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The sounds of agony rampaged around you as the surviving citizens of Dale, Erebor, and Mirkwood collected their dead and sobbed over their missing loved ones. You would have joined them, but you were too focused on staring at the great carcass of the dragon, Smaug, floating in the lake from the vantage point of one of Dale’s remaining towers. 

It had been years, no decades, since you had been allowed to be outside this long. And while you couldn’t deny the suffering and grief enveloping the land, you also felt as though you weren’t able to share in it. 

Because you were free. Free at last.

Tears welled in your eyes as you watched Smaug’s carcass floating around Laketown. To say your feelings were a mixed bag was the understatement of the century. In your decades-long captivity, Smaug had been the only creature you had seen and interacted with. He had kept you frightened and caged inside the mountain, but at the same time, if it hadn’t been for his company, you surely would have gone mad with loneliness. 

Yes, Smaug had been your captor, and for that, you would always despise him. But in a twisted way, particularly in the final half of your captivity, he had become something of a…friend. Although you hesitated to label him as such, it was the best label you could find that fit what he had been to you. While you were mostly glad to see him gone, part of you was devastated. He was not always kind to you. You had several scars all over your body as proof of how deadly his anger could be, particularly the times you had tried to escape the mountain. Yet, during your captivity, he had provided for you as best he could. He had healed you after you had been burned by his fire, and had brought you food on his trips outside of Erebor. He had told you tales of his long life to entertain you and had let you lay next to him when nightmares took your sleep.

Smaug was undoubtedly an evil creature. But for some time, you had thought that maybe there was something more to him. Unfortunately now, you would never get the chance to find out. 

“My Lady,” Gandalf called from behind you. You surreptitiously wiped your eyes and took a deep breath.

Gandalf was one of the few living people that you had met prior to Smaug kidnapping you, and subsequently, he was the only person who recognized you now. Thorin’s company had found you when they entered the mountain, but by that point, your story had faded into legend. Once the Battle of the Five Armies had begun, you were once again left to your own devices to figure out your survival. 

“Yes, Mithrandir?” you asked, softly, not taking your eyes off the lake. 

Gandalf moved slightly into your field of vision, forcing you to turn your head to acknowledge him. 

“My Lady, it is good to see you again,” Gandalf said, voice thick with emotion, “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

You nodded. 

“As do I,” you mumbled, “I regret that retaking the mountain came at such a cost.”

You and Gandalf were silent for a moment before he spoke again. 

“I am sorry to burden you further. I cannot fathom the hardships you have endured, but I must ask. What are your intentions now that the dragon has been slain?” Gandalf questioned. 

You shook your head. 

“I have absolutely no idea, Gandalf,” you admitted, “Truthfully, I did not think I would live long enough to see this.”

“Your strength is remarkable,” Gandalf complimented, and you bristled a bit. Compliments were not something you were used to. 

“My strength was simply due to the dragon’s foul magic,” you muttered, darkly, “I may be a Dúndedain, but even we cannot endure six decades of captivity on sheer willpower alone.”

Gandalf placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you turned to stare at it, willing yourself not to completely break down in front of him. 

“My Lady, we will find out what the dragon has done to you,” he vowed, “And we will reverse the effects of his dark curse.”

“The dragon has extended my life,” you murmured, “For how long, I do not know. I am unsure if the effects ended with his death. I simply know that I was brought to the mountain at the age of 32. I leave the mountain now at 93, and I look no older.”

“You have the blood of Númenor,” Gandalf argued, “Slower aging is expected.”

You chuckled darkly and shook your head.

“I am nearly a century old, Mithrandir,” you said, “Even the most spry of Dúnedain begin to show signs of age at this stage of life.” 

Gandalf’s eyes searched your face before he replied. 

“Perhaps…some time with the elves may help you to recover. King Thranduil…”

You stiffened at the sound of his name, a wave of panic involuntarily seizing hold of your body.

“No,” you hissed, shrugging Gandalf’s hand off your shoulder. 

“My Lady, I urge you to reconsider,” Gandalf insisted, “King Thranduil has personal experience with the Fire Drakes. Surely, he would have insight into your condition.”

“I said no,” you barked, “King Thranduil left me to rot in that mountain sixty years ago. I see no reason to expect that he would show me any courtesy simply because I happened to defy his expectations and survive that ordeal.” 

“On the contrary, My Lady, I think you will find the King much changed,” Gandalf countered, “The King of the Woodland Realm has few regrets, and your disappearance is one of them.”

You laughed.

“I find that incredibly hard to believe,” you drawled, “King Thranduil was none too pleased at the prospect of having to marry a human, even if I happened to be attached to a rather ridiculous sum of money. Smaug simply took care of that problem for him. He got his money without the hassle of a bride.”

Gandalf frowned at your crass phrasing, but you didn’t care. You had sixty years to stew over this and be bitter about it. Your betrothal to Thranduil, someone who showed no interest in remarrying after the death of his wife, had been nothing more than a business transaction. Your tribe, though wealthy, was on the verge of extinction, and your father had struck a deal with the Elvenking in a last-ditch effort to secure protection in Mirkwood for the tribe’s remaining members. You had met King Thranduil once, and that had been when he had visited your tribe’s settlement to sign the contract with your father and collect the dowry payment. He had been respectful to you during that meeting, but had expressed little interest in getting to know you, and had immediately returned to Mirkwood once negotiations had concluded and the money had changed hands. 

You had planned to travel to Mirkwood with your retinue shortly thereafter, but you were ambushed by Smaug as soon as your party neared Erebor. Contrary to popular belief, dragons didn’t just hoard gold. They hoarded all manner of pretty things, and that apparently, as you had learned the hard way, included women. Smaug had killed most of your companions, kidnapped you, and imprisoned you in Erebor with him. 

Once word of your disappearance had reached your father, he had pleaded with Thranduil for help to rescue you. But Thranduil, ever the elitist, was not willing to risk precious elven lives to rescue a human bride that he didn’t even want to begin with. Your father and his remaining guardsmen had made several attempts to rescue you, but had all perished at Smaug’s hands. It was hard to not blame King Thranduil for your predicament and your father’s death when he was perhaps the only king on this side of the Misty Mountains with the resources to face the dragon. And yet, like the dwarves of Erebor, he had abandoned you to your fate. 

You wanted nothing to do with him. Unless he planned to return the money he had so callously taken from your father. Money that, by all rights, now belonged to you. 

“You will not tell King Thranduil of your survival?” Gandalf asked, frowning.

You shrugged. 

“I have not decided,” you said, truthfully, “However, King Thranduil is currently in possession of my original dowry, a large sum of money. Considering that he did not marry me, he has no right to it. I want it back.”

Gandalf’s frown deepened. 

“You care only for gold?” he accused, and you flashed a harsh look at him for that. 

