Three hundred years ago...

Narylfiel's world spun and split into two throbbing halves. Her fingers brushed the top of the neatly trimmed lawn of the sparring ring as she tried to steady herself. Spitting out another mouthful of blood, she stood up, wiped her lower lip. "Again," she said, steel in her voice.

Legolas tightened the tie holding his hair back as he appraised her. "Widen your stance," he corrected her. "If your opponent is larger, then use that to your advantage, Narylfiel. You're smaller, but you can move faster."

Narylfiel prodded a tender spot on her jawline she was sure would leave a bruise later when movement outside the ring caught her eye. Thranduil stood in the shade watching, his eyes inscrutable.

Then she slid her eyes back toward Legolas who stood there coolly waiting.

"I'm ready," she said and cracked her knuckles. "Let's go."

.  -  .  -  .  

Whatever the absent king and queen of the Woodland Realm might have hoped, their absence and subsequent return to the feast did not go unnoticed. The king's guards flanked the couple the second they stepped into the main hall, and Elfir brooked no delay in filling Thranduil's ear with the details of their discovery—two empty wine barrels in the set of four brought up from Dale from King Bard.

The dwarves had been notified of this latest development. Even now, Thranduil could easily discern the shiny helmed tops of their heads circling about the room. Dwarves had no subtlety. None.

"Two barrels," Narylfiel repeated. "So it seems Wilem has help. Perhaps someone he knew from Dale?"

"Perhaps," Thranduil echoed quietly. His gaze slid to Narylfiel, whom only moments ago he had held in his arms, warm and pliant, laughing at something he said. Now she was tense beside him, pale in the gloom of the stone hall, despite the dwarves' festive lanterns.

The Elvenking motioned for his guards to draw near, and he kept Narylfiel firmly by his side. "I want you to find this menace and end him, do you hear me?"

Elfir nodded just once. "Yes, your majesty."

"I will stay with the queen, and we will conduct a search of our own."

"But your majesty, you are not armed."

"I am always armed," Thranduil replied evenly.

"As am I," added Narylfiel.

The king's mouth thinned into an unhappy line, and his guards, knowing better than to say anything else, dispersed, each heading off in a different direction.

Thranduil watched them go and then turned toward his wife. "Really, Narylfiel?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up in faint amusement. "Because based on the events of only a few moments ago, I happen to know exactly what's under that lovely dress of yours, and it isn't a hunting knife."

Narylfiel matched his expression. "It's called a pocket, Thranduil."

"Hmm," he answered noncommittally, "I feel like I should march you straight up to our room and keep you there for the rest of the night...for safe-keeping, of course."

"That is one option," Narylfiel hedged, "but I rather like the idea of staying down here and catching Wilem."

Thranduil, of course, agreed, despite his reluctance to have his beloved near harm's way. The pair of them settled at the head table, and rejoined the conversation there, but both elves kept their sharp elven eyes on the busy floor of the hall, where couples weaved in and out between tables to dance and mingle and share in good conversation.

Narylfiel only half-listened to Bard and Thorin's plans for a new ferry system when she suddenly straightened in her seat.

"It couldn't be," she murmured.

"What?" said Thranduil, his eyes following her gaze across the crowded room.

King Bard paused mid-word to Thorin, his eyes darting to her.

She dared not point to arouse suspicion, but instead she leaned over. "I think I may know who was in the other barrel. I just saw a man in livery from Dale," she said and shot an apologetic look at Bard, "but he reminded me of a man I saw in the Easterling camp when I was a prisoner."

"Do you still see him?" Bard asked.

"No," Narylfiel hated to admit. There were more than a dozen such men in livery milling about, all wearing the colors of Bard's household, and the floor was far too crowded by now.

"Describe him, Narylfiel," Thranduil quietly issued commanded.

"About King Bard's height, I suppose, but a leaner build. Young. He—" she hesitated and lifted her eyes to Thranduil, "he was Mauburz's cousin, Bôr. I would have thought him killed in battle. He surely would have fought alongside Mauburz."

"We cannot know for sure," Thorin huffed and stood, "but we can start rounding up anyone matching the description. What else can you tell us?"

"Darker complexion, hair a dark brown, a little longer past the shoulders."

