Three hundred years ago...

Thranduil smelled it before he turned the corner—the sharp tang of iron, blood in the air. He braced himself for the worst when he crossed the threshold and beheld Narylfiel draped piteously over the settee, an enormous raw steak pressed across her right eye, from her cheekbone across to her brow. She opened the uncovered eye and squinted at the king.

"Don't even say it," she rasped out, and then closed her good eye.

"I wasn't going to," said Thranduil as he crossed the room to peer down at her. "Do you think that slab of meat on your face is helping?"

"It's nice and cool, and my eye is throbbing," she told him, "so yes, it's better than nothing."

The healer in Thranduil doubted it. "Let me see."

"I would rather not," Narylfiel said weakly.

He appraised her carefully. She still wore her warrior training uniform, and its sleeveless cut did little to hide the scrapes and bruises mottling her arms blue and purple. "Hard practice today?"

Her good eye cracked open. "It was nothing I couldn't handle, Thranduil."

"Clearly," he said and paused. "Who were you sparring against? Who did this to you?" He tried to keep the edge out of his voice. Thranduil knew first hand how difficult and oftentimes brutal the training was for guards, but that did not lessen his regret for seeing the proof written across his dear friend's skin.

She squinted at him, noting his disapproval through the puffy slit of her still good eye. "It's nothing I can't handle," she repeated weakly. "Please."

"Was Legolas there?" Thranduil asked.

Narylfiel did not answer.

Thranduil later found his son making a relentless number of long distance shots out in the practice fields, his hair pulled back, clothes dusty. Legolas did not wait to see if his previous arrow even struck the target before he spun away, drew another from his quiver, and fired at the next bullseye. His son moved with a punishing grace and skill, a far cry from his days as his father's bookkeeper, and more than a little part of Thranduil wished he had tried harder to keep Legolas in the accounts office. But, he was his father's son, a warrior, and Thranduil was proud of the way Legolas had risen through the ranks of the Forest Guard to earn his place as one of its captains.

When Legolas cleared the row, ending his last shot with a perfectly timed dive and roll move, Thranduil spoke up.

"Legolas."

His son turned.

"Impressive shooting," Thranduil noted.

Legolas inclined his head, looking for the first time at how the series of shots landed on their targets. "I could move faster across the field," he told his father, "and as you can see, my aim off the turn still needs work."

Thranduil appraised the targets. A few of the arrows were slightly left of the bullseye.

"Yes, but still impressive nonetheless, Legolas." Thranduil noted the empty field, the sun dipping below the tree line. "What has you out here practicing so late? Your wife will be wondering what happened to you."

Legolas leaned his longbow against his side before peeling off his arm guard with a sigh. His eyes drifted to the sunset and then over to the sparring ring, just left of his father. ""Go ahead," Legolas prompted him. "Tell me why you're really out here, Father."

"I think we both know why I'm out here."

Legolas picked up his bow and motioned for his father to follow him to the targets to retrieve his arrows. He carefully pulled the first arrow from the straw target, inspected it for damage, and then once satisfied, returned it to his quiver.

"Legolas." Thranduil laid his hand on his son's shoulder. "I remember how rough it can get in the sparring ring for new recruits, but she was pretty beat up. Who did that to her?"

His son walked to the next target, pulled the arrow free, looked it over, and returned it to his quiver. "Who is asking, father? The commander of the armies of the Woodland Realm or Narylfiel's concerned friend?"

"Her friend," Thranduil answered firmly. "I don't want her being targeted because of her friendship with me."

Legolas turned, his face incredulous. "Do you think for one second I would let her get bullied on my watch?"

"Then how did she come by those bruises, son? Who gave them to her?"

Legolas yanked the next arrow free and then stilled.

"I did."

Thranduil's mouth tightened into a thin line. The bruises scoring Narylfiel's arms, the ugly purple blooming across her cheek. "Explain."

"It was the opposite of what you were thinking, actually. The other guards and recruits were not being harder on Narylfiel because of her position in our family or her well-known friendship with you. They were going easy on her, pulling their punches, letting her win."

"Until you stepped into the ring," Thranduil countered.