“Do not presume to lecture me about greed, Mithrandir,” you hissed, “Three armies nearly obliterated each other for their share of the treasure buried in Erebor. I will not be shamed into expecting that I should also receive what is rightfully owed to me so that I may rebuild my life.”

Gandalf sighed. 

“My concern is only for how the dragon has affected you, My Lady,” Gandalf clarified, “I do not wish for you to succumb to the Dragon Sickness.”

You fought to roll your eyes. If six decades sitting in Erebor with Smaug didn’t give you Dragon Sickness, then there was no way that you were going to catch it now. While you didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, you were not as weak as some of the dwarves had been. Your survival had depended on you keeping your head on as straight as possible. 

When you didn’t say anything further, Gandalf continued. 

“My Lady, will you allow me to inform King Thranduil of your survival? Perhaps, with proper delicate dialogue, at least part of your dowry can be returned to you,” he offered. 

You returned your gaze to the lake in the distance. A significant part of you did not want to face Thranduil after all these years, especially after his betrayal of you and your father cut so deeply. You had learned over the years that, despite not being trained as a warrior like so many of your Dúnedain kin, you were still strong enough to handle things that would have crippled most men. But after all this time, after suffering years of dragon fire, fear, and anxiety, you were concerned that finally meeting Thranduil again might just be the thing that broke you. 

But you were not going to give that selfish elf the satisfaction. Smaug might have been an evil creature, but he taught you many things, and he certainly taught you better than to cower before just anyone. Especially when you were the injured party.

“If you feel that is best, Mithrandir, I shall not stop you,” you said. 

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Rather than stay in the city of Dale, you sought refuge in the camps of Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills and soon-to-be King Under the Mountain. Despite Thorin’s distrust of humans, your father had always maintained a good relationship with most of the dwarven kingdoms, including the Iron Hills. In fact, as you would later learn, Dáin had offered to send some of his best warriors to aid your father’s attempts to rescue you from Erebor. But your father, not wishing to risk further loss of life, had refused. 

Selfishly, you knew if the Elvenking came looking for you, Dáin’s camps were the absolute last place that he would look, or at the very least, the last place that he would be willing to venture into. 

Dáin became emotional when he saw you and welcomed you into his camps with open arms. 

“Lass, if only your father could see you now. He would be so proud of you,” he had exclaimed. 

Dáin had tried to force several of his soldiers to set up a separate tent for you with as many amenities as they could, but you insisted that you were fine with sleeping in a normal bedroll. You refused to spend another night inside the mountain, and Dáin’s forces had few supplies. You were not going to take more than what you needed. 

You spent the next several days assisting Dáin’s men in the cleanup of the area just outside of the main gates of Erebor. It was gruesome work, sifting through the mass of dead orcs, elves, and men to find the bodies of the slain dwarves and prepare them for proper funerals. Several of the dwarves you discovered had known you as a child and had been very kind to you. It did not help the overwhelming sadness that threatened to consume you at any moment, but a part of you felt blessed that you could give them the proper funeral they deserved. 

Dáin had invited you to dine with him in his tent on several occasions. The food was simple, but it was the best tasting food you had had in decades.

“Lass, I must know,” Dáin started, taking a sip of his ale, “How did you survive the dragon?”

“With great difficulty, My Lord,” you replied, “I relied as much on Smaug’s good will as I did my intellect.”

Dáin snorted.

“That damned beast has no good will,” he spat, “If you survived, it meant you did so on your own cleverness.”

“Perhaps,” you conceded, “But he had ways of keeping me subdued. When I was kidnapped, I knew I had to be clever and that the moment I stopped being amusing to him was the moment he would kill me.”

Dáin hummed. 

“Your father raised you to be a smart one,” Dáin praised. 

“Maybe,” you mumbled, “I just learned quickly what Smaug’s boundaries were. I tried to escape a couple of times in the first decade or so. Each time, he would burn me…and then he healed the burn a few days later so I wouldn’t perish from the infection.”

Dáin was impressed by your ability to relay the tale without breaking, but at this point, it had happened so long ago that you had blocked most of your emotions out of your mind. 

“Lords above, Lass,” he swore, “I cannot imagine what you endured.”

“Smaug used to take me outside the mountain on rare occasions so that I could hunt for food,” you continued, “Usually always under the cover of night, and under his watchful eye. I tried to escape the first time he let me leave Erebor to go hunting by myself.”

Dáin raised an eyebrow.

“And why did you not succeed?” he questioned.

You sighed. 

“Dragon magic,” you said, “My proximity to the beast allowed him to…imprint on me, I suppose. When I ran away from Erebor, I was suddenly overcome by a splitting headache, unlike anything I had ever felt. It nearly crippled me, and I was barely able to move. The only way to relieve myself of the pain was to crawl back towards the mountain. The closer I got to Erebor, the more the pain faded. Suffice to say, I never made the same mistake again.”

Dáin shook his head in frustration. 

“That damned beast. It’s all the better it is dead now,” he growled, “He will never haunt you again.”

You weren’t sure about that. Smaug haunted your dreams constantly, even in death. You were not sure that you would ever be truly free of him. 

“And what about that king you were supposed to marry?” Dáin continued, refilling his ale.

“The Elvenking of Mirkwood,” you mumbled. Dáin’s eyeroll was practically audible. 

“That smarmy princess,” Dáin spat, “Does he know you’re alive?”

You shrugged.

“I am assuming that Gandalf informed him,” you speculated, “I’m not sure if I should have allowed him too. I’m not particularly keen on meeting the Elvenking again.”

“As long as you are under my protection, you won’t have to,” Dáin vowed, “That sissy bastard doesn’t scare me. You just tell me what you want us to do about him, and we’ll see that it is done.”

You smiled, gratefully. 

“I am truly grateful for all of your hospitality, Lord Dáin,” you said, “Please let me know how I may repay your kindness.”

Dáin waved his hand dismissively. 

“Ah, nonsense,” he exclaimed, “I may not have been able to assist your father in your rescue, but I can ensure that you are safe now. And that, Lass, is what I intend to do.”

Dáin kept his word fiercely. One morning, you woke from your makeshift tent – a spare blanket folded across a stick that had been wedged between some rocks – to a commotion at the edge of the Ironfoot camps. Frowning, you peeked your head around the blanket to see what was happening. Three elves were standing at the edge of the camp arguing with one of Dáin’s generals. Your heart started to pound. 

“King Thranduil seeks an audience with the Dúnedain princess,” the head elf guard said, “We have reason to believe that she may be staying here.”

Dáin’s general guffawed. 

“And what makes the King of the Elves so sure that she is staying with us, let alone gives him the right to demand anything of her?”

Arguing broke out as the elven guards jumped in to defend their king. Dáin’s general refused to back down, and it warmed your heart at how fiercely the dwarves had risen to your defense. Eventually, the rabble died down as Lord Dáin himself strutted over to the scene to investigate the commotion. 

