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Four hundred years ago...

Narylfiel dangled her shorter legs over the tree limb, high above the ground as she intently studied how Legolas easily balanced on the branch, his feet as sure and steady as if he stood on solid ground. Far below, Thaliniel rested comfortably against the trunk of the tree, occasionally laughing at the antics of her little sister and husband. Early in the morning, even before breakfast, Legolas brought them out to one of his favorite climbing trees, an enormous beech with branches easy within reach for shorter elfling arms. He had promised Narylfiel he would help teach her to listen to the Song of their forest, to listen to the trees. The suggestion naturally entranced Narylfiel, of course, who was eager to learn from her much admired brother-in-law.

"Do you hear it yet, Narylfiel?" he asked her, the early morning light touching the crown of his head like a benediction.

She angled her head, listening and then frowned a little. "No...maybe? Does it sound like branches sighing in the wind and birdsong?"

The corners of his mouth curved up as Legolas sat down beside her, took her hand in his larger one and pressed it against the tree's rough bark. "Close your eyes and listen," he instructed. "The Song of our woods is much like the Song of your father's vineyard, part of the music of Eru's creation, beautiful and wild and free. I can teach you to hear it."

Narylfiel squeezed her eyes shut and held perfectly still, straining to hear the music Legolas described. However she only heard branches rustling, birds chirping, squirrels chattering...

She popped one eye open and then the other and gave Legolas a long look. "I still can't hear it the way you describe." She gave a little sigh. "Maybe I'll never hear it."

"You will," Legolas assured her. "It just takes practice. I needed help when I first started listening too."

Narylfiel perked up a bit at his admission. She wasn't hopeless then. "Who taught you to hear the Song, Legolas?"

The prince smiled softly. "My father," he said. "As king, he listens all the time, is attune to its Song more than anyone, I imagine."

Legolas could not have spoken more persuasively. For if young Narylfiel appreciated and admired her brother-in-law, her feelings for King Thranduil were something akin to hero worship. Now even more determined, Narylfiel closed her eyes and pressed her hand to the bark.

"Relax a little," Legolas whispered to her. "Be observant. Listen..." And as Legolas' father did once for him, the prince used his fëa to amplify the song around them so she might hear.

Narylfiel gasped and pulled her hand away. "I heard something!" she cried. "I can't describe it...soaring notes like sunlight shining through green leaves and then deep notes like the richness of the soil and strong roots delving and weaving through the earth."

"You heard this tree's song," Legolas told her gently, "but that, Narylfiel, is only one voice in our Forest's song."

Her eyes widened. "That was only one part? What must it sound like to hear everything?" she exclaimed.

Legolas grinned. "You should really ask my father to show you."

Wonder lit Narylfiel's eyes. "Do you think he would?" Her voice rose in anticipation.

"I believe so," he told her kindly. His father's bonds as Elvenking truly tied Thranduil to the pulse of the Forest, more so than any other elf. Thranduil had shown Legolas what it meant to listen to the Song countless years ago, and the sheer magnitude of the Greenwood's Song as heard by the Elvenking overwhelmed and humbled him then. It still did.

Narylfiel weighed his words carefully, and part of her wanted to climb down the tree right then and run in search of Thranduil, to see if he could show her the entire forest's song as Legolas described. Still though, Legolas was here with her now, and she did not want to abandon him. He had been so very kind to take her out this morning and teach her the best way to climb this marvelous tree.

She tugged on his sleeve. She had caught him staring down at Thaliniel. Again. "Legolas," she asked. "Can you show me how to feel the tree's Song one more time?"

"Of course," he told her, turning his attention toward her. "Are you ready?"

Narylfiel nodded her head seriously. She was ready all right. She wanted to hear the Song like Legolas could, to climb to the top of the tallest trees and reach for the stars, to join the Forest Guard, and to have adventures like her sister. Her own Song thrummed shining and eager in her chest, and this time when Legolas helped her listen to the tree's Song, Narylfiel joined in its chorus. The morning was alive and bright and beautiful, and she was ready.

