Two hundred and fifty years ago...

Thranduil knocked the sword out of her hand. Again.

Narylfiel huffed as she leaned down to pick it back up and dusted off the dirt. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

He smirked a little. "I always enjoy our special times together," he said and laughed. "Remember, it was your idea to come down here in the first place!"

She rubbed her backside where she had fallen on it. Again. Smiling, she shook her head and then swung her sword lazily in her hand. "Best out of seven?" she quipped.

Thranduil held up his hand, as if to pause their game. "Show me the grip again," he instructed her. She came over to him and aligned her hands over the hilt of her sword, just how he had shown her earlier.

"That is a good start," he coached her, "but I noticed on your follow-through that your hands were sliding."

Narylfiel's eyes narrowed in frustration. "Ugh!" she exclaimed. "If only I had gigantic hands like yours." She tried the grip again and showed Thranduil.

"Better," he said with a nod and then grinned slyly. "And Narylfiel, if you had huge hands, then that would be a little off-putting to any future suitors."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. All those future suitors lining up at my door," she retorted.

Thranduil shook his head. "You are adorable," he told her, "even if you do have a sloppy grip." He leaned in, whispered conspiratorially, "I hear some elves in the guard could even learn to look past that sort of thing." Thranduil turned and reached for the pitcher of water.

"Well, there's only one possible elf that I would consider courting," she told him frankly.

Thranduil straightened, glanced at her from over his shoulder. "Oh? Who?" he asked.

"Trust me when I say that he is not interested," Narylfiel said glumly. She sheathed her sword and took the offered cup from the king's hand.

"Hmm, secretive," Thranduil observed. "Just tell me his name, and I would throw him in the dungeons for you." He winked at her, and then offered his arm to return back to the palace from the range.

Narylfiel could only smile wryly. "Perhaps one of these days I will let you know," she said.
. . . . . . . . .
November, 3018:

From possibly the most uncomfortable man-made seat, a too-small rocking chair with spindles carved at just the right pitch and angle to dig into his back, the elven king of the Woodland Realm watched his young charge sleep fitfully all night. Perhaps he could have summoned the servants who ran the household for a cushion or a more comfortable seat, but Thranduil did not budge from his post. He was far too deep in thought.

His mind drifted to all the times over the past year that she had come to him, popping into his study with a charming smile or story to tell or meeting him at the range to practice, of all the hours they had sat and visited over tea. Narylfiel made him laugh. She always found a way to lighten his mood. He thought of all the occasions when he had teased her about having a suitor. She had always hinted that there was one who held her fancy, but she had never named any elf. Thranduil now knew the source of her reticence-for surely she had meant him! He massaged his temples, and exasperatedly noted that he had caught himself staring at her again. He tried to focus on all the possible times that he should have realized how Narylfiel felt for him, but instead his mind kept going back to how she had clung to him in the dream, how her body had felt against his.

He couldn't lie to himself. There was a part of him, and he was not sure how much, but a part of him that was more than a little intrigued by the promise of Narylfiel's dream. He had felt cold and distant, disconnected, for so long-and as for last night? That dream, however brief, had ignited something in him that he had long thought dead. He had wanted her in that dream, and truth be told; he still wanted her right now.

Outside, the sun crept up over the distant foothills. Thranduil half-watched as the early light touched the windows and inched across the room, until the warm beams fell across the length of the bed. He could not deny how he had felt when Narylfiel had kissed him, pulled him into her, enveloped him in her warmth, her hands on his chest-nothing about it had even been real-but it had felt real. His bond with her, the one he had clamped down on, but not broken off, certainly felt more real than anything Thranduil had experienced in a long time.

He rubbed his chest and sighed. How could he even think that? She was Thaliniel's little sister.

She was young and beautiful. He wasn't blind. Of course he knew how beautiful she was, had seen it for years. Her long shining brown hair and lively eyes, always sparkling, always seeing the fun in a situation, her long, long legs, slim waist, and curves that even her guard's uniform couldn't hide. Thranduil loved beautiful things, prized beauty in his halls, but she was no gem to be hidden away in his vaults. Even if Narylfiel chose to remain naively unaware, Thranduil knew for a fact that she was not without admirers, those who would eagerly line up to court her, bed her. And thankfully, she had always spurned every advance. Now he knew why.