Bard stood as well, folding his napkin on the table as he shared a look with the dwarf king. "That could easily be most of my men," he said. "I will alert my guards."

As Thorin and Bard both made to leave the table, the dwarven musicians sounded their hornpipes, three bright clear notes.

"That will be the signal for the final dance," Thorin said tightly. "We need to hurry."

Thranduil stood, offered his arm to his queen. "We will go down to the main floor and look for him. My queen, I believe you owe me one more dance."

Narylfiel's lips quirked up as her eyes slid past her king to the crowded dance floor. "Nothing would please me more." Especially if it meant catching Wilem...and if Bôr was working with him for whatever hideous reason, she would like nothing better than to see him caught and made to answer for his actions. It didn't take much to pull Narylfiel back to those miserable hours spent in Mauburz's tent, drugged, helpless, and victim to her captor's whims, and Bôr had been there, bringing the thin gold chains to bind her wrists, calling her aszirakul and laughing, waiting for the heady poison of Wilem's drugs to render her helpless.

Only Narylfiel refused to be helpless. She defied Bôr's plans for her then, and if he was here now, she would beat him once more. So she firmly took her king's arm and allowed him to lead her down to the main dance floor, which was quickly becoming a solid mass of moving, weaving, dancing bodies.

With the announcement of the final dance, every table seemed to empty; young and old alike pressed in to dance to the hauntingly lovely dwarven tune, which seemed jubilant and melancholy all at once, the kind of melody which instantly sets toes to tapping.

Then it was Thranduil's broad hand against her waist, pulling her into the protective arc of his arms, the quick rhythm of her feet and heart to the beat of the music, and Narylfiel was glad for the distraction—but she kept her eyes moving through the crowd.

She was determined to find him.

. - . - .  

Farther removed from the jumping spinning twirling mass of dancers in his king's great hall, Dwalin felt as though he might be onto something. He left the larger ballroom for the long servants' hall. If that rascal Wilem up to something, he would bet his beard on it being something hidden, something sly. The man never had acted outwardly, so why would he start now? If he was really was around, then Dwalin was just sure he would be sneaking around in the back halls, out of sight, just like the weasel he was; only the dwarf was fairly certain such thinking was an insult to perfectly respectable weasels.

Up and down the hall, servants moved quickly, bringing jugs of ale or clearing away dirty tankards and trenches. Dwalin eyed each one as they passed. Obviously all the dwarves were above suspicion, but plenty of the servants helping with tonight's festivities were from King Dale's household. From the end of the hall, the door to the kitchen swung open, and Dwalin glimpsed a flash of pale eyes, sandy hair beneath a cap. It was only for a second and then the figure was gone, lost in the bustle of men, women, and dwarves and the swinging kitchen door. Dwalin's hand patted his vest, reminding himself of the short-handled throwing knives and the dual throwing axes tucked into a clever hidden pocket on his back, and then he stormed down the hall toward the swinging door.

Meanwhile, the King of the Woodland Realm took advantage of his superior height to survey the sea of faces around him; every once in a while he squeezed Narylfiel's hand to discreetly look at a possible suspect. "Him?" he murmured.

"No," Narylfiel returned, "too stocky, too light complected."

"All of these men look the same," Thranduil said languidly, pulling Narylfiel around to see the other side.

Narylfiel pursed her lips as she scanned the myriad faces turning and swaying under the jeweled tones of the dwarven lanterns. Then her hand tightened on Thranduil's shoulder.

From across the room with a whole townful of dancing bodies between them, Bôr turned and met her eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up before his lips moved to form a single word, azirakul; he said it like a benediction, and he kept his eyes on hers as his hand slipped inside the opening of his vest.

"There—I see him, Thranduil. All the way across the floor. Signal the guards!"

But before Thranduil could act, Bôr pulled a dark vial from his vest and hurled it toward the floor. A plume of inky black smoke shot into the air right before every single light in the great hall guttered into absolute blackness.

The once merry crowd of dancers plunged into a stumbling, pushing, shouting chaos.

"Narylfiel!" Thranduil's hand pulled her toward him, the strength in his fingers a reassurance. Even with her keen elven sight, Narylfiel could scarcely make out his tall frame in front of her as he held fast to her hand, carefully guiding her through the hectic crowd. The blackened hall was as loud as it was dark, every last person in there shouting for their loved ones, shouting for help, shouting for the dwarves to relight the lamps.

