November 2950, Third Age:

Thaliniel was not speaking to the king. Again. Her avoidance was not overt, nor was it disrespectful, but Thranduil was extremely observant. Narylfiel was sure he noticed, despite her best attempts to cover for her sister.

The unfortunate stand-off began over Thranduil sending Legolas to lead a scouting team with the southern guard along the old elven road leading to Dol Guldur. The old fortress had been relatively clear since the days following the Battle of Five Armies, but recently the western outpost of guards caught sight of orc tracks leading south of the elven road.

Then two of the king's best trackers and scouts had disappeared.

Thranduil sent Legolas to find them or discover their fate, and Thaliniel had been quietly furious over the decision ever since. Narylfiel had the unfortunate luck to fall asleep on the hearth behind the ottoman in the common sitting room, and woke up to the sound of heated whispers. She hated to eavesdrop, but it was far too awkward to reveal herself after hearing the first couple of whispers.

"I won't let my father send another in my place, just because the mission is dangerous," Legolas insisted, his voice pained.

"It's not dangerous, Legolas," Thaliniel fired back. "That fortress is a death trap. Your father, the king, is sending you to your death."

A pause.

"Would you have him send another elf in my place, knowing he might die?" Legolas' voice sounded indignant, disbelieving.

Another pause and the sound of muffled tears. Her sister was crying.

"Yes," she said, her voice breaking over the single word.

"Come here," said the prince. "I promise you, Thaliniel. I promise you I'll be right back. I promise." And then there was no more talking for a long time, and Narylfiel sank even lower behind that ottoman.

But Legolas had not kept his promise. He had not returned, and three of the guards sent with him had been found dead, slaughtered.

The only comfort in the days that followed was that the prince's body had not been found. Thaliniel clung to the hope her prince still lived, and Thranduil thundered through his palace like a dark avenging storm cloud.

A week passed of unbearable tension in the royal wing of the palace—still no Legolas, no word, no trace of him. Dinners were a soundless cycle of torture, in which none of the three elves present at the table—not Thaliniel, not Narylfiel, and not the king—not a one of them probably tasted their food or could even say what had been served.

On the eighth night of stony silence, Narylfiel watched Thranduil sip his wine and methodically not eat his dinner. His eyes seemed haunted to her, shadowed by a wall of unspoken emotion. When Galion rushed into the room and whispered to his king's ear, Thranduil's eyes flew to Thaliniel.

She stood, napkin in hand. "What is it?"

"Legolas," Thranduil answered. "He's returned, alive—but wounded...grievously wounded."

Then all three of them left their plates untouched and rushed down to the healing wing of the king's halls.

Narylfiel walked down with her sister, hand in hand for support, while the king hurried ahead. She wished later that she would have hung back from entering the healer's room with Thaliniel, that she might have been spared the sight she encountered there.

For on the tabletop, slick with his own blood, so much blood, Prince Legolas lay grey and unmoving, his eyes glassy with pain as the healers worked frantically to close a vicious gash curving across his back to his ribs. The remains of an orcish arrow shaft protruded from his left shoulder. Thranduil was there already, a calming hand on his son's uninjured shoulder.

"I am sorry," the king said at that moment, and Narylfiel could never be sure if those words were meant for Legolas or for Thaliniel, but the undeniable pain in his voice made his intention real enough. He felt guilty. The room was steeped in the raw ugliness of it, a price too high, paid in blood in the name of serving the king.

Legolas lived, of course, and later Narylfiel learned that he had found and rescued the two missing guards. He had taken what should have been a mortal blow to the back from an orc during their escape. It was nothing short of a miracle from the Valar that he was even still alive by the time the guards reached the palace with his body.

When the sutures had been completed, the arrow head cut free from his shoulder and the wound bandaged, and the prince at last rested quietly, Narylfiel left her sister's side, so she might have some quiet time alone with her husband. Thranduil was slower to leave, and Narylfiel wondered if anything was said between the two after she left.