.  -  .  -  .

March 10th, 3019

A gloom lay over the elven camp. Long had the enemy's malice and treachery seeped through the foundations of Dol Guldur through rock and stone and into the very heart of the earth itself, blackening the land, poisoning all good green and growing things. Such is the nature of evil, of corruption and decay. The enemy's presence was a blight upon the Greenwood, sickening the soil and water, silencing the trees.

Thranduil listened. His was the gift of Song, it had always been thus—not to sing, but to listen and feel and know. Now only the marred Song remained, corrupted and discordant. It was the sound of decay and death, and hearing its petulant whine brought a bitter taste to the Elvenking's mouth.

He kept himself busy since the news of Narylfiel's disappearance; he did not want to be still. Thranduil needed occupation, craved activity. For if he stopped long enough to reflect, to wonder, he feared his worry for her might consume him. Thranduil knew his task, his duty, was here among his warriors, just as he believed Narylfiel would never want him to jeopardize the defense of their home on her account. Still, it stung, even more so if he allowed himself a moment's respite. So Thranduil worked tirelessly around the camp, reorganizing and lending aid wherever he might be of help, until a dark smudge to the East caught his attention. He called for one of the younger archers whose eyesight was keen even by elven standards to climb one of the trees for a better view.

The young archer dropped down a few minutes later before his king. His report only confirmed Thranduil's suspicion.

Fire.

A thick blanket of smoke covered the treetops on the eastern border. The edge of his wood burned unchecked, and his heart twisted painfully for those trees. Only...his mind reeled at an unthought-of possibility, a danger he had not yet considered.

"Summon Captain Beriadan," Thranduil ordered his nearest guard and then waved over several more elves, a mix of warriors, smiths, healers. "Spread through the camp," he told half of them. "I need you to find every barrel, every last cooking pot we have and load them onto the empty wagons. Take the wagons to the stream, fill them all with water, even the wagons themselves, if they can hold it." To the other half, he said, "And I want you to gather up the extra tent linens or any spare blankets you can lay your hands upon."

When Beriadan arrived moments later, he found his Elvenking overseeing an odd stockpile of sheets, blankets, tent canvas, and even cloaks.

"Your majesty?" he asked curiously.

Thranduil turned, his blue eyes glittering in the gloom and shade. "Fire to the East, Beriadan, and our enemy sets his will against us from the South."

Beriadan's eyes drifted toward the dark line smudging the eastern edge of the forest. "King Thranduil, we cannot fight a forest fire and a battle at the same time and possibly hope to win," his captain countered slowly.

"We must try," Thranduil said. "Our enemy may attempt to burn us out or cut us off somehow, and if we can slow the spread of any possible fire, we must try. I would not have us win the battle, only to lose our homeland."

"Nor would I," agreed Beridan. "We could fetch enough water from the stream to douse all of these and the camp itself." He sighed, his eyes drifting to the growing pile of blankets. "You're thinking we could use the damp blankets to beat out spreading flames?"

Thranduil inclined his head, gave his captain a knowing look. "I already sent the first wagons to the stream," he told him. "If the worst happens, we will be ready."

.  -  .  -  .

Narylfiel dodged through the smoke of camp where the fires on the eastern edge still burned. Her eyes stung, and her head felt light, dizzy, and how much of the fatigue and irritation was from the smoke or the after effects of the nakhum ekran in her system, she could not be sure. Narylfiel only knew that if she did not push herself to keep going, she might collapse into a heap and not get up again. Her eyes scanned every man, every tent door opening for any sign of Wilem. She could hardly stop and ask for directions.

Eager to avoid several warriors heading her way, Narylfiel turned on her heel, and went down another line of tents. Despite the smoke and not to mention, the stench of a thousand unwashed men, she hoped she might catch the strong scent of the nakhum ekran. Wilem had just made it, and she could remember vividly its cloying, perfumed smell. Wherever Wilem was, he would have Melui nearby surely.