“I hear King Thranduil wishes to meet with one under my protection,” he boomed. 

“We are to escort the lady to the king’s tent,” the guard replied, “We will see that she is safely returned after her meeting.”

“King Thranduil has no power here,” Dáin barked, “The lady shall meet with him only if the lady deigns to meet with him. Should she agree, I will not stop her. But in the meantime, I suggest you return to your king and see to your own business.”

With that, Dáin turned and strolled back to the center of camp, barking orders at his men to continue their work as he went. The elven guards were momentarily stunned by how easily they had been dismissed and lingered for a few moments before accepting defeat and returning to their own camp emptyhanded. 

You rolled onto your back and stared up at the makeshift ceiling of your tent, willing your anxiety to quell. That Dáin would keep his word had never been in question. But the confirmation that the Elvenking was indeed looking for you incited a panic in you that you hadn’t felt since your early days of captivity. In that moment, you wished Smaug were still alive, knowing that the Elvenking would not dare to come near you with him around. Without Smaug, you felt exposed…vulnerable. 

But a reunion with King Thranduil was inevitable. You could only put it off for so long. 

You spent the rest of the day helping the dwarves prepare for the funeral for the line of Durin. You bowed deeply as they wheeled Thorin, Kíli, and Fíli’s bodies into the mountain to be displayed one last time for their companions. You opted out of attending the ceremony inside the mountain, as you did not feel that it was appropriate for you to be there, not having known the three dwarves well. Instead, you went to the city of Dale and found an aid distribution site that had been set up by the elves. You grabbed a plate of bread and cheese and wandered over to a small alcove to sit and eat your snack. 

Peoplewatching in Dale was interesting. Humans had a much shorter lifespan in comparison to elves and dwarves, so their customs changed as quickly as the wind changed directions. Although the people of Dale were primarily peasantfolk, their fashions still changed over time. You noticed more muted colors and more layers than had previously been around a century ago. You weren’t sure if that was due to the climate of Esgaroth or a collective desire to change their dress patterns. 

Despite feeling desperately out of touch, blending in with the people of Dale was certainly going to be easier than with the dwarves. Most of the citizens paid you no mind as they went about their business. You even caught a glimpse of their leader, Bard, as he stopped by to check on those receiving aid. He seemed like a good man, and you were glad that he had assumed charge of the small human colony.

You watched, absentmindedly, as Bard was approached by a fully-armed elf with long, silvery hair. You bristled for a moment before reminding yourself that Thranduil would usually make a spectacle of his arrival, so it couldn’t possibly be him. Perhaps hanging around Dale was a bad idea. The place was crawling with elves, several of whom had undoubtedly been given your description and were probably searching for you. 

“Prince Legolas, how may I help you?” Bard addressed.

So, this was Thranduil’s son. It made sense. They shared very similar features. You wondered how Legolas must have taken the news of his father’s betrothal and your subsequent kidnapping. 

“My father is looking for someone. Perhaps you have seen her,” Legolas started. He then proceeded to give a very detailed description of you, and you cursed under your breath. 

Gandalf was a right bastard and Thranduil was a coward. Either way, you had no desire of being caught. You quickly stood up, clutching your snack, and abruptly turned to wade through the crowd in the opposite direction, trying to find a place to lay low. Unfortunately, you were not as subtle as you thought you were because Legolas caught your hasty movements out of the corner of his eye. He interrupted his conversation with Bard and moved to follow you. 

Legolas eventually found you sitting against the wall inside one of the cramped watchtowers. From Gandalf’s description, you were unlikely to take his approach kindly, so he would need to be cautious.

“My Lady,” he called softly. You were in the middle of eating a piece of cheese, and he watched as you swallowed your food and let out a long sigh. 

“You must be Prince Legolas,” you stated, sitting up a bit straighter. Legolas moved to stand as far away from you as he could manage. He didn’t want to crowd you. 

“Indeed, I am,” he confirmed, “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

“And you as well,” you said, politely, “Forgive my bluntness, Your Highness, but I am assuming your father sent you to look for me?”

“Father has asked all of his guards to keep a watch for you in case you decided to leave Dáin’s camp,” Legolas revealed. 

You sighed at that. 

“I’m not surprised,” you muttered, “I suppose I should expect no less from him. Are you ordered to bring me to him?”

“Technically, yes,” Legolas said, “But I will not escort you there unless you wish it. My father’s business is his own and does not concern me. I am here for more selfish reasons.”

You raised an eyebrow at that. 

“Is that so?” you questioned, slightly skeptical. 

Legolas nodded. 

“I have a few questions for you, My Lady. As a Dúnedain, I believe you are the best person to answer them,” Legolas continued.

“Then I shall try to answer them to the best of my ability,” you offered.

“I am to ride north soon,” Legolas said, “Are you familiar with the one they call Strider?”

You frowned, searching your memory, trying to recall anyone who went by that name. Unfortunately, you came up empty. 

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” you sighed, “I do not know anyone by that name. But please keep in mind that I have not had any contact with my people for sixty years. If he was born after Smaug’s siege of the mountain, then I would not have met him.”

Legolas nodded, expression shifting to one of sympathy.

“Perhaps you may be familiar with his father, Arathorn,” Legolas ventured. 

Now that name did ring a bell. But you probably didn’t have any information that would be of use to him. 

“Little Arathorn, all grown up,” you chuckled, “Yes, I knew Arathorn. But he was a child. He would have been around seven years old when I was betrothed to your father.”

Legolas frowned, doing the math in his head. You might be an infant by elven standards, but by the standards of men, even Dúnedain, you were old. 

“I knew Arathorn’s father, Arador,” you supplied, “He and my father were good friends…well…as good of friends as two chieftains of disparate Dúnedain factions could be. I watched and entertained Arathorn a few times when our fathers had meetings.”

“Your people are not rangers?” Legolas asked, confused. 

You shook your head. 

“The Dúnedain are a divided people, forever scattered into ever dwindling tribes,” you explained, “Our people split into two major factions, that of the south and the north. Within those factions, several tribes emerged. My tribe is descended from the Dúnedain of the North, but as I understand it, one of my ancestors heavily disagreed with the chieftain, that is, Arador’s direct ancestor. We became our own clan and settled between Erebor and the Iron Hills.”

Legolas nodded and bid you to continue. 

“The Dúnedain are a dwindling race,” you continued, “We were rapidly losing numbers sixty years ago, so I can only imagine the state of our population today. Arador made attempts to unite the Dúnedain of the North, but was unsuccessful. He was barely able to unite the Rangers, let alone the other tribes that had settled beyond the Misty Mountains. I am imagining that since you only have me to ask about the Dúnedain lineage, little progress has been made over the past several decades.”

Legolas nodded in confirmation.

“You are the first of the Dúnedain that I have met,” he admitted. You hummed at that. 