The next morning at breakfast, her sister and the king quietly spoke to each other when Narylfiel arrived at the table. They were on speaking terms once again, and even once Legolas healed and recovered his strength, he did not go any more life-threatening missions for a very long time.

- . - . -

Ash still drifted from the the burnt roofs of Dale, stirred and whirled on warm eastern breezes past the dark tops of the trees in the Woodland Realm. Blue-black feathers stretched and carved through the air in firm, decisive strokes up though sunlight pierced clouds—a raven soared west from Erebor to the high domed rock above the Elvenking's halls. Long had the elves listened to the comings and goings of bird-kind, heard their music, and learned to understand their song.

This particular raven lowered his wings, felt the air slip beneath him, and dove down toward the lookout flet hidden high in the treetops, where sentries held watch over the Hall of the Elvenking. The sleek black bird landed upon the carved rail of the overlook and preened his feathers before fixing his large golden eyes upon the guard elf, who was in turn, watching him and waiting. This was no ordinary raven—this was a raven of Erebor, and that could only mean one thing.

The dwarves had a message for the Elvenking.

Thranduil received the news alone in his study. He sat at his desk for a long time afterward, his mind thoughtful to the news he received, but also because Galadhor informed him that the Queen received a letter as well.

It was simple really.

Except it wasn't.

Thranduil's message had consisted of two important details. The letter from Erebor disclosed the details and outcome of the Battle of Dale. Both kings fell during the battle—King Brand and King Dain. Although Thranduil had never been what anyone could call overly attached to King Dain, he could not help but feel some amount of pity for his son, that insufferable Prince Thorin; the Elvenking knew too well the crushing weight of losing one's father and being expected to run a kingdom in the aftermath of war.

The second important detail, scribbled in last second as a footnote, drew Thranduil's attention even more. The newly crowned King Thorin mentioned that several refugees from Dale reported seeing Wilem, or a man similar in features to Wilem. The dwarf king assured him that his own guards were investigating.

Thranduil did not doubt their desire to capture Wilem, for their own prince, now king, had suffered at his hands. Wilem's poison nearly killed Thorin. Even so, Thranduil rather doubted their ability to catch him. And if they did manage to capture Wilem, the man would be brought to Erebor for judgment. Thranduil picked up the glass beside him and watched the red liquid swirl at the bottom. Narylfiel would probably tell him to leave the matter to the dwarves.

Narylfiel. And the thought of her brought up the other problem—Thranduil was surprised she had not come to him already, for he was sure that her missives had included an invitation to Erebor to pay her respects to the fallen kings. He knew her well enough to know she would want to go.

Thranduil took another sip of his wine and thoughtfully eyed the door. It was only a matter of time.

- . - . -

The Queen of the Woodland Realm was not in her quarters when Galion came down the hall to deliver her letter from Erebor. She and her lady-in-waiting, guard, and closest friend, Melui, had descended down to the healer's suites. The morning had started slowly enough. Narylfiel had woken up alone in bed, the king long gone and attending to all sorts of matters of state, She stretched and pulled the blankets up over her shoulder. She felt exhausted, and she was not sure how much of that was due to the baby or the fact that Thranduil had kept her up late last night. Either way, both were good problems to have, and she would gladly accept feeling a little worn down. At least she had no appointments to keep or pressing duties to attend. As much as she would have liked to have Thranduil beside her, she knew how busy his daily affairs kept him. He had left their bed before day break.

After dozing for perhaps another lazy half hour, Narylfiel finally pried herself away from bed, donned her dressing gown, and went to the door. Melui stood guard and frowned a bit as she took in the sight of her disheveled friend.

"Do you require something, my lady?" she asked.

"Only for you to come in, Melui," Narylfiel answered. "Don't worry. Thranduil's not here."

"Why didn't you use the bell to summon me?" she asked, stepping inside the king's suite.

"It feels weird," Narylfiel said, "and I wasn't sure who would be on duty." She made a face. "I didn't want Elfir charging in here. Can you imagine?"