Yet in the darkness, Thranduil was there, tightly holding her hand, leading her through the darkness, shouldering his way through the crowd, clearing a path for her. Narylfiel needed all the help she could get. The voluminous beaded skirt on Narylfiel's ground slowed her down, made it difficult to squeeze through the churning bodies in the inky black hall.

She never saw the blow coming.

Someone's shoulder or maybe an arm plowed into her back; the person behind her stumbled, lost balance, stretched hands and fingers out to grab onto the nearest body, and in that split second, Narylfiel lost Thranduil in the crowd.

A throng of people all shouting and pushing shoved between them, and her fingers slipped from Thranduil's hand. She grabbed at the air, desperately reaching for a wrist, a sleeve, anything.

She heard him call her name and then call her name again.

"Thranduil!" Her fingers found purchase on an arm in the darkness, but the sleeve was coarse leather, and she let go. Not Thranduil.

Almost as if she were caught in a swift river current, the hectic crowd surged, pushing Narylfiel in the opposite direction. Then a strong hand caught her by the elbow and pulled her free, led her through the riotous masses until Narylfiel felt the air around her clear. No longer was she hemmed in on every side, and the gentle hand at her elbow guided her away from the bustle, led her smoothly away until the roar of the crowd faded.

Narylfiel squinted enough to make out a sim outline. Her rescuer was most definitely not Thranduil. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a flint striking metal, and sparks glared in the darkness. A stubby wick sputtered to life in yellow wax.

His smile was a slash of straight cunning. "Hello, princess."

. - . - .  

Dwalin crossed through the kitchen, steam billowing from boiling pots of stew, the hiss of water in hot copper kettles, and the sharp crack of tankards being set down for washing. From the shouting of cooks to the hurried complaints of the servers, the room was a hive of bustling chaos, with three more open doors on the opposite wall, and as Dwalin's sharp eyes scanned the room, he could not catch sight of his quarry. With one hand he cuffed the arm of a page sprinting past him.

"Boy, where do those doors lead?" he demanded.

The boy's mouth fell open at the stern face, the tattooed head. "I—I—" he garbled, but his answer was lost in the roar of shouts from down the hall.

"Hurry the lanterns! Bring the candles! The lights have gone out in the great hall. Quickly!"

A thick dread settled in the older dwarf's throat. His hand faltered on the boy's arm. "The doors, boy! Where do they lead?"

Eyes wide, the boy stammered his response: "Sir, to the store room, the wine cellar, the halls to the laundry and trash chutes."

Servants rushed past them bearing lanterns and candles, all heading for the great hall which by all accounts had somehow plunged into darkness. Dwalin watched them go and then pulled one of his dual axes free. The boy backed into a table, his face drawn white.

Dwalin merely hmphed and hurried toward the doors at the opposite end of the room. He had a terrible hunch, and as he ducked into the darkened hall, he gripped his axe a little tighter.

. - . - .  

Back in the large hall, the dwarves scrambled to relight the main lamps, sconces, and chandeliers using a clever long pipe that could hold a flame. But Thranduil had little time to appreciate the cleverness of the design. Although the crowd settled once the lights gradually came on one by one, the Elvenking's heart twisted with every new flame springing to life under steady dwarven hands. His queen was nowhere to be seen.

There were people who had fallen on the dance floor and been stepped on, hurt, even trampled in the darkness. Thranduil's eyes scanned the fallen, many of whom now received help to stand or were carried to the side to receive attention from dwarven healers surely arriving any minute.

He did not see Narylfiel among the injured. There was that small mercy to be thankful for at least, but if she were no longer in the hall, Thranduil suspected a more sinister force at work.

Narylfiel thought she saw someone right before the smoke, before the all-consuming darkness.

Thranduil already blamed himself for losing her. Her smaller hand had been all but wrenched from his own; her fingers slipping from his, despite his best effort to hold onto them.