He contemplated how he might have felt if she had returned their attentions, if Narylfiel had attended a fire circle and a young, eager ellon pulled her into the woods, his hands going for her waist... No, Thranduil realized with the perfect clarity of one who has slept little in the past two nights, that he would not have welcomed the idea. Narylfiel was his little spark, always had been, and he naturally felt protective. But ah, was that protectiveness really just a nice veneer for his possessive nature? He did not like to share.

Thranduil huffed and stood up. He drew a worried glance at Narylfiel who had yet to wake; her pulse was low and her skin was still too cool to the touch for his peace of mind. He removed the soiled dressing, stained oily black from the seeping poison and replaced it with a clean bandage. She was not healing as quickly as he would like, and he had seen many poison-related wounds over the years. The orcs were either getting better at their craft or had somehow found a better source; they usually employed a mixture of spider venom, but this poison was the most resistant he had seen in a long time.

If only he had completed the bond-healing last night, Thranduil despaired. But now was no time for recriminations! He feared now that the bond-healing might not be enough. Narylfiel needed medicine; if he were back at the palace, he would prescribe a suspension of agar salque, for it fortified the blood, but the herb was rare, and he doubted that he would be able to find it here in Dale.

He absently brushed his hand over her hair. She would rest better and more comfortably in clean clothes. The elven king noted with disgust her stained and rent tunic. Why had he not insisted that she be changed last night? Thranduil took a minute to straighten his own clothing and smoothed his hair and then thundered downstairs to the kitchen where he was sure to find the old man and woman.

They were there, sitting together at a tiny green glazed table with a pot of tea. They stopped whispering when he came into the room. Of course, they were talking about him. With his elven hearing, he could not help but catch snatches of their conversation even from upstairs, things like "so tall, nearly touching the ceiling" and "never seen him before" and "noble looking, maybe an emissary for their king, sent to check up on us;" he was too polite to eavesdrop and had tried to ignore most of it.

The little old man, stoop shouldered and squat, hopped up as soon as he saw him. "My lord, what do you need?" he asked eagerly.

"My companion seems to rest comfortably for now. She will need a change of clothes," he said and fixed his gaze at Mara, the wife. "Will you attend her?"

Mara nodded approvingly. "I was thinking about that since last night. Poor thing!" she tsked and made her way up the stairs.

The elf turned his gaze to the man next, who, to his credit, did not shrink from the intensity of his dark blue gaze. "I require an apothecary-she needs medicine," Thranduil informed the old man.

"I-I-I would be happy to fetch whatever you need, my lord," Jorid said, and he reached for his muffler hung by the back door.

Thranduil's eyes flicked over his short legs, unsteady feet. He glanced out the small window, mostly obscured by lethal looking icicles dangling from the eaves.

"I can go more quickly," Thranduil decided. He certainly could not send this old fellow out across icy streets; he might break a hip or something. Humans, so frail in their elder years! The elven king rushed from the room to grab his cloak, not that he feared the weather but mostly to conceal his hair and ears. The old man gave him some directions, and Thranduil bade him to keep the fire hot in Narylfiel's room while he left. He worried about leaving her, if only for a little while. Even if he had limited his bond with her-and with great difficulty, too!-he still felt the tug of his connection to her, urging him to return upstairs, to her bedside with his hand in hers, her warmth, her love. Quick to squash that line of thinking, Thranduil yanked on his cloak and hurried out the door, raising the hood at the first bite of cold air snapping across his cheek.

Thranduil found the apothecary's shop squeezed into a small corner on the lower streets where most of the guilds and craftsmen plied their wares. A sign with 'Wychelm's Herborium' in fading paint with the remnants of fading leaves and vines swung over the door. He ignored most of the looks he drew as he crossed the street; even with his hood drawn, he was still taller than most men, and more than a few people angled their heads to get a closer look.