“May I ask for what purpose you need this information?” you questioned, “Is it your intention to seek out this…Strider, son of Arathorn?”

Legolas pursed his lips and eyed you for a moment. 

“Perhaps,” he replied, cryptically, “My father mentioned him.”

You wrinkled your nose at that. 

“Unfortunately, Your Highness, your father will absolutely know more than I do on this matter,” you confessed, “My information is likely outdated by over a half-century.”

“You have provided me more context than you realize,” Legolas praised, “Despite appearances, my father does not, in fact, know everything.”

You chuckled at his statement. 

“I cannot claim to know your father well. I shall have to take your word for it,” you said. 

Legolas was silent for a moment before he spoke again. 

“My Lady, I cannot begin to fathom the ordeal that you have gone through,” he began, “Please allow me to apologize if your suffering was elongated at the hands of the Woodland Elves, particularly my father’s.”

You shook your head at his apology. 

“Your Highness, as you so astutely pointed out earlier, your father’s business is his own and does not concern you,” you replied, “You owe me no apology. Your father can speak for himself.”

“That he can,” Legolas agreed, “But I fear he may not express his regret so plainly. So, please allow me to convey it for him.”

You were a bit shocked by Legolas’ kindness. You weren’t sure how someone as cold as Thranduil would be able to raise someone so considerate. 

“Thank you, Prince Legolas. Your words mean more than you know,” you whispered, voice heavy with emotion, “I wish you luck in your travels.”

Legolas placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

“Until we meet again, My Lady,” he said. 

And with that, you were once again left alone. 

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You strode across the city of Dale towards the elven outpost that had been placed at the city’s entrance. It had been almost a year since the Battle of the Five Armies had ended and Dale was starting to come together under the leadership of the newly installed King Bard. Dáin had been proclaimed King Under the Mountain not long after Thorin’s funeral and, despite his gruff exterior, had wasted no time in establishing diplomatic relations with both Bard and the Elvenking. 

The same Elvenking that you were now going to go visit in Mirkwood. 

After a few months of successfully dodging his guards, Thranduil finally seemed to get the hint that you would only approach him when you were good and ready. He was reportedly particularly vexed to not encounter you at Erebor when he had made a diplomatic visit three months ago. He would have been forgiven for expecting that you would be there to receive him. King Dáin had appointed you a temporary ambassador, and sent you back and forth between Erebor and Dale to administer aid and negotiate with King Bard, a post that your education as the daughter of a Dúnedain leader had more than aptly prepared you for.

While Erebor was a beautiful kingdom, you had absolutely no desire to spend any more time in the mountain than was absolutely necessary, and instead had taken up lodgings in Dale. Both Bard and Dáin were grateful for your steady presence however your lack of willingness to even be in the same room as the Elvenking was posing a slight issue. None of the dwarven or other human ambassadors were well-received in Mirkwood, leaving you, as Thranduil’s one-time betrothed, the only viable option to send to the negotiating table. You wondered if this was Thranduil’s plan all along—make negotiating such a pain for Bard and Dáin’s advisors to the point where they would have no choice but to send you to Mirkwood.

King Dáin had been patient with you in your recovery from Smaug’s captivity, and while you still had an incredibly long way to go to heal from the experience, the worlds of men and dwarves were too fast paced. You had had a year to get comfortable with the idea of encountering your former betrothed once more.

While you couldn’t say that you were enthused about this trip, you were definitely in a less emotionally vulnerable state than you had been a year ago. 

When you approached the elven outpost, the guards saluted you and one of them stepped forward to address you. 

“My Lady, it is an honor to meet you. I am Feren, and I shall escort you today,” he introduced. 

You raised an eyebrow. Thranduil hadn’t just sent anyone to bring you to him, he had sent one of his best generals.

“Lord Feren,” you addressed, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well. Thank you for escorting me to meet your king.”

The journey from Dale to Mirkwood would normally take two days, with one day devoted primarily to skirting around the ruins of Laketown. However, you had requested to travel by ground only. Smaug’s carcass was still floating in the lake, albeit mostly sunk by this point, and you had no desire to go near it. The more circuitous route would add a third day to your journey, so you and the elves mounted your horses and set off as quickly as you could. Your elven companions were pleasant company throughout the journey, but didn’t say much. You only engaged Feren in conversation long enough to ask about Thranduil’s preferred norms of engagement. 

On your final day, you felt your anxiety rise as you approached the palace, and you found yourself unable to be impressed by the beauty of Mirkwood despite having wished to see it for many years. Your only goal was to get through this first interaction with Thranduil and the rest could be dealt with later. 

Feren was the only one to escort you into the great hall, where Thranduil was seated upon a massive throne at the top of a small staircase. It was clearly meant for intimidation and it worked. You, who had survived the torture of a dragon, were struggling to face the elf who had left you in that mountain to begin with. You had feared that this would happen, but you had no option but to continue. 

You bowed, grateful for the excuse to look at the floor while Feren announced your presence. 

“My King, I bring the Lady of the Dúnedain, ambassador to Dale and Erebor,” Feren announced. 

“Rise, My Lady,” Thranduil invited, voice surprisingly soft. You did as you were bid and you took the opportunity to square your shoulders and look at the Elvenking directly. 

There was no denying that Thranduil was an incredibly handsome elf. You had always thought him so, however after seeing the cruelty he was capable of, you weren’t really sure what to think of him now. The softness on his face as he looked at you was definitely unexpected, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. 

“You may leave us, Feren,” Thranduil ordered, and immediately Feren bowed and left the two of you alone. 

You inhaled shakily before addressing the king. 

“Your Highness, I bring sincerest regards from Dáin, King Under the Mountain, and Bard, King of Esgaroth. I hope that our discussions over the next few days will prove productive,” you said, reciting a line that you had practiced over and over again in your head over the past few days. 

“I accept their regards and send mine in return,” Thranduil parried, smoothly, “I imagine that your journey was long and you will need rest. I have arranged for our talks to begin tomorrow morning if that is amenable to you, Ambassador?”

Thank the Valar . 

“You are most kind, Your Highness,” you said.

But Thranduil was not done. 

“I hope that before you retire, you will do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”

Great .

The king had graciously given you some time to freshen up before requesting your presence at dinner. You arrived in his personal dining room almost half an hour early so you could have a few moments to survey the space and collect your thoughts. You weren’t entirely surprised by Thranduil’s obvious ploy to meet with you privately, and had anticipated that he would try something like this at some point during your visit. You just didn’t expect it to happen this quickly. 

Following your release from captivity, your initial feelings towards Thranduil were ones of hostility. The sheer mention of his name caused you not only anxiety, but a blinding rage, the likes of which you had never before experienced in your life. Not even Smaug elicited such a reaction from you, even when he had roasted your father alive. It had taken several months of reflecting and advice from Gandalf before you were able to calm down and examine why. Ultimately, you had expected no better behavior from Smaug. Killing those who he considered beneath him was standard practice for his kind.