A cross breeze temporarily whipped the pennants on the tents toward the south, and suddenly, Narylfiel caught the barest trace of Wilem's horrid potion, a fragrance of overly sweet flowers and a strong herb she could not quite place. Carefully looking over her shoulder in what she hoped was a fairly inconspicuous glance, Narylfiel changed her direction toward the South, following the perfumed trail of the nakhum ekran, which steadily grew more and more potent with every step she took, until the overpowering stench drifting down the aisle between the tents was almost enough to make her gag.

At the end of the row, Narylfiel paused long enough to glance into the tents she passed by until she reached the tent on the far right, which had its door flap closed. Narylfiel listened, and when she heard the tell-tale clink of glass and metal, she peered through the gap between the fabric of the door flaps. With a pang, Narylfiel could not see Melui, at least as far she could discern through the tiny sliver. However, Naryfliel was quite sure this was Wilem's tent, for she easily noted some sort of field table covered with bottles and packets of leaves. Then to her great satisfaction, the man in question, Wilem, came into view, and she waited for him to turn his back to the door before she slipped through the door flaps, soundlessly pulling Bôr's knife from its sheath. With speed and precision gained from years of knife work at the hands of a most unforgiving master, Narylfiel attacked silently from behind, without warning or reprieve in one continuous, almost instinctual movement, only stopping when she had subdued him and Bôr's blade pressed into the soft vulnerable skin under his chin.

Don't make a sound," she warned him, digging in the tip of her blade just enough to elicit a strangled gurgle from him.

His eyes, bright with fear, regarded her in equal parts terror and surprise.

"Where is Melui?" she hissed in his ear, punctuating her words with a none too gentle shake.

Wilem swallowed thickly. His throat moved uncomfortably against Bôr's blade. "She escaped. I came back after giving you the medicine, and she had disappeared."

"Did you give her nakhum ekran?" Narylfiel twisted the knife point enough to elicit a bright red bead from his skin.

Wilem shook his head. "No. I—I like Melui. I wanted her to see me as helping her." A solitary tear swam in the corner of his nearest eye.

"You're delusional," scoffed Narylfiel in a low voice dripping with disdain. "You kidnapped her queen and took her prisoner. You killed Dorwil, someone she actually admired. She's not going to be thanking you any time soon."

"You will do exactly as I say," she told him, digging the fingers of her free hand into his shoulder. "If you try to call for help, I will kill you. If you move even the slightest little bit without my consent, I will kill you. It would take seconds and would be my pleasure."

Wilem nodded shakily, and Narylfiel kept the blade close to his throat. With her other hand, she disarmed him, noting with satisfaction he still possessed her prized knife. She tucked its scabbard into her new belt, courtesy of Bôr.

"Now," she said, slowly angling him toward his work table lined with bottles and ingredients, "you drink." She picked up a full vial of nakhum ekran with her free hand and swirled its contents.

Wilem sucked in his breath. "Please, no. You don't understand! I'll lose control completely."

"Don't I?" Narylfiel whispered incredulously, angling the blade into his skin. "I understand more than you possibly realize."

Wilem whimpered. "These men, the soldiers. They'll hurt me!"

"I'm told nakhum ekran is very peaceful," Narylfiel countered drily. "Drink up. My patience wears thin."

Hands trembling, Wilem took the vial and drained it slowly until the last drop disappeared, under her narrowed stare, He looked at her regretfully, his mouth pursed.

"You will stay here. You will remain quiet," Narylfiel told him. "I doubt very much you want to draw attention to yourself...in this state.

She watched him slump toward his narrow cot and fall upon it. Wilem's face had become very pale and drawn. He curled up and his hand drifted to his throat. "It...burns," he said, as if the fact surprised him. "I—I feel hot." He scrubbed his face with both hands as he stared up at her in wonder and dismay.

