege to Dol Guldur, and the roots of the forest shuddered beneath the breaking of long-woven spells. It was heard from Felegoth that from every vault and pit rose the cries of the things that had dwelt there unseen. Then the Necromancer was revealed at last in wrath and terror. Yet his strength was not full, nor his dwelling secure. He fled before them, abandoning his hold in Dol Guldur, and passed in secret back to Mordor, where his servants were already preparing his return. Thus was Dol Guldur laid bare. The Laiquendi rejoiced for a time, for the shadow on the borders of the Greenwood lessened. 

There is more that happens that year, a detailing of a great battle before Erebor, but no more about Sauron after that. My wrists ache from holding the heavy book, and I don’t know exactly how long it’s been. Not long enough for Léofir to check up on me. I slowly get up, my bones cracking, to replace the book on the shelf. 

Sauron. 

A name that Legolas wouldn’t even speak aloud to me, for fear of it. How can you fight something that you can’t even name? How exactly were they planning to face something that took - let me count - four people, none of them from Felegoth, to drive back? 

No, there’s something still missing. Something that made them so very afraid of Sauron, before his presence in Dol Guldur. Something… something truly terrible. 

It’s just hard to find what that something is if I don’t know what I’m looking for. And I’d already combed through a few thousand years of the Third Age. I don’t want to go through every single one of the First or Second. 

I move down the shelf to peer at more titles. On the Shadows of the Second Age: Volume III, one reads, thoroughly dusty, but much smaller than the Annals, and I pull it down to crack it open. Almost immediately, one of the pages splits from the spine from age. I wince and hope Léofir doesn’t notice.

In this one, it doesn’t take me long to find the first mention of the name I’m looking for. It’s right at the beginning, labelled under ‘On the Rise of Sauron and the Forging of the Rings’, and coupled with the fat chunk of text is a map of a land I’d never seen before, ringed in mountains, with one illustrated tower marked here lies Barad-dûr, and not far from that, a mountain marked here are the forges of Sauron Gorthaur. That word… I can figure out easily enough what it means. ‘Gor’ is horror, and ‘thaur’ means abhorrent. This is not a surname, I realize, but another thing to mark him as evil.

There is no measure of distance on the map, or any other realm labeled next to it, so I have no idea how far it is in relation to Taur-nu-fuin. I turn my eyes instead to the text next to the map, quickly scanning down it. 

In the early years after the fall of Morgoth the Accursed, when the world still lay trembling beneath the ruin of Beleriand, there came one among his servants who had escaped the judgment of the Valar. His name was Sauron, once of the Maiar of Aulë, fair of form and mighty in knowledge. In the beginning he sought order and dominion, claiming that through his governance all might be set right that Morgoth had marred. But in his heart grew pride, and that pride turned to lust for mastery, until he became the new Shadow of the World.

In the days when the Elves of Eregion were at the height of their craft, there came to them Sauron clothed in fair raiment, calling himself Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. His countenance was noble, and his words rich with promise. He spoke of the deep arts of Aulë, of the secret fires that lay beneath the world, and of the power by which beauty might be made enduring. He declared himself a messenger of the Valar, a bringer of wisdom and renewal to Ennor, that the Elves might preserve what the passing of time would otherwise mar.

The Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the people of the Jewel-smiths, welcomed him gladly. Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, was foremost among them, a craftsman of unmatched skill and a heart yet uncorrupted by his fathers’ oath. To him Annatar taught much of making and shaping, of binding strength and healing into things wrought by hand. So it was that the Rings of Power were conceived: works of surpassing beauty, each a vessel of preservation, meant to heal what had been broken and ward off decay. Sixteen they made beneath Annatar’s instruction - but three did Celebrimbor fashion alone, perceiving at last that his teacher’s heart was not as pure as his form. Those three he made in secret, free of Annatar’s touch: Narya the Red, Nenya the White, and Vilya the Blue. These he intended not for dominion, but for guardianship - to preserve what was fair in Ennor from the slow ruin of years.