As soon as he cleared the crowd, Thranduil's first move had been to summon his guards. Now, he paced the length of the large hall, keeping his eyes alert for any sign of her return, looking for any trace of her, any clue that might lead him in her direction. She could not be far, but he feared for her safety. Wilem was dangerous, a known killer, and this other man, Bôr, Mauburz's cousin—well, Thranduil could think of a few reasons he might be out for revenge.

. - . - .  

To her credit, Narylfiel did not shrink away from the man standing before her.

Bôr. He had led her to some sort of narrow stone hall, a heavy wooden door to her right.

He looked decidedly worse than his days of easy prestige in Mauburz's camp. "Azirakul," he purred.

"Have we met?" Narylfiel asked, tilting her head.

"You know we have," he said and reached into his pocket, "but perhaps this will help remind you." He held out a thin golden chain. It was one of those horrible bracelets Mauburz had used on her in his tent.

Some hint of recognition must have shown in her eyes, because Bôr smiled then. "So you do remember," he said. "I am going to need you to put these on."

Narylfiel crossed her arms. "Really? What sort of nefarious revenge plot do you have in mind?"

"One that will pay gold," said another voice from the shadows. Wilem. "I don't care about revenge. I care about getting paid. I want to move to Gondor and live out my days in relative ease."

Bôr's eyes gleamed. "It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. I need an exceptional gift to restore myself in the good graces of my uncle, the king. What do you get for a man who has everything?"

Wilem smirked. "A shiny new toy. You, my dear, are worth your weight in gold. When we deliver you to the east, Bôr finds himself redeemed, and I have a healthy nest egg to buy myself a new living in Gondor." He puffed out his chest. "Maybe I'll settle in the White City."

Narylfiel thought of the knife in her skirt pocket as she eyed the pair of them. "What is that the heroine always says in stories like this? Oh, yes—you'll never get away with this. There are guards posted at every entrance."

Bôr coiled the long gold bracelets in his palm. "We will, princess. Wilem discovered this place." He tapped a large wooden cabinet door to his right. "See this door?" He pulled on the latch, revealing a long dark chute. "Laundry chute. It leads right out of the mountain to a barge." Bôr smiled then. "Apparently the dwarves get their laundry done at Dale. Who knew?"

Wilem stepped forward, pulling a vial of milky liquid from his pocket. "I did. My father's mother was a washer woman. Used to give me half a crown for every bag I'd fetch down from the barge." He eyed Narylfiel and uncorked the vial, pouring some out onto a rag in his hand. "I figure this load will go for much more than half a crown."

A strong acrid scent stung her nose, made her eyes water, and Narylfiel eyed both men uneasily, torn between what action to take—to pull her knife and fight, to try and escape through the door, to scream at the top of her lungs and hope for rescue—none of which seemed like a good option.

Bôr launched himself toward her with the thin gold chain to seize Narylfiel's arm, and Wilem thrust the rag toward her face.

No matter what happened, Narylfiel knew she would not go down without a fight.

She twisted out of Bôr's reach, fumbling with the silken layers of her gown to reach the pocket holding her knife. She wasn't quick enough. Bôr grabbed her arm, thrusting her toward the wall, pinning her to against rough stone surface as his hot hand closed around her wrist.

Narylfiel heard the soft clink of metal. Bôr leaned into her, his breath warm against her face as she felt him slide the cool golden chain over her clenched fist.

"Time to go, my princess," Wilem said matter-of-factly as he reached toward her, soaked rag in hand, and a hot well of anger surged through Narylfiel. She dropped her weight, rolled her shoulder away from Bôr and shoved hard.

He lost his footing only for a second, but it was all the time she needed. Narylfiel broke free from his grasp, flinging the wretched gold chain away from her and launched herself toward Wilem. She knocked the potion-drenched rag from his hand in one stroke and in the next, she balled her fist, reared back and punched him across the jaw.

Wilem's head snapped back and he stumbled, his pale eyes red-rimmed and wide.

"Not your princess," Narylfiel hissed and shook out the tightness from her hand right before Bôr barreled into her side.

Now, an ordinary maiden might have wilted in similar circumstances, but Narylfiel was no damsel in distress. So when Bôr rammed into her side, Narylfiel moved with him, dodging the swing of his fist toward her cheek. She used his momentum to shove him toward Wilem, driving her elbow in hard toward Bôr's ribs as he collided with the other man.

Her left hand dove in between the layers of