Narylfiel lingered at the door for just a second. "I am sure your new master will help ease your suffering," she told him, repeating his earlier cruel words to her. He deserved to die, Narylfiel thought bitterly and perhaps Thranduil would have killed him right away, but the thought of Wilem wallowing in the misery of his own making was justice enough. Without a second glance or the slightest feeling of regret or sympathy, she left him there miserable and trembling, already overcome by the swift effects of the potion he ingested. She headed toward the eastern edge of the camp near the forest, where pillars of smoke billowed against the height of the trees and the shouts of men strove against the hot lash of fire, where wind whipped embers from dying tents, and so the flames spread hungrily across the Easterner camp.

Amidst the confusion and chaos, Narylfiel blended into the steady stream of soldiers heading to help fight the spreading fires with water-soaked blankets. When the smoke deepened to near blinding thickness, she cut through the lines of bleary eyed men and headed for the trees, quite unaware her sudden departure had not gone unnoticed. Her arm throbbed and her head pounded, her eyes smarted from the blowing ash and cinder, and the sheer heat from the spreading fires made her dizzy.

Narylfiel stumbled against the uneven ground and caught herself against the nearest tree. She gasped for air, unable to catch her breath. Leaning against the trunk for support, she pulled off Bôr's helmet and cast it aside. Her long hair, now freed, caught in the wind and blew across her face, into her eyes. It was just for a moment, but it was enough. Before she could push it aside a strong hand grasped her arm, yanked her sharply down to the ground.

"My Azirakul," the voice challenged her. "You've lost your way."

Maubûrz. Narylfiel looked up at him through narrowed eyes, and fear washed over her as she struggled to her feet, breathing hard, reached for her knife.

Maubûrz was too quick for her. He caught both her hands in his, pushed her to the ground, held her there. "You should not be here. You will get hurt," he told her, his weight heavy against as he pushed her down, "and I have far better uses planned for you."

"I hope your pitiful camp burns to the ground," Narylfiel told him. Summoning what remained of her strength, she leveraged the power in her legs against his hold on her to break free from his grasp, snatching her hands away and scrambling to her feet.

But Maubûrz was on her in seconds, catching her hair in both hands, his brute strength ripping her backwards as he backhanded her across the mouth and knocked her to the ground. His thick powerful fingers dug into her shoulders, pushing her down while one hand gripped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I am going to enjoy our time together immensely," he promised her, wiping the thin line of blood from her lips. "I look forward to telling your Elvenking," and he whispered several lewd suggestions into her ear, "when I see him, before I kill him. Before I burn your forest down to the last ragged stump." He leaned in, trailed his finger from the long column of her neck down to her Bôrrowed tunic and stopped curiously as his eyes took in the cut and color of the tunic, the light padded armor she wore.

"This looks famil—" Maubûrz never finished his sentence.

One second he leered over her, and in the next, a strong broad arm seized him by the neck and flung him against a fallen tree trunk.

Dwalin's gruff face loomed over her. "You need to get up," he said, grasping Narylfiel's hand in his strong one and pulling her to her feet. "Go!"

Then Melui and Bofur were at her side, taking her arms, shouldering her weight, pushing her into a sprint, one foot in front of the other until the forest and the smoke faded into a dark, unforgiving haze.

.  -  .  -  .

Author's Note: Please Comment, Vote, and Follow! Kingsfoil has passed 80k views!! Hurray!! Celebrate!🎉

Thranduil: Ain't no party like a Mirkwood Party #Invite #BringWine

Legolas: That Awkward Moment when your dad tries to wear sequins #Again #FacePalm

All right, all right! Please let me know what you thought about the chapter. Was Narylfiel too harsh on Wilem by making him drink his own potion?

And

Where should Narylfiel go next? To seek protection from Thranduil? To return to the safety of the palace? Or head to Dale with the dwarves?

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