This is a BIG chapter you guys.... Enjoy!

Two hundred and fifty years ago:

It was one of those rare Spring days when the Elvenking did not don his crown or even the circlet befitting his station; nor did he dress in his usual fine tunic or long ornamental robes. On this day, Thranduil instead chose a simple shirt, a bit worn and soft at the elbows, and a pair of plain brown leggings with his old broken-in boots.

Now he stretched out across a soft carpet of new grass atop the wide dome of his halls, breathed in the fresh Spring air and studied the slow sway of the trees, and the Song of his woods thrummed deep in his heart.

This was home, and he loved these woods and his people fiercely. Days like this reminded him of that fact, days like this when the Song was so bright, so effortless.

Now, in truth, Narylfiel had cajoled him to skip his morning meeting with the Elder Council and to forego his usual routine of lurking in the study after breakfast so that he might join her for, in her words, "a secret picnic."

She was leaving for her next patrol shift with the Forest Guard tomorrow and would be gone for two weeks. She had cornered him after dinner last night, extolling the virtues of an early lunch outside—she heard the coria bloomed atop the dome, and she believed the Elvenking would greatly benefit from a little sunshine. Rarely could Thranduil say no to her big brown eyes...a truth she knew and often used to great effect, he thought wryly as he listened to birdsong drift merrily over the trees.

Still, she was right about this—just the pair of them and the wide crest of the blue sky, the sun warm on his hair.

He didn't speak, neither did she, and wasn't that enough? To have a friend by his side who let him be?

Thranduil regarded her beside him, lying contentedly on her stomach, her head resting on a folded arm. He wanted to tell her then, that he did not know what the future held, but this moment would be one he would remember, one he would hold on to if the darkness returned. Thranduil only smiled at her instead for fear of spoiling the perfect companionable silence between them.

Just the pair of them and the wide crest of the blue sky.

.  -  .  -  .

March 10th, 3019:

Light filtered through the myriad branches casting uneven shadows across the forest path, and the elven bridge stretching toward the enormous doors of the Elvenking's halls seemed impossibly long. The forest was quiet. Although Dori and Bofur would never admit to feeling even slightly afraid—especially of woodelves, mind you!—nevertheless, they both slowed their ponies when they reached the foot of the bridge. Far on the other side, four elven sentries stood guard, their golden armor glinting in the occasional ray of sun burnished it.

Those guards, of course, were the sentries Bofur could see, but what slowed the dwarves' pace was the thought of the other guards, the ones hidden. For surely there were numerous guards posted among the treetops, probably each with an arrow nocked in aim to shoot a trespasser if the need arose.

Bofur's eyes drifted overhead, and as if on cue, a dark-winged starling swooped down from one of the tallest beeches. The dwarf exchanged a look with his companion and cleared his throat.

"We mean no harm," he called, pulling his hat off to wave it in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner. "We are two of the dwarves that left with your king, but now we return with a message for the queen."

The branches rustled slightly over the dwarves' heads as if the tall beech trees whispered about their arrival, and then a sleek elven guard dressed in forest colors dropped down from a limb that surely must have been twenty feet in the air.

The guard elf's face was fair and stoic as his eyes flicked over the sight of dwarves near his king's doorstep. His hand hovered near the knife on his belt until he decided their story satisfied him.

"I know your faces," he told them, relaxing. "Come with me." The woodland guard then led them across the long, long bridge where the Forest River rushed frothy and ice cold from the melted snow off the mountains. Bofur eyed the river apprehensively as they crossed the bridge. It certainly wouldn't do to fall in!

Their guard stopped before the four golden-armored guards at the main doors and spoke to them briefly in their own language, a sliding, lilting verse, so unlike the language of Bofur's people; theirs was a language like the mountain itself, resolute and bold, with bright sounds like gems and sharp edged as the rock deep in the mines.

Then moments later, the great doors opened, and the Forest Guard gestured for the dwarves to leave their ponies and follow him. Two other elves materialized from the other side of the entryway and took the ponies' leads, smiling and conversing with them in the odd way that elves can. One of the ponies replied in a long whinny, and it seemed to Bofur that the horse laughed at something one of the elves said.

Bofur shook his head at the notion. The very idea! Although...he glanced over his shoulder at the elf now tickling the chin of the pony which neighed happily again...it was uncanny. Elf magic. All this time spent in the company of elves was beginning to affect him. The sooner he delivered his message and left for Erebor, the better! He needed to feel the heavy roots of rock under his feet again, strong stone over his head, to feel the blistering warmth of the great forges sighing in the belly of the mountain.

The guard elf took them through the meandering passages of the Elvenking's halls, a fair sight to look upon with its red torches gleaming brightly and the carved columns of trees and animals and flowers. Still, it was no Erebor. None could compete with the deep wondrous halls of Durin's folk.

At last the trio stopped in a short hallway before an open door where inside, Bofur spied a tall raven-headed elf sitting behind a desk littered with many papers. The elf's face was somber; his eyes, dark pools tinged with an emotion Bofur could not quite place as the elf behind the desk looked up at the guard elf's greeting. They exchanged a few words in Elvish, again the sounds sliding back and forth between them much like the way wind moves through trees, and then the guard elf bowed and left.

Bofur met Dori's eyes, and Dori spoke up. "We have a message for Queen Narylfiel from your king."

The elf stood, pushing back his chair and coming around his desk to stand before the dwarves. His impassive features faltered as he spoke: "The queen is no longer here. She was taken a little more than a day ago." Now Bofur understood, realized the emotion in the elf's eyes, for grief thickened his voice.

"Gone!" Dori exclaimed, his face mirroring Bofur's own desperate feelings. "Gone," he repeated mournfully.

"We are too late then," Bofur said, pulling off hat and balling wringing it between his broad clever fingers.

"I am Galadhor, overseer of these Halls." the elf told them, his eyes pained, "and longtime friend to the royal family. Please, tell me your message, though in my heart I half-believe I know its contents already."

"The king's men..err, elves were ambushed on the Forest Road by a party of orcs. In the aftermath, one of my companions heard an orc say they were sent to capture the queen," Bofur said, remembering the squawk of Black Speech shattering the silence of the damp woods, the ruinous yellow eyes bright with malice before the Elvenking's blade claimed the orc's head. "Your king realized that to know of the new queen, there must be a spy in his halls. Dori and I volunteered to return to warn Narylfiel."

For just a second, the tall elf's face fell, an expression of complete and utter despair, before his hand briefly went to his forehead and he regained his composure. Bofur knew, he knew, this elf, this Galadhor, overseer of the Halls, must be centuries old, had lived hundreds of lives of dwarves, but in that one brief moment, the elf looked impossibly young, forlorn.

Bofur reached out as he would have with Dori and patted Galadhor on the arm reassuringly.

"This is Narylfiel we're talking about here, the same lass who stole a message from her king to deliver it to Erebor herself. She's no green, untried warrior," Bofur said trying to reassure them and himself at the same time and failing on both counts.

"How did it happen?" Dori asked quietly, reaching out and placing his hand on Bofur's shoulder, seeking him out like a counter-weight against his freefall.

Galadhor looked down at them, his eyes flashing as he spoke. "We believe Wilem took her, probably drugged her, using the barrel drop as means for his escape."

Bofur and Dori exchange a look. "The barrel drop, you say?" Bofu asked, his eyes sliding past the tall elf to down the hall where stairs descended to the lower levels of the halls.

"Bofur, no," Dori protested weakly.

"We've done it before—we know where it goes—think of all the time we could save by taking the river," Bofur said and added, "Faithless is he who says farewell just because the water's a little chilly."

Dori screwed up his face at the thought of the ice-cold river and cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure that's not how the quote goes at all," he said and then eyed Galadhor resignedly. "Can you please lead us to the cellar?"

Surprisingly the elf did not protest the idea, nor did he try to steer them from their course. Instead, Galadhor helped them pull down the barrels, his long arms hoisting them down from the high shelves with ease and settling them onto the track for the barrel drop.

Galadhor hesitated for a moment after straightening the barrels on the track. "You said you had a message for the queen," he said curiously. "What was it?"

Bofur's face was grim. "Not to leave the king's halls for any reason."

After a bit of rearranging of their weapons and packs, Bofur and Dori, signalled they were ready. Galadhor had agreed that he should leave the lids off the barrels, so the dwarves could have a better chance of scouting for signs of the queen along the riverbanks.

"The king and the entire kingdom's gratitude goes with you," Galadhor told them.

Bofur's head popped out of the barrel. "Oh, we're not doing it for him."

The corners of Galadhor's mouth turned up ever so slightly as he pulled the lever back to release the barrels. The unspoken words hung between them, but Bofur was sure the elf understood.

The barrels struck the water in an icy spray that had both dwarves swearing in Khuzdul, and from the murderous gleam in Dori's eyes, Bofur was glad that his barrel floated out of his friend's reach. "Don't know why I let myself be talked into this!" Dori complained but the roar of the river through the underground caverns drowned out the rest of his words as the barrels plummeted down the steep drops and falls before spilling out into the cold sunshine on the other side of the Elvenking's halls.

From that point forward, Dori and Bofur watched the shoreline of the Forest River for any sign of emptied barrels or tracks, but that was not the sight that had them clambering over the edge of their own barrel, using their broad hands to paddle to shore.

"Can't believe my eyes!" Bofur shouted and waved, then paddled and waved some more, until he and Dori's barrels scratched the bottom of the riverbed. Both dwarves pulled themselves loose, shivering and sopping wet, but neither paid heed to the cold now.

Prince Thorin III and Dwalin stood before them on the banks of the river.

"Should I even ask?" Dwalin muttered before Bofur wrapped him in a tight soppy hug.

Bofur and Dori shared Narylfiel's disappearance with their companions, and in turn, Thorin revealed that he and Dwalin had been on the outer edges of the forest when they beheld a sizeable Easterling army pass in the night. He feared the men marched for Dale and Erebor, but then the troops settled along the lower road, effectively blocking the dwarves' return to the Lonely Mountain.

Fearful of the woodelves, the Easterlings posted guards all along the edge of the forest, and the road leading to Dale and the Mountain was wide open, leaving little way for the dwarves to sneak past the guards, much less survive on the open road in full view of the Easterling army.

Since then, Thorin and Dwalin explored the area, searching for other means and routes but to no avail.

"Did you—" Dori's voice broke, "Did you see any trace of Narylfiel? Any sign at all?"

Thorin and Dwalin shared a glance. Thorin shook his head. Dwalin hmmphed and said nothing, folding his arms. His thick dark brows furrowed above his stony expression. He hmmphed again as his eyes drifted down river.

"We found empty barrels earlier today, downstream," Dwalin told him curtly.

Thorin let out an exasperated sigh. "It doesn't mean that those barrels belong to her or her kin," he said waspishly.

Dwalin stepped between his prince and the other dwarves. "Yesterday when we were coming up from the south, we spied large orcs and a few men running through the forest." His voice was brusque. "They carried prisoners or bodies—it was too dark to tell. It could have been her."

"Then they were taking her to the Easterling war camp you saw," Bofur concluded, tugging on his beard.

"Has she bewitched you all?" Thorin exclaimed, exasperated. "She has no claim on you, and war marches on our kingdom. We can ill afford to waste our lives and time attempting a rescue."

Dwalin's eyes darkened. "You and I watched those orcs run by and did nothing. I shoulda stopped them then. If they hurt her..." Dwalin's voice trailed away. Bofur and the others all knew what fate awaited Narylfiel, what happened to women taken prisoner by servants of Sauron. Dwalin regarded Thorin briefly. "We can't risk you going near that camp, but I will go."

Bofur and Dori exchanged glances. "I'll stay with the prince," Dori offered. "We can head north to see if we can slip past their men and make for Erebor."

Bofur nodded and shouldered his pack. "Be careful." He watched them go and then turned away to follow Dwalin toward the Easterling camp.

.  -  .  -  .

That was two days ago.

Narylfiel lay bound in the dust, her feet and hands trussed up with some ridiculously tight orcish knots. Beside her, Melui groaned, her eyes fluttering open.

Wilem's voice high and strained floated past her ears. "Tell Lord Maubûrz I bring a mighty gift."

She shook her head and blinked, trying to clear the cloudy feeling from her mind, the effects of the nasty medicine that Wilem had drugged her with during the entire trip. She was fairly certain she had not hallucinated the fact that Wilem had mentioned Maubûrz. Ugh.

Her stomach roiled at the thought of him. Or maybe it just roiled from being drugged, but either way, Narylfiel felt horrid.

"Melui," she whispered. "Melui!"

Melui twisted enough that she could turn her head toward Narylfiel. "Are you well?" she whispered, more air and consonants than anything, her voice was so dry and raspy.

Narylfiel nodded. "Are you?" she mouthed.

Melui nodded. "For now. I'm sorry, Narylfiel."

Her friend only shook her head 'no,' as if to say she did not blame Melui, but she did not get to tell her anything more, for in the next moment, both elves were pulled up and dragged into the large tent before them; Maubûrz's tent, Narylfiel presumed. She hoped she might be wrong.

Unfortunately, Narylfiel was correct.

Reclining across an elaborate divan, Maubûrz held court surrounded by furs, tasselled pillows, gleaming golden lanterns glowing atop intricately carved pedestals. A purple and red silken tapestry hung behind him, and incense smoked thickly in the background. Narylfiel's eyes and nose burned from the smell, but even so, she could not mistake the predatory gleam in Maubûrz's eyes when his men dropped her and Melui on the grass-woven rug in front of him.

He stretched and rose from his comfortable seat like a great sleek cat and prowled toward them, circled them. He wore loose fitting trousers that tapered at the ankle and despite the chill in the air, his chest was bare underneath his black open robe.

"Wilem," he said, favoring the pale man with an appraising look. "After all your desperate messages, finally you deliver."

Wilem sank to a bow. "I am honored, my lord."

Maubûrz stepped back, angled his head. "You have already proven yourself beyond measure and will be richly rewarded." His eyes flicked to Narylfiel and Melui, trussed before him, on their knees where they had been dropped. "I was told you brought a mighty gift, and these are beyond fair, beyond value..." he said and lifted up Narylfiel's chin with the tip of his finger "beyond price."

Naryfliel jerked her chin away and stared defiantly up at him.

"I remember you," he said. "So bright, fair, vibrant. "You escaped my camp, killed three of my guards, and Wilem tells me that you married the Elvenking. You have a heavy debt to settle with me indeed."

Maubûrz crouched before her, drew a wickedly sharp curved knife from his belt, and used it to cut her ropes. Sheathing his knife, he then pulled her to her feet but did not release her. His hand was hot against her skin as he leaned in, his voice smooth as he said silkily: "But fear not, you will find me a most generous master to those who please me. You can begin by telling me what you know of your king's armies, their position in the wood."

Narylfiel narrowed her eyes. "I will tell you nothing."

He smiled then. "I thought you might say something like that. How predictable." Maubûrz then turned to one of the soldiers in the tent and gave him an order in his a language Narylfiel had never before heard.

Maubûrz kept his hand firmly on her wrist, and with his other hand traced a line down her cheek, threaded his fingers into her hair. "You will tell me everything" he told her, his dark eyes glittering. "We have ways of making even the most reluctant talk."

His eyes drifted to Wilem. "And this other?"

"A royal guard, my lord," Wilem said.

"I see," Maubûrz said as he looked at her, his hands still on Narylfiel's arm and in her hair.

Wilem spoke up, daring to meet the Eastern lord's eyes. "I would ask that I keep her for my own."

Maubûrz's mouth drew into a thin line, and he twisted a long strand of Narylfiel's hair around his finger, pulled her in closer as he considered Wilem's request. "Done!" he pronounced, without a second look at Melui. "And you shall have her and more. For the eastern armies await my command after Dale and Erebor fall, We shall take this accursed forest. And we will be as lords over these lands, their people our slaves."

Barking out another command in his Eastern tongue, Maubûrz summoned another soldier into his tent.

"Wilem, my men have prepared a tent for you, complete with the supplies you will require to continue your work for our lord commander." He eyed Melui appreciatively. "You will have plenty of time to enjoy your spoils, but first I need you to prepare nakhum ekran for my lady elf." The foreign word rolled off his tongue like a benediction, and Narylfiel had no idea what it meant. And for the first time since her captivity, a tiny frisson of fear bloomed in her heart. She was a fighter, always had been...but this nakhum ekran—if Maubûrz needed Wilem to prepare it, it was either a poison or some foul sort of drug.

Wilem bowed.