Legolas turned from the target, arrow in hand. "I could tell she was frustrated," he said quietly. "I remember what it was like when I first started training, and everyone treated me like I might shatter at any given moment." He placed the arrow in his quiver and met his father's eyes. "Narylfiel is never going to get to the level of expertise she needs to survive if everyone lets her win every match. Do you think the enemy will go easy on her because she is friend to the king?"

"No, they would not," Thranduil said, his eyes weary.

Legolas shifted his weight, waited. "I hated every minute of it, but—" he stopped, thought for a moment. "I would do it again. I will do it again. Right now it's what she needs."

"She needed a black eye?"

Legolas winced. "That was an accident. I was demonstrating a blocking technique, and she turned into my elbow."

Thranduil nodded thoughtfully. "So are you actually out here for more practice or are you hiding from your wife?"

"A little of both?" his son answered sheepishly and laughed half-heartedly. "She is not going to be happy with me."

"You are right though, Legolas. Don't go easy on Narylfiel. She needs to be pushed, and what you're doing right now could save her life one day."

"I hope it may never come to that," Legolas replied grimly. It would be a long time before he stopped feeling guilty for all the hard hits he gave Narylfiel in practice that day. The prince fell into step beside his father as they gathered the rest of his arrows and left the training grounds together.

. - . - .

A great many people from Dale elected to make the journey to honor the dwarves and their fallen king; the citizens all remembered how the dwarves offered them protection during the Battle of Dale after the Easterlings breached their city's walls. The Battle of Dale and the Siege of Erebor had brought the two kingdoms into an alliance built over a common enemy, but the outcome of those long harried nights of two very different races crammed together under one mountain top resulted in a long-lasting friendship built on mutual trust and gratitude. During those dark days of the siege, the dwarves of Erebor welcomed the people of Dale into their homes, their families. Yes, this day was to meant to honor King Dain's memory, but it was also a reunion of sorts, a testament to how the ugliness of war can often bring out the best in its survivors, of how unlikely friendships can spring up in a time of darkness and hate, and how the word family can transcend bloodlines, race, or class. The day meant to honor King Dain's memory was all at once serious and solemn; there were tears shed and hands clasped. But it was also a day of laughter and joy, a day of merry greetings and embraces between the people of Dale and Erebor.

For King Thranduil, ruler of the Woodland Realm, this day meant something entirely different. There were two things that Thranduil would always associate with Erebor: claustrophobia and the overwhelming stench of dwarves. Needless to say, he was less than thrilled when the large riding party from Dale arrived at the Lonely Mountain.

King Thorin along with an assembly of advisors and courtiers greeted the arrival of the two kings of Dale and the Woodland Realm. Thorin gave Narylfiel a polite bow and turned his attention to greeting King Bard and the Elvenking.

It was a testament to Thranduil's love for his queen that he was here at all, and as he watched her dismount and eagerly greet the dwarves, he reminded himself of how the dwarves helped Narylfiel in her escape from Maubûrz, of how they were there for her when his responsibility as king kept him away.

The more pleasant dwarf with the odd hat was there at the main gate, smiling broadly, Thranduil noted. He knew Narylfiel to be quite fond of him, and there was that little polite one; he was not half bad. Unfortunately, the taller bald dwarf with the strangely marked head was also there, standing to the side. Narylfiel spoke of his kindness in glowing terms—Thranduil really could not see the allure—but there he was to greet Narylfiel with a gruff hello and bow.

Oh my goodness!" Bofur exclaimed. "It does my heart good to see you so bright and smiling, Queen Narylfiel. Oh, with Melui not far behind, I see."

"I'm not letting her out of my sight these days," Melui joked.

"Would you honor us by seeing the sights of the mountain, Queen Narylfiel? That is, if your king would not mind," Dori asked.

Narylfiel smiled up at Thranduil, and he gave an indulgent nod. She laughed and waved at him from over her shoulder as her dwarf guides escorted her through the much-heralded main gate of Erebor, which according to Bofur, had withstood the assault of the Easterlings and saved both the people of Dale and the mountain.

The dwarves took her down the main road into the mountain, if such a slight word could be used to describe the grand thoroughfare that cut deep into Erebor, that arched across deep chasms and spanned wide as an open field in some places. Bright blown glass lanterns hung from curled iron branches, the metal work bases seeming to have sprung from the ground like trunks of elegant trees. Narylfiel and Melui were sure to make all the appropriate sounds of wonder and appreciation at every sight, and indeed, it was little hardship to do so, for the dwarves' home under the mountain was every inch a labor of love from a multitude of the finest skilled craftsmen.

But it was at the forges when Melui asked Bofur how the great bellows worked, that Dwalin, who had been content to stay by the young Elvenqueen's side and say little, finally cleared his throat and spoke.

A gruff tone. "Thorin might not have shown it as much, but he—we are glad you came. None of us were too sure your king would allow it. But you should feel plenty safe here."

The smoke from the camp stinging her eyes, the knife-sharp burn of the nakhum ekran firing through her veins. Azirakul. Maubûrz's hands, pushing her down, pinning her to the ground.

Narylfiel angled her head. "Thank you, Dwalin." She met his eyes frankly. "I have not forgotten what you—"

He waved it away with a huff. "Anybody would have done the same, miss."

"But it wasn't just anybody, it was you, Dwalin. You and Bofur—and I'm grateful. It's not something I will forget."

He crossed his arms then, as much as a dismissal as it seemed to be a defense in case she tried to hug him. " And that Wilem, we'll get him too. King Thorin has made it a priority."

"Wilem?" Narylfiel repeated.

"He won't dare show his face in Erebor, I can tell you that much."

Wilem. And suddenly it all made perfect sense. Thranduil's extra guards. Elfir and the other guards patrolling the streets of Dale at dusk. Alassien had come with the Royal Guard, a fact that made little sense to her until now. Alassien was a gifted tracker. Wilem was out there somewhere, and her king meant to catch him first, she was sure of it.

She produced a smile for Dwalin, who eyed her curiously. "It is a great relief to me to know that he will be caught soon."

Dwalin only nodded his agreement, and Narylfiel could not be sure if he suspected she had not been told of Wilem being on the loose. If he made sure to stay close by her side for the rest of the tour for that reason, it was both an unspoken comfort and kindness to Narylfiel. For all her pretense of bravado, the idea of Wilem being somewhere out there was a whole new source of anxiety. She remembered easily enough how she had left the man in the tent in Maubûrz's camp, forcing him to drink the entire jug of that horrid nakhun ekran potion. A part of her worried what he might try to do if he came seeking revenge, but at the same time, another more quiet voice whispered she hoped he would try something—so he would be caught, punished, held accountable for his wicked deeds.

Narylfiel could not shake the feeling the rest of the afternoon with her dwarven friends that she was being watched. She stayed close to Dwalin, and let Bofur's easy smiles and conversation warm her.

Later that evening, the dwarves of Erebor held an elaborate feast to celebrate King Dain's memory in the great open feasting Hall of the King, an enormous chamber with soaring ceilings and proud columns. Bright jewel toned tapestries depicting the history of Durin's folk hung along the far wall, where tables groaned under the weight of many full bowls, silver and gold trays laden with fruit and entire roast boars. It was at once both a solemn and jolly affair all at once: at one end of the hall there were longbeards sitting soulfully and retelling stories of Dain in the Iron Mountains, and two tables down, dwarves and their families sat merrily drinking malt beer and eating red meat off the bone. It was a noisy and boisterous display of dwarven hospitality—tankards clinking, laughter booming.

And on the far end of the room, at the head table of the King of Erebor, Narylfiel sat amid the other honored guests: Thranduil, King Bard and his mother, a number of Dalish courtiers, and a fair supply of Dwarven lords including Dwalin and Bofur and Gloin and Dori.

"I feel like I am being watched," she murmured to Thranduil.

"You are being watched, very carefully so by my guards. Your safety is their paramount concern, Narylfiel."

"Is it because of Wilem?" Narylfiel turned her head enough to meet his eyes.

Thranduil almost choked on his wine. "It is for your safety," he told her quietly, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin to hide his grimace.