That was not the case for Thranduil. You had heard many stories of his gallantry in battle, his devotion to his late wife, and his protectiveness towards his people. While you weren’t entirely blind to his faults, the stories had fomented an image of Thranduil as a noble, brave figure. His actions following your kidnapping flew completely in the face of a king who had sworn to your father that he would protect you. He had even signed a contract to that effect. 

It took time before you realised that you weren’t truly angry. You were disappointed. Gravely disappointed. And worse, you weren’t the only person who Thranduil had let down so deeply. The dwarves of Erebor had felt thoroughly betrayed by his refusal to also come to their aid. It was unclear if Thranduil didn’t understand just how badly he had treated his allies or if he simply didn’t care.

It would take time for these feelings to go away, and you had accepted that you would not get the closure you felt that you needed. Thranduil had kept your dowry, and if you wanted it back, you would have to pry it from his immortal hands. That might have been a hill you were prepared to die on a year ago, but not so much now. You were slowly starting to rebuild your life. You didn’t need Thranduil’s pity or the money he took from your father to find a purpose for yourself. 

The door to the dining room opened suddenly, forcing you to push your thoughts aside. King Thranduil stepped inside the room, dressed in his typical royal finery, with an attendant behind him. You bowed respectfully at his entrance and waited for him to address you. 

“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” he said, as his attendant began pouring wine for both of you. 

“Not at all,” you replied.

Thranduil nodded and waited for his attendant to leave the room before gesturing towards your chair. 

“Please, sit,” he invited, pulling out his own chair. You followed suit and took a sip of your wine for lack of anything better to do. 

There was a long pause after that, but you weren’t keen on breaking the silence. You weren’t planning on leading this conversation. After all, he had invited you to dine with him. If he wanted to talk to you, then he could talk. You didn’t plan to say anything to him that couldn’t already be said in front of his council of advisors.

“I am pleased you accepted my invitation,” he finally said, “You are a…most difficult woman to find.”

Ah, straight to the point then. You could appreciate that at least. 

“I hope you can forgive me. Adjusting to life outside of the mountain has not been easy,” you replied, “Especially now that I know that my tribe is functionally extinct.”

You tried your best to keep the bitterness out of your tone, but you were sure that Thranduil picked up on it nonetheless. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Thranduil stated, “It was a miracle to discover you alive. We had all thought that you had perished at the dragon’s flame.”

If you weren’t an ambassador, sent to negotiate trade agreements on behalf of two kingdoms, you would have rolled your eyes at that stupid comment. You elected to keep your mouth shut because any reply you might have given would certainly derail negotiations before they had even begun. Thankfully, King Thranduil seemed more than willing to talk enough for both of you. 

“I imagine that you are asked to answer this question regularly, but I must know. How did you survive the dragon?” he probed. 

He wasn’t even going to let you eat something before forcing you to reopen old wounds. Typical. You took another sip of wine before you spoke. 

“A combination of sheer willpower, intellect, and blind luck,” you drawled, “And no small amount of dragon magic, I’m guessing.”

“Is it the dragon’s magic, then, that has allowed you to age more slowly than your kin?” he pressed.

You sighed and nodded. 

“That is the most likely explanation,” you answered, “How long the effects will last is unclear. I may live for several centuries more or I may perish tomorrow.”

Thranduil frowned at your explanation. 

“Have you consulted healers? Lord Elrond may be able to help you find the answers you seek,” he suggested.  

You shook your head. 

“With respect, Your Highness, if I am to live a natural Dúnedain lifespan, then I shall know in a few short years,” you countered, “Most of my people live to be just over a century. I am not far from that.”

“If by some miracle, the dragon magic could allow you to live much longer, why would you not wish to know this?” Thranduil continued, “Dragons are immortal beings, perhaps there is a way for you to emulate their lifespan.”

It was your turn to frown. You had absolutely no idea where he was going with this line of questioning.

“Your Highness, why exactly would I want to pursue immortality, especially if it isn’t forced on me?” you asked, confusion evident in your voice. 

Thranduil narrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head to study you, confusion also etched onto his face. His stare made you uneasy and you took another drink of your wine in the hopes that it might calm your nerves. 

“We are still betrothed,” he explained, slowly, “I will be incredibly displeased if my new wife died so suddenly after our marriage.”

Wait.

You barely stopped yourself from choking on your wine as you processed exactly what he had just said. 

What??

At that moment, the attendants returned carrying your dinner.

Chapter Text

You and Thranduil said nothing to each other for the next few minutes as the attendants set out your dinner. You had found that you had suddenly lost your appetite despite all manner of incredible dishes being set in front of you. Your anxiety surrounding this interaction had morphed into full-blown confusion. 

Once the attendants left, you cleared your throat and tried to formulate your response as best as you could. 

“You…intend to honor your agreement with my father?” you asked, voice slightly raspy. 

Thranduil looked puzzled by your statement. 

“Whyever would I not?” he questioned, sounding innocent, as if you were crazy for simply asking the question. 

You frowned at that. Surely he couldn’t be this dense . 

“Your Highness, you made that agreement with my father over sixty years ago,” you began, “My father and my people are no more. I have nothing to offer you that would be equivalent to what he promised in that contract. I assumed that the agreement had been voided.”

Thranduil’s mouth twisted into a deep frown and he narrowed his eyes again. 

“Certainly not,” he insisted, “Surely your father explained to you how seriously the elves take marriage agreements. We almost never marry outside of our race because of it.”

You felt your hackles rise at that statement. If he truly took his agreement so seriously, where was this loyalty sixty years ago when you needed it most? Even if you went through with his ludicrous idea of keeping your betrothal, how could you trust him? He had proven that he would abandon you at the first sign of trouble. What was the guarantee that he wouldn’t behave similarly in the future? 

“With respect, Your Highness, as far as I am aware the original contract was breached sixty years ago,” you countered, “The agreement contained a mutual defense pact, did it not?”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at that. 

“You have an excellent memory,” he praised, “Yes, it did.”

“Well, we might not have been married at the time, but it was my understanding that you refused to come to my aid when Smaug had kidnapped me during my travels to your kingdom,” you pressed, “Am I mistaken?”

Thranduil pursed his lips. You had him there. 

“You are correct. I did not,” he confirmed. 

“Then I ask you again, Your Highness, why revive an agreement that you have demonstrated little interest in adhering to?” you asked.

Thranduil regarded you for a moment before answering. In his typical fashion, he did not exactly answer the question. 

“The dragons posed an existential threat to the entirety of Middle Earth. Many armies have tried to stand against them and failed. I could not risk the entirety of my forces against a foe like Smaug to save one person,” Thranduil stated, “Now that the dragon is dead, things have changed.”