The door slammed shut with a merry jingle behind him, and a sickly sweet cloying smell assailed him, making Thranduil's eyes water and his temper short. He would have completely abandoned the idea had he not needed medicine for Narylfiel. A tremor ran through him at the thought of her; he knew it was the bond and the newness of it, and being parted from her, even temporarily, pained him. The sooner he could get her the medicine she needed and finish healing her, the better, Thranduil decided.

"What can I do for you today, my good sir?" a voice chirped behind him, and the Elven King startled, turning around so quickly that he frightened the apothecary, who knocked off his own tasseled cap in his excitement.

"Goodness me, young fellow!" the apothecary exclaimed in a rather pinched voice as reached for his cap and replaced it snugly on his balding head. "Don't be so hasty!" He was middle-aged, Thranduil guessed. He never fancied himself a good judge of age when it came to the lives of men, but something about the apothecary's tone just set him on edge.

The elven king pulled back his hood, slowly, letting it drop down. His blonde hair shone even more golden in the meager lamp light of the shop, and Thranduil narrowed his eyes at the man before him.

"I have been called many things," Thranduil replied slowly, his voice deep and melodic, as he took a measured step toward the man, "but young fellow-I have not heard that in many ages."

"We d-d-don't get many elves this way," the man stammered, looking up. "What do you need today?"

The name of the herb was just on the tip of Thranduil's tongue when he unexpectedly felt a deep chill, as if ice had seeped into his very bones, and he could not help but shudder. It was the bond, he realized-and right now Narylfiel suffered; perhaps her fever had worsened. Thranduil grimaced and pressed his hand over his heart, as if that gesture would somehow ease the unbearable, a slow creep of frost through his veins. He needed to hurry. He needed to get back to her. Now.

"Are you ill?" The apothecary tried to sound concerned.

"No," Thranduil replied brusquely, "I need agar salque-" he thought for a minute and shook his head, "-It would be called blood grass in your tongue." He tried to ignore the feeling of dread stealing over him.

"Blood grass? I don't have any," said the apothecary, a little too quickly for Thranduil's comfort.

The elven king nodded but drew out several gold coins from his pocket and turned them over in his palm for the man to see. "You would earn the gratitude of the elves of the Woodland Realm."

The man looked away, and Thranduil sensed his discomfort. "I don't have any," he repeated. "Blood grass only grows during the vernal equinox! I collected all I could, but I sold it. Just sold the last of it a few weeks ago."

The elf's eyes sharpened as he scanned the myriad shelves lining the walls, full of countless ointments, medicines, potions, herbal remedies. Thranduil angled his head and studied the man for a few seconds, who shifted uneasily under the intensity of that icy elven gaze. "I sense that you are not being entirely honest with me," the elf's eyes darted to the hanging sign, "Wychelm. I could look through every single bottle in this store, check every collection just to make sure you're being honest; of course, things might get frightfully messy before I finished."

Wychelm glared up at him. "You wouldn't!"

"I would, and I could get away with it before you could stop me," Thranduil told him, his voice still easy and warm. "To whom did you sell the blood grass? Perhaps they would be willing to sell some of their share or make a trade."

"I don't know who the buyer was! They were cloaked!" the apothecary sputtered, his eyes growing wide as Thranduil returned the coins to his pocket and pulled out a long, elegant looking knife instead.

"Do you often make a habit of selling to customers with secret identities?" Thranduil asked incredulously as he traced his fingers over the runes engraved on the blade. "What else did they buy?

"Just the blood grass!" Wychelm said, his voice ending in a terrified squeal as Thranduil caught his arm and shoved the man into the back wall. The bottles and jars rattled on the shelves, and the elven king was upon him with inhuman speed, his knife poised at the man's throat.

"You are lying," Thranduil coolly informed him. "Why?" Underneath his poised exterior, the elf felt ansty, impatient to leave. Narylfiel needed him. He tightened his grip on Wychelm's upper arms.

"He told me to say nothing!" The man sniffed pitifully, his eyes filling with panicked tears. "He paid me double and told me he would be back!"

"I am here right now," Thranduil countered, eyes gleaming, "with a knife at your throat, and you're worried about later?" He smiled mirthlessly.

"Mandrake!" the man cried. "I sold him the blood grass and my entire supply of mandrake!"

Thranduil stilled and then released his grip on the man. "Mandrake?"

"Yes, most people usually want it as a fertility aid! So I sell it!"

Thranduil backed away, sheathed his knife with a metal hiss. "But it's also a poison...in the right doses or mixed with other ingredients could be used as a lethal poison." He pressed his hand to chest again, feeling the strain of his bond with Narylfiel as he recalled the oily, dark substance oozing from her wound.

The apothecary adjusted his hat with a sniff. "What they do with their mandrake afterwards is not my concern."

"It is your concern now," Thranduil informed him matter-of-factly. "If my companion dies, I just might come back and kill you. Tell me then, who else have you sold blood grass to in the past year?"

"The dwarves! I know I sold some to them. Their main healer came in. They were having a problem- some of their young warriors were sick. He paid in gold!" squeaked the man.

Thranduil nodded just once and then left the shop without a further word, the door with its bells jingling behind him. The sharp cold air and tang of wood smoke cleared his thoughts, and he pulled his hood back over his head. The dwarves. If only it were anyone, anybody else. He crossed the street, but his eyes were drawn to Erebor as he hurried back to his house on high street. As he finally turned the last corner, he saw the old man at the front door, looking for someone- looking for him!

"My lord, she is awake and asking for you. My wife is with her now- we think she's feverish-started right after you left." He held open the door for his employer, and Thranduil did not waste anytime getting to Narylfiel's side.

She was awake but hardly coherent. Her face brightened when he entered the room, discarded his cloak on the chair and took up her hand in his.

"Thranduil," she murmured. "I'm cold, so cold."

The elven king checked her dressing, and then pressed his hand to her forehead. Not feverish, but her body temperature had dropped. The poison was still fighting against her system, slowing her heart beat.

"She's been crying for you since she woke up," the little old woman told him, rising from the stool she had pulled up by the bedside. "We built up the fire and added another blanket, but her skin feels like she fell through ice into the Long Lake. It's like she's going into shock."

Thranduil nodded, not taking his eyes off of the elleth in his care. He tucked the blanket more carefully around her, and Narylfiel's eyes fluttered and closed and then opened again.

"Thranduil, I am sorry," she whispered. "Sorry to cause you all this trouble..."

"What? No, naurenniel," he chided her softly, smoothing her hair back. "It is no trouble, and I am here with you."

"It's just that it hurts," she mumbled. "So cold."

"Get into bed with her," suggested the old lady.

"What?" said Thranduil. He had forgotten she was still in the room with him.

"Get in bed with her," instructed Mara, all seriousness. "When my Thomas fell through the ice when he was just a boy, the healers had me strip down to my underclothes and hold him under the blankets- warmth- body heat."

"Couldn't you...?" Thranduil's voice trailed off and he gestured to the bed.

"No," she answered flatly. "I'm just skin and bones- couldn't keep myself warm enough- but you," she eyed him speculatively. "Well, just look at you! You probably heat up enough for three beds!"

Thranduil nodded, still unsure. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, removed his jerkin. The old lady still stood there, hands on her hips, as if waiting. He stared back at her. He wasn't just going to strip down with her there, staring at him.

Narylfiel moaned in her sleep. Thranduil reached for her, brushed his finger down her cheek. She was so cold, like death. He refused to entertain the possibility.

"Are you worried for her virtue, my lord?" Mara asked, eyes softening.

Thranduil cast a glance at the elleth behind him, her soft brown hair fanning across the pillow, her lips, slightly parted. "I'm more worried for mine than hers," he said under his breath.

He looked back at the old lady, still watching. "I will call for you if I need anything," he informed her and then without waiting any more, he pulled off his tunic in one fluid movement, baring broad shoulders and arms, chiseled from years of sword work and archery. Even as king, his was a warrior's body, toned and deadly.

The old lady turned to leave, a rosy hue on her leathery cheeks. "You'll do," she told him approvingly, "you'll do."

Thranduil slid into the covers, hesitated, and then