"Elfir's post is with the king today," Melui said, eyeing her friend. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," her queen admitted, "but better now that Thranduil has returned safely, in one piece."

To her credit, Melui did not grin at the unspoken reason for the queen being so tired but only thoughtfully nodded.

"The king requested I escort you to the healer's today," Melui said. "Just for a check up with Huredhiel." She did not mention how Thranduil told her to drag Narylfiel down there if necessary, and she did not mention the way the king's eyes softened when he spoke of his wife and child.

So it was that Melui accompanied her lovely young queen down to see Huredhiel. The healer in question however was not in the room where she kept appointments, so Narylfiel, with a cunning look in her eye, proposed that she and Melui take a turn down the hall of patients' rooms to look for her. Of course, it did not take the queen very long at all to stop at a particular room and poke her head through the door in delight.

"Dorwil!" she exclaimed. "You look stronger every day."

"My queen," he said, his smile stretching across his face at the sight of her. "Have you brought me another book to read?"

"Something even better," Narylfiel assured him. "Melui, come see who is in this room."

"Melui?" said Dorwil, and he smoothed the hair down around his shoulders. "Is she with you today and not Elfir?"

Moments later, Melui joined Narylfiel in the doorway. "Oh," she said. "Dorwil. Looks like that head of yours is still attached to your shoulders."

Dorwil swallowed and lowered his eyes. "Please, come in," he said.

"We shouldn't. The queen has an appointment to keep—"

Narylfiel cut her off. "We would love to, and I'm sure Huredhiel is quite busy."

She swept in and took the bench by the door, leaving only the bedside chair for Melui. Her guard hesitated and then took the seat by Dorwil, and her eyes lingered on the thick white bandage running across his collarbone to the corner of his jaw.

"Does it hurt much?" she asked him quietly.

"No," he told her and grimaced, "only when I breathe or move or talk."

"I thought you were dead," Melui said. "I saw your body, only for a second before Wilem attacked, and there was so much blood. And he told us he killed you. I believed you died."

Dorwil attempted a shrug and then grimaced again. "Not dead, Melui."

"You are an idiot," she said, but her eyes glistened brightly. "Can't even have the good sense to die the right way...but I'm glad you're not dead."

He smiled then and moved his hand from the coverlet closer to her. "I'm glad you're not dead either."

Narylfiel quietly slipped out the door shortly after Melui picked up Dorwil's hand and held it in her own. Huredhiel had returned to her office, and Narylfiel paused at the door before the healer welcomed her in.

"Welcome, my queen," Huredhiel greeted her. "Please, come have a seat." She looked behind Narylfiel as if expecting to see a guard in tow.

"Melui is with Dorwil," Narylfiel explained.

"Oh, is she now?" the healer asked, a twinkle in her eye. "I must say, Dorwil has mentioned her once or twice."

"She may not realize it yet, but he holds her in high regard," Narylfiel told her.

Huredhiel smiled then. "Oh, don't think I haven't heard of your other match-making endeavors, young lady."

"I do think they would make a charming couple," Narylfiel confided. "They just need a little push."

"Speaking of charming couples, how are you feeling now that the king has returned?"

Narylfiel colored prettily. "Much restored," she assured the healer.

"I am glad to hear it," the healer said, taking the queen's arm and carefully removing the bandage there, "and how is your arm healing?"

"Slowly," said Narylfiel, dismayed at the sight of the shiny raw stretch of skin above her wrist.

The healer reached for a jar of salve, and reapplied some to the burn. "Your normal healing ability has been slow to return, my queen. You must be careful to keep the bandages changed and the salve applied if you want to prevent scarring. The king would be appalled."

Narylfiel winced. "It is horrid looking," she said, turning her arm over to look at it again. "I've been keeping it covered. He hasn't seen it since the night I escaped from Mauburz."

"Oh, Narylfiel, I misspoke." Huredhiel said and took the queen's hand in her own, hoping to assuage her fears. "I did not mean that the king would be upset by the scar being ugly. I meant that he will blame himself for it. He will not easily forgive himself for allowing you to come to harm."