You had several things to say to that, but you were not going to win an argument with him today. You were here to negotiate trade agreements on behalf of Esgaroth and Erebor, and you could not let your personal issues with Thranduil get in the way of that. At the very least, you would get as much information as you could out of him, and then make a decision about it later. 

“Then it is your expectation that we will eventually marry,” you said, “When do you expect the marriage to take place?”

“Sooner rather than later would be preferable,” he continued, “But it is imperative that you first consult with Lord Elrond about the effects of dragon magic on your lifespan. We will need to best understand how to manage it.”

Perhaps you should abscond to Rivendell and never return. 

“I see,” you mumbled.

“You also cannot continue serving as an ambassador to another kingdom,” Thranduil continued, seemingly oblivious to your lack of attention, “It would be inappropriate.”

Well, that made sense, you supposed. You hummed and took a sip of wine, continuing to nod and make small comments in the correct places while Thranduil continued to prattle on. For such a stoic, ancient being, he wasn’t very self-aware. That or your years of captivity had made you particularly adept at checking out of a situation you didn’t want to be in. 

Thranduil suddenly frowned at you, and that was when you realized that he hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. 

“You are awfully quiet,” he observed, and it took all the patience you possessed not to roll your eyes once again. 

“I’m normally quiet, Your Highness, particularly if I have nothing to add,” you said, for lack of anything better to say. 

“That is atypical of your kind,” Thranduil remarked, acerbically, “However, considering these matters concern you directly, I would have expected you to have some opinion.”

Oh. You had many opinions . But whether Thranduil actually wanted to hear them was an entirely different question. You steeled yourself and put on your best ambassador face. 

“You must forgive me, My Lord. I have only just learned that you wish us to marry, even after all these years,” you started. 

“Yes, I imagine that would be overwhelming for you,” Thranduil interrupted. 

Smaug was overwhelming. Thranduil, as you were quickly seeing, was just an asshole. But…you might have a way to get out of this. Or at the very least to stall these proceedings until you figured out what to do.

“Have you sought permission from the Dúnedain chieftain to continue this arrangement?” you asked, suddenly. 

Thranduil looked confused. 

“I signed a contract with your father. You know this,” he replied. 

“Yes, My Lord, a betrothal contract. A marriage contract will still require a senior signatory from both parties. Unfortunately, my father is dead and can no longer perform this function,” you drawled, for once thankful for Dúnedain inheritance laws, sexist though they were. 

Thranduil’s frown deepened as he saw where you were going with this train of thought. 

“Surely as his heir you can sign for yourself,” Thranduil huffed.

“I’m afraid that is not how Dúnedain inheritance laws work,” you sighed, “Chieftainship is passed through the male line. Since I am the only remaining member of my tribe and currently without a leader, by default my membership reverts back to the Dúnedain clan of the North, since that is from where we originally came.”

“What are you saying, then?” Thranduil insisted. 

“I’m saying that we will need the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North to stand in as my senior signatory on my father’s behalf,” you continued, internally giddy that you had temporarily interrupted Thranduil’s plans, “If I am not mistaken, that duty would fall to Arathorn son of Arador, but…”

“Arathorn is dead,” Thranduil deadpanned.

You nodded. 

“Then the responsibility will fall to his son,” you remarked lightly. 

Thranduil closed his eyes and placed his forehead in his hands. 

“You cannot be serious,” he hissed, removing his hands from his face to glare at you, “Nobody knows where his son is. ”

You blinked in surprise at that. Honestly, this little game had gone better than you had thought it would. 

“Well…” you said, slowly, “That…certainly complicates things.”

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Thranduil dismissed you from dinner not long after your conversation had ended, clearly needing the space to work out exactly what he was going to do about the information you had just provided him. For your part, you felt no small amount of pleasure at the king’s discomfort and figured it would take him some time to regroup before figuring out a way to move forward. You had bought yourself some time by kicking the arranged marriage can down the road, but you were not out of Mirkwood yet. 

The next two days were filled with somewhat tense negotiations between you and the Mirkwood elves as you tried to negotiate a fair price for their continued supply of food and other provisions. You were thankful that Smaug’s eternal greed forced you to be good at math because you had to forcefully tell Thranduil’s financial advisor that, no Erebor was not going to grant a 100-year, zero-percent interest loan to expand Mirkwood’s residential housing in exchange for only a 10-percent reduction in the cost of food.

Thranduil was weirdly quiet throughout the negotiations, preferring to let his advisors speak for him, only chiming in when he felt it necessary. Instead, he preferred to spend most of the time staring at you, which you really did not appreciate . You had enough on your plate with his hawkish advisors that you didn’t need his unnerving gaze fixed on you the whole time. 

You were getting close to an agreement with Mirkwood’s advisors by the end of the second day, having agreed to a basic framework for the trilateral agreements between Erebor, Mirkwood, and Dale. But you were going to need at least another day or so to hash out some of the finer details. Which didn’t bode well for you, because you were exhausted . You hadn’t slept well the past few nights at all, feeling suffocated by the forest around you and Thranduil’s omnipresence in everything. 

That night, you dreamt of Smaug. Normally your dreams were memories, nightmares of the times you had provoked his anger and suffered the consequences. But this time was different. You were sitting atop a pile of gold in the hoard while Smaug dozed lazily next to you. 

“You are troubled,” he suddenly said, “I can smell it.”

You said nothing, but Smaug was not one to be ignored. He lifted his head, coins clinking as they fell from his great form, and positioned his face directly in your field of view. 

“The Great Elvenking of Mirkwood wishes to marry you, how pathetic,” he teased, laughter ringing through the halls of Erebor. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to be anywhere but here. 

“Yes,” you confirmed, “I wasn’t good enough for him before. Why am I good enough for him now?”

Smaug stopped his chuckling at that and gave you a stern look. Despite his cruelty, Smaug really hated it when you deprecated yourself. 

“ You were never the problem,” he insisted, “The Elvenking did not deserve you before and he does not deserve you now. What kind of husband refuses to protect his wife from the likes of a dragon?”

You had been searching for an answer to that question for years . 

“I do not know what to do,” you rasped, taking a shaky breath, “He…he left me here for sixty years .”

Smaug hummed in agreement but said nothing. 

“And now he dares to call in the terms of the contract? He dares to insist that I fulfill my end of a bargain that he broke ?” you cried, finally letting hot tears flow down your cheeks. 

Smaug’s great tail emerged from the pile and moved to wrap gently around your trembling form, as you finally let out sixty years of grief, anger, and sorrow. He curled the rest of his large body around you and said nothing for several minutes as you continued to weep. He was the only being, other than your father, that you had ever cried in front of…the only one in the last sixty years who allowed you to show your vulnerability without exploiting it. Even though Smaug was directly the cause of much of your stress and sorrow, he attempted to make it bearable by providing his steady presence when he could. 