“What are you reading?” 

Léofir’s mild voice cuts through my concentration, and I close the book with a sharp thud before he can see. “Um, just a history book. Nothing too interesting.” 

“You do not find our history stimulating?” Léofir asks with a gentle smile. I replace the book on the shelf, resting my hand against its spine so as to hide the title from him, like I’m afraid of being caught. “I suppose I cannot expect every student to love our annals as much as I.” His eyes search mine behind his spectacles, and my neck begins to prickle uncomfortably. I’m not exactly doing anything wrong, am I? They can’t stop me from reading. 

“I only thought to tell you that the hour grows late,” he says. “It is dark outside.” 

So it is. I hadn’t noticed. “I should go.” 

“You will not stay for dinner?” My teacher asks. It isn’t Ormenel, though, the day that Eruest has dinner with his family, so I don’t want to intrude. I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’ll scrounge up something in the barracks. Thank you for letting me use your library, though.” 

I give a quick bow and hurry outside, where I cannot shake the uncomfortable feeling. The evening is cold, and a wind blows through the treetops from the east. It’s funny how I can immediately identify the direction; a year ago, I wouldn’t have even given it a second thought. It’s one of the many things I’d learned here. 

There is something else I must do, regardless of how my stomach is growling. Dinner has already come and gone, so whatever scraps I’ll have to grab from Galion will still be there when I’m done with my task. There is probably only one person in the entirety of Felegoth that I trust to ask about the Morgulon, and who I trust to tell me frankly in return, and by entire coincidence, her home is not too far from Léofir’s. 

Maybe I should have asked Lariel first, I realize as I quicken my step. But I wouldn’t really have known what to ask after, with Legolas giving me the sparsest information known to man. Now the name Sauron rests on the tip of my tongue so that I have to keep repeating in my head in order to keep it from slipping out. It would really suck if someone else caught me saying that. The whole “servant of darkness” thing takes a lot of convincing otherwise. 

Lariel’s home is built into the treetops. I’d visited it maybe all of twice, and I surprise myself in remembering the way to it. It’s small, but certainly quaint, about the size of a loft apartment. A wind-chime of metal sparrows hangs in the branches outside her window, composing a soft music with the eastern breeze. My knock interrupts it. 

She opens it, looks me up and down, and says, “You look rather tired.” 

“You’re observant. May I come in?” 

She stands to the side to grant me entry. It smells of an herbaceous soup, and my stomach growls loud enough for her to hear it. Without a word, Lariel reaches for two carved wooden bowls, ladling green broth from her hearth, chunked with root vegetables left over from winter. “Here,” she says, nodding with her head for me to sit on the chaise lounge that faces a large window, flanked by bookcases. “Eat. Now, what is all this about?” 

She knows me well enough by now to know that I don’t come looking for help unless I really need it. With the Eldar, I have a distinct problem of being overly vulnerable. It’s done a lot to protect me, but it’s been a real cumbersome bitch to deal with, too. I spoon some soup into my mouth, huffing as it scalds my tongue. My eyes water. Tastes like dill and chervil and garlic and tarragon, with potatoes and parsnips floated in. Could possibly use some pepper. 

“I need to talk to you about something,” I say hoarsely, pounding my chest as I try to recover from the too-hot soup. “And I need you to understand that I’m not trying to do anything… nefarious.” 

Lariel, who had been holding her soup in two hands, now sets it on the table next to her. “That does not sound promising, Leoma.” She regards me with her eyebrows raised. 

“I’ll just - I’ll just say it.” I swallow another piece of parsnip. “Who was - is - Sauron?” 

The name does not sound evil when I say it aloud. It sounds and feels like any other word would. 

But Lariel, in an instant, is in front of me, her hand clapped over my mouth and her eyes wide with concern. 

“Please,” she says, “do not utter that name here.” 