The young queen nodded then, her eyes drifting down to the white bandage on her arm. "It is hideous though, and I know how much he prizes beautiful things, Huredhiel."

"My lady, keep applying the salve, and your burn will fade in time," the healer said, meeting the queen's gaze. "And do not doubt the depth of the king's regard for you. Unfortunately, I was thinking of how the king tortured himself over whenever Legolas came by injuries serving in the guard under his king's command. I cannot imagine that he would not berate himself even more over the injury to your arm."

"I will keep it covered in the meantime," Narylfiel resolved. "And assure him that it is feeling much better. It's not as if he would know any different, right?"

Huredhiel did not comment any further but allowed her young patient to leave. She doubted the queen knew of Thranduil's slow recovery from his own burns ages ago, and it was not her secret to divulge. Narylfiel's wound was slight and would heal, although perhaps much too slowly for either of the royal couple's comfort.

When the Queen returned to her royal suite, she was most surprised to see a small fold of parchment marked with a foreign seal waiting for her on the side table by the door. Her troubles at the healers' wing forgotten, she broke the seal and began reading at once—surprisingly enough, the message was from Dwalin—but her eyes began to blur not long into the first paragraph. He wanted her to know that Bofur, whose illegible script was hardly worth reading (and Thorin, though he would never admit it) spoke of her often and hoped both she and the baby were well.

Ravens delivered news of the Woodland Realm's victory in the Battle under the Trees to the dwarves of Erebor, and the knowledge of Narylfiel's safe return to her Elvenking was a balm to Dwalin's own grief, for although the mountain stronghold kept both the dwarves and townspeople of Dale safe during the Easterling's attack, both King Dain and King Brand gave their lives in defense of the mountain. Thorin held up well, all things considered, but grieved for the loss of his father. The letter ended with a postscript disclosing that Thorin, of course, wrote a formal letter to her king, but would have her know that her presence was welcome at the ceremony to honor the fallen kings.

Narylfiel folded the letter once and then dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Not a particularly queenly move, but she hardly cared at the moment. Dwalin—the burliest and most no-nonsense dwarf she had ever met, not that she was acquainted with all that many!—had written her a letter asking her to attend the kings' funerals. She could only assume that he wrote her personally, because he thought she might never hear of the invitation otherwise. Thranduil would not be very keen on the idea of her leaving the safety of his Halls. She swiped at her eyes again. Narylfiel had known Brand since he was a boy. She could hardly believe he fell in battle. It didn't seem possible, but there it was in sharp definitive strokes of Dwalin's very dwarvish style script.

She knew what Thranduil would say if she were to ask to go to Dale and Erebor. She could already picture his face —the narrowed eyes, the slightly wrinkled nose as if he smelled a particularly unpleasant odor. It was the same face he always made with mention of dwarves.

But there was no avoiding it. Narylfiel knew she would ask, and she dreaded his response.

When Thranduil returned to their room before dinner, Narylfiel asked him if they might dine alone, in their private dining room, but he declined her suggestion.

"I am sorry, Narylfiel," Thranduil said, sliding off his dove grey robes, "but it is important we make an appearance, especially since I have only just returned from battle. My absence might lead some to believe I am indisposed or injured."

She tugged her sleeve down to cover the bandage on her arm and watched him from their bed. Thranduil leaned out from the closet. "We had better get dressed," he said, eyeing her from the door. "What were you planning on wearing?"

Narylfiel did not move from her position on the edge of her side of the bed.

"Perhaps your new green gown?" he asked hopefully. "I could help you choose some jewelry to go with it."

Narylfiel watched his attention turn to her side of the closet, his long fingers skimming over the line of glistening garments. "I don't know," she said at last, and in truth, she didn't. Thranduil had beautiful taste—exquisite really—a style which fit him perfectly, and Narylfiel was loath to admit she did not like the feeling of wearing all those glittering gems, the way they drew the eye so brightly, the attention, the lingering looks.

"Well, hurry up," he told her, going to