“You are strong, stronger than the Elvenking,” Smaug said, “But you are not his to command. You are mine. You belong to me.”

Your sobs tapered off as you processed Smaug’s words. 

“I do not belong to anyone,” you insisted, voice weaker than you would have liked, “Least of all to you. And you are dead.”

Smaug chuckled again, but this time it was not a mirthful laugh. It was dark, cruel, and slightly unhinged. 

“I am not dead,” he clarified, grinning widely, “I live on inside of you.”

Your eyes widened and you froze at his words. 

“What have you done to me?” you whispered, “Tell me now.”

“So long as you live, so too shall I,” Smaug continued, smirking, “You shall never be rid of me and your pretty king cannot save you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut once more, tears beginning to flow again. Smaug was such a cruel creature. One moment comforting, and the next your torturer. 

You were suddenly shaken awake by one of the palace attendants. You gasped as you opened your eyes and exited from your nightmare. Your eyes landed on an elleth who stood at the side of your bed with a concerned expression on her face. A quick glance over her shoulder at the windows showed that it was still dark outside. Morning had not yet come. 

“My Lady?” the elleth whispered, “Forgive me. I am the attendant assigned to the guest wing of the palace. I heard crying from your room and came to check on you.”

You slowly sat up and settled against the headboard, taking a few deep breaths in the hope that it would calm your racing heart. 

“Are you all right, My Lady?” the elleth asked, voice full of concern. 

“I…I will be,” you answered honestly, exhaling shakily, “Thank you for your concern. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

The elleth’s face softened at your words. 

“It is my duty to ensure your comfort, My Lady,” she explained, “Can I fetch you something?”

You shook your head. 

“I’ll be all right,” you mumbled, “I will just need to try to rest.”

The attendant didn’t look convinced but didn’t argue with you further. 

“Please let me know if there is anything I can bring for you,” she said.

You nodded. 

“Thank you, I will,” you affirmed. She nodded and left quietly, once again leaving you in your dark room. 

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You were exhausted entering the final day of negotiations, dreams of Smaug having stolen a large portion of your sleep. You woke up, completely unsure of how you were going to manage yet another long day of negotiations, but as the hour of the meeting approached, you knew that you had no choice. 

You requested black tea with your breakfast, hoping the additional jolt of caffeine would at least keep you alert enough to manage through the morning sessions. The elves usually took a midday break for a couple of hours, which would give you the opportunity to catch a quick nap if needed. You just needed to make it until then. 

When you entered the king’s meeting room, you were surprised to find that you were the only one there. For a moment, you wondered if you had gotten the time wrong, when the door swung open to reveal Thranduil. He strode into the room and took his customary seat at the head of the table. None of his advisors followed him. 

Odd. 

You sat down anyway and settled your hands in your lap, eyes scanning the notes you had taken from the previous day, trying to look anywhere but at him. After a few more minutes, when nobody else had shown up, you realized that something else was going on. You lifted your gaze to Thranduil who was staring at you intently, and you wondered for how long he had been doing that. 

“I’ve dismissed the others for the day,” he finally explained, “I wished to speak with you privately.”

Oh. 

Why the hell didn’t he say something earlier, then?

Before saying anything else, Thranduil produced a sealed envelope that he slid across the table to you. Frowning, you picked it up and recognized the seal as belonging to Lord Elrond of Rivendell. You raised your eyebrows even further when you saw that the letter was addressed specifically to you. 

“I had meant to write to Lord Elrond myself pertaining to your condition,” Thranduil said, “But it seems that in his infinite wisdom he has read my mind. This arrived from Rivendell this morning.”

You broke the seal and opened the parchment to reveal a rather short missive from Lord Elrond. 

Mae Govannen My Lady,

I regret that my first introduction to you could not be in-person, and that I did not have the distinct privilege of meeting your father. I have heard that he was a remarkable man and a wise leader. I hope you will forgive me and allow me to rectify this error.

I was recently informed by Mithrandir of your survival following the ordeal you faced at the hands of the dragon. Please allow me to express my sincerest apologies for the pain you have undoubtedly suffered and furthermore congratulate you on your remarkable strength and resilience. You have managed what entire armies could not, and for that, you are to be commended and respected.

Mithrandir explained that you are the last surviving member of your tribe, and for that I give you my condolences. He also mentioned that your years of exposure to dragon magic may have affected your health, but he was unable to provide more details. I write to offer my assistance should you wish it. This letter carries with it no obligation, only a message that the doors of Rivendell are open to you, always.

Should you choose to honor us as our guest, I believe you will find that you are not as alone as it may seem.

Elrond, Lord of Rivendell

You frowned at the cryptic nature of the final line, wracking your brain to try to figure out what Lord Elrond meant by it. It was a coded message, that was for sure, but code for what ?

Thranduil noticed your frown and shifted in his seat, trying his best to peer at the letter without being too obvious. 

“What is it?” he asked, and you looked at him. 

“Lord Elrond offers his services as a healer,” you informed, “It is an invitation to visit Rivendell. It appears that Gandalf had the same idea as you.”

“Mithrandir is nothing if not astute,” Thranduil concurred, “Do you intend to accept his invitation?”

You sighed, and closed your eyes. You still didn’t understand why Thranduil was so insistent on this. 

“I do not know, My Lord,” you mumbled, “I will give it some thought and make a decision once our negotiations conclude.”

Thranduil did not look pleased with your response.

“Very well,” Thranduil agreed, “But I am at a loss to understand your reasons for delaying. You needn’t suffer in silence.”

You knit your eyebrows together at his phrasing, confusion evident on your face. 

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Your nightmares,” Thranduil explained, voice soft and sympathetic, “You have them frequently, do you not?”

You clenched your fists under the table, trying to clamp down the surge of anger and embarrassment at his words. 

“How–how would you…” you started, before realizing. The attendant from last night. She must have said something. You closed your eyes and let out a sigh. There was no denying it, and you were hardly surprised at the realization that your movements were reported to the king. You were technically his betrothed after all, not just the ambassador to Erebor and Esgaroth. Thranduil must have ordered additional surveillance and protective detail on you. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to be enraged at the obvious violation of your privacy because you could not deny that you were exhausted . Dealing with Smaug was exhausting and Thranduil, despite what he probably thought, was just not helping. 

“It is not out of some cruel desire to intrude upon your privacy that I ask these questions of you,” Thranduil said, “It is concern.”

You opened your eyes, and looked at him squarely. 

“Concern for what?” you snapped, unthinkingly, “My well-being?”

“Whatever else would I be concerned about?” Thranduil asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Your Highness, may I speak plainly?” you questioned, and Thranduil nodded.

“You do not know me,” you continued, “We met once before, and that was when you came to sign the betrothal contract. We hardly speak now. Forgive me if I find your concerns about my well-being misplaced. I am guessing you are worried that your future wife might actually just be mad.”