"You weren't going to tell me," she surmised.

"No, I was not." His voice held no remorse at being caught.

She cut her meat into tiny vicious pieces and then eyed him coolly. "Don't do it again." A whisper. Narylfiel folded her napkin and stood. She painted as bright a smile as she could muster on her face and left the kings at the table to their own devices. The dancing began with the trill of a merry sounding horn, followed by the deep strum of a large bowl shaped stringed instrument. Dwarves loved music and the playing of clever instruments almost as much as they took pride in the crafting of them.

Thranduil's eyes followed his wife down the through the crowded hall to the busy floor cleared for the first group dance. He watched her join the line with the other ladies, and then signaled for Elfir to approach the table.

"Anything?" Thranduil said, his voice only loud enough for elven hearing to discern.

"Alassien and I looked at the face of every man entering the mountain, my lord. You know what a keen eye he has. Wilem was not among the guests, your Grace."

"Disguised then?"

"Or not here. Maybe he used the distraction to slip away unnoticed."

"Perhaps." Thranduil was not in the business of clinging to false optimism.

Bard's voice on the other side of the table caught his attention. "I'm glad you're enjoying the wine, King Thorin. My steward brought out four barrels of the stuff as a token to honor the friendship of our two kingdoms."

Elfir's and Thranduil's eyes met over the word barrels. "I will go and check at once, your majesty."

Thranduil watched Elfir disappear into the shadows and then turned his attention once more to his dining companions, only to find the bald dwarf watching him with shrewd eyes. What was his name? Holwen? Follin? And then the dwarf stood abruptly and moved around the table. Stunned, Thranduil watched him draw near and then he actually had the audacity to pull out Narylfiel's empty chair from the table and sit down beside him.

"King Thranduil," he said and cleared his throat. "Dwalin, head of King Thorin's security."

"I am listening," the Elvenking told him quietly, his eyes drawn to the floor where Narylfiel danced through the paired lines.

The dwarf cleared his throat. "I know what you are doing."

Thranduil said nothing.

Dwalin continued. "Your queen...she's still afraid. What—what they did to her, it wasn't right."

Thranduil's eyes slid left to the dwarf. "I know."

"So what I'm saying is if your people can catch that piece of filth, do it. Make him pay for the grief he's caused her," Dwalin said under his breath. He stood abruptly and then stalked away from the table and into the crowd.

A moment later, Narylfiel returned, cheeks flushed to stand before him. "A couple's dance will start soon, my king. Will you join me?" She smiled at him sweetly.

Thranduil's fingers tightened around the arm of his chair as he felt the press of expectant eyes from the men and dwarves at the table. He knew her request was not so much about the desire to dance, but a tactic. She was still angry he had not told her about Wilem.

"I had not planned on dancing tonight, my lady," he told her firmly, his eyes dark.

Across the table, King Bard stood, tugged at his collar. "Would you grant me the honor then, my lady, of leading you in a dance?"

Every head turned toward the Elvenking and his queen.

Narylfiel's smile faltered. "Thank you, King Bard. I—"

"Will have to decline your generous offer," Thranduil finished for her, rising from his chair in a single elegant movement to draw her hand possessively into his own. He escorted her down the dais steps and firmly led her to where the other couples lingered, waiting for the music to begin.

'What are you doing?" She hissed as he stepped close to her, placed his hand on her hip.

"Clearly I'm going to dance with my beautiful wife," he whispered, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.

He felt a tendril of her desire curl against their bond. Thranduil grinned.

Narylfiel narrowed her eyes at him. "I am still mad at you," she insisted.

"Are you?" he drawled, pulling her into his arms as the first notes of the song strummed across the dance floor.

The music picked up, a blend of strings and pipes and harping and the thrum of a low bass drum, and Thranduil swept Narylfiel into the heart of the crowd.

"You wanted to dance?" His voice was pure velvet in her ear. "Then we'll dance." He pulled her hard against him in the first down beat, and with the next, spun her around.

"I didn't know Bard would do that," she said when he pulled her close again.

His hand slid up her side, and he leaned in toward her. "I mean to give him no doubt about who you came with..." he said, his