I can say nothing. She has me pretty well trapped under her. I nod, slowly, just once. 

After a few moments, Lariel draws back, and sits next to me on the chaise with her lips set in a tight line. “I must ask why you want to know.” 

“Because I’m supposed to go to Dol Guldur in a week, and nobody will tell me what the hell that’s about.” I respond, returning my attention to my soup. I can multitask where Lariel can’t, and I’m also too hungry to ignore it. “Legolas would only tell me about the Morgulon. I did some snooping on my own. I needed to know why everyone’s so afraid to say his name.” 

“Because there are some evils too great to even utter.” Lariel rubs her eyes, then folds her hands in front of her face as she pauses to think. “It is so easy to forget that you… that you do not know, that you haven’t lived it. Consider yourself lucky in that, Leoma. There are some things in this world that you should not suffer to know, and this one… this is one of them.” 

“You cannot protect me from that,” I point out, stirring my soup to let a few more choice pieces of potato float up. “I’m going to go right into his lair. Ignorance isn’t necessarily bliss when it could kill you.” 

“Ah.” My friend says faintly. “In that, I suppose you are right. Then I will tell you this, and you must not repeat it, for there are some in Felegoth that would take your knowledge of Him as proof of serving him.” The air between us grows still, so still that I can hear the windchime outside pause for a breath before resuming its slow clinking. “Sauron was once a servant of the Valar. But he turned away from them long ago. He was a being who sought order above all things, until he came to believe that the only way to preserve the world was to rule it. That belief made him cruel.”

Her hands settle on her lap, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of her skirt. I’ve never seen her so uneasy. It feels impolite to keep eating, so I set the spoon down in the bowl. 

“He gathered hosts of Men to his service, promising them life beyond death, and many believed him. But it was only a mimicry that he gave them, trapping them outside of life but barring them from death, too. Others he broke, even Eldar, bending their wills until they no longer knew themselves, until they were so twisted their kinsmen did not know them.” Her eyes finally meet mine then. They are weary. “That is what we fear, Leoma. Not death, but the corruption he brings. It… it is not something I can easily explain. Not without you having seen it.” 

“Oh.” I stare down into my soup, my hunger not yet satiated. But the gnaw in my stomach has been replaced by a sick feeling. It seems like every new thing I learn about Ennor seems more and more fantastical and horrible. I can only think of a few things that were so profoundly evil on Earth. Those evil things, though, fade away with time. That’s the thing with humans. Time eventually scars all wounds. 

And if I use that metaphor, I can only imagine that time to the Eldar keeps wounds open and gaping. 

“But… that all happened thousands of years ago, right?” My tongue feels very thick in my mouth. “He’s gone.” The book said so. Wherever Sauron is now, it is very far away, if he’s even alive at all. There is nothing to fear in Dol Guldur. Nothing at all. If I keep telling myself this, maybe I’ll convince myself of it. 

“Gone is not the same as dead.” Lariel shakes her head. “And some evil never fades, Leoma. A spirit such as his can never truly be gone. Not without…” She trails off. “He dwelt in Dol Guldur long enough for his malice to seep into it. If anything lurks there now, it remembers its master.” 

Now my stomach has well and truly turned. I set the bowl to the side. “Then why go there at all? If there’s a chance that something’s waiting there?” 

“I cannot speak for the whims of the prince,” Lariel responds. “But if a shadow remains there, it’s better to cast light upon it. We know the trees are sickening again. We can smell it on the air.” She glances out the window, her face wrinkled as if she can smell it now. “But I do not wish it on you, Leoma. It is a foul place.” Her hand finds mine, somewhat clammy, cool on my skin. “Do not speak his name again, Leoma, promise me. Not in jest. Not in curiosity. And not there. Names have power, and his more than most.” 

“Okay.” My voice is almost a whisper. I want to believe her.

Outside, the eastern wind rises, threading through the sparrow-chimes before her window until their song turns strangely mournful - metal wings trembling in the dark.