Thranduil looked to deny it, but you interrupted him. 

“I can hardly blame you,” you conceded, “I would have the same worries if I were in your position. I suppose the easiest way to allay your fears would be to call off the engagement. If you are indeed looking for a wife and queen, I’m sure you could find someone more suitable.”

Thranduil did not say anything immediately. Instead he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, regarding your words carefully. You tried your best to take a few calming breaths to quell your nerves while you waited for his response. 

“Do you wish to end the betrothal?” he finally said.

You blinked in surprise. Throughout this whole ordeal, he had never once asked you what you wanted. In fact, nobody had asked you what you wanted in over sixty years. You had just been expected to do what was best for…well…everybody else.

“It would not be wise to continue,” you admitted, “You must understand, I may not be very expressive but that is because I have had to learn to be reserved. Since my return, I have learned that so many people knew what had happened to me. Men, elves, dwarves, even my own Dúnedain people, with more resources than my father had, knew what had happened to me and none of them, frankly, cared. If it weren’t for the bravery of Thorin Oakenshield and his company, I would have rotted away in that mountain or eventually died when Smaug grew bored of me. That level of betrayal and feelings of worthlessness take time to get over.”

Thranduil stayed quiet, face unreadable.

“I also have nothing of value to give you,” you said, “Whatever wealth my family once had is gone. You have it. I cannot give you anymore.”

It was Thranduil’s turn to let out a sigh. 

“I…regret not doing more to help you,” he confessed, “You did not deserve the fate that befell you at the hands of Smaug.”

You leaned back in your chair, trying not to let the astonishment show on your face. You never thought that the Elvenking would admit to something like this, but here you were. 

“I am unsure of your familiarity with elven traditions,” he continued, “But I am sure that you know that I was married previously.”

You nodded. 

“Yes,” you said, “I am sorry for your loss.”

Thranduil closed his eyes as if in remembrance before continuing. 

“Elves only love once in their lifetime, and therefore only marry once,” he explained, “It is incredibly rare for an elf to take a second spouse, even after the death of their first one, but it is not entirely unheard of.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, confusion evident on your face once again. This only seemed to prove your point that this marriage was a bad idea.

“My wife died over two thousand years ago,” Thranduil said, “This kingdom has not been the same since. Greenwood used to be a place of life and light, but now it has been overtaken by death and shadow. My wife’s death marked a turning point. I have tried to rid these woods of the ever encroaching evil. But that will not happen until the evil that plagues all of Middle Earth is destroyed.”

You were still confused as to where he was going with this, but said nothing. Thranduil was a reserved elf who spoke few words. The fact that he was explaining all of this to you was nothing short of miraculous. 

“I realized that my sorrow affected the kingdom and its ability to defend our borders,” he said, “We once had full control of this forest. Now we are reduced to one-third of the land we used to have. The forest is inextricably tied to the happiness of the elves, and there has been only grief here.”

“Your wife was a stabilizing force,” you remarked, softly, “She kept you and the forest grounded.”

Thranduil nodded. 

“Yes,” he murmured, “I cannot fight the growing evil unless I truly believe that it is worth fighting. And I have been…alone.”

You let out a slow breath as you pieced together what he wasn’t saying, or was too afraid to admit out loud. 

“I see now,” you mumbled, “When you agreed to the match, you weren’t just looking for an economic treaty. You needed companionship to return the emotional and spiritual stability to the forest. And you chose a human because most elves would not marry someone who had already lost a wife.”

Thranduil only nodded in response. 

“That which you are asking seems only possible for an elf,” you ventured, “What made you think that I would be able to help you in this way? I am merely human, destined to die before you.”

“It was…a calculated risk that I felt was necessary at the time,” Thranduil admitted, “I was skeptical, and was not entirely convinced that it would work. My advisors did not believe it would work either. But now, everything is different.”

You said nothing, leaving the floor open for him to continue. 

“You have faced one of the greatest evils that exists in this world and you have survived ,” Thranduil praised, “You underestimate your own strength, that is clear. But I am hopeful that there is a way you can help us heal this forest.”

You were still unconvinced, but Thranduil interrupted you before you could say anything. 

“And perhaps, in return, we can help you,” Thranduil proposed, “I understand that I have not earned your forgiveness. I will not force you into anything. If you wish it, I will return your dowry and you can live your life as you see best.”

You…were not expecting that. Not at all. Perhaps Mithrandir had indeed spoken to Thranduil about this.

“My only ask is that you consider the match again,” Thranduil pleaded.

You didn’t reply immediately and instead stared down at Lord Elrond’s letter again. Would it really be so bad to actually seek out the help that you needed? You had been so used to navigating things alone, and now someone…more than one someone…was offering you help more or less on a silver platter. Ultimately, the risk was fairly minimal, but the rewards were much greater. 

“Give me…a week,” you finally said, “I will give you my answer then.”

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You kept to your word. After concluding the negotiations at Mirkwood, you rode back to Erebor immediately to collect concurrence signatures from Bard and Dáin. Both kings were ecstatic that you had managed to negotiate something so mutually beneficial on behalf of all three kingdoms. You had to clarify that the deal you had made on their behalf was only a start. It would be up to the three kings to uphold their ends of the bargain and modify the treaty as needed. 

After that, you asked Dáin for a temporary relief from your duties, which he granted. You then spent time in your little house in Dale, trying your hardest to compose a reply to Lord Elrond, but you ended up hating each draft. Soon, there was an ever-growing pile of letters stacking up by your desk. You stopped once you realized that you were starting to run dangerously low on paper, and sat back in your chair.

You were distracted. Incredibly distracted. You would be forgiven, of course. Your last several days in Mirkwood had been an emotional rollercoaster. That and your fear of sleeping just did not help. 

Thranduil had been correct. You had not forgiven him. At one point, you were not sure if you ever would, but the way he had so freely offered to return your dowry had given you pause. You had given up hope that you would ever see it again, and you had become convinced that you would have to pry it out of the king’s hands. But it seems that not only had he not spent it, he was completely unbothered at the idea of potentially parting with it. That alone gave credence to his claims that he was indeed searching for something more than just money, someone to…heal his forest. 

You could recognize coded language. The king was lonely . And that loneliness was affecting more than just him. It was affecting his entire kingdom, and his attitude had driven his son away. Prince Legolas was Valar-knew-where, gallivanting around and trying to figure himself out. You didn’t blame him. In many respects, you regretted not joining him.

Truth be told, you were exhausted. Exhausted at dealing with Smaug constantly invading your nightmares. Exhausted from carrying around the weight of a sixty-year-old grudge against Thranduil (hell, the entirety of Middle Earth) like a mountain-troll on your back. You had no idea what you wanted because you had not been allowed to wish for anything for yourself for decades. But one thing you did know was that the position you found yourself in couldn’t last forever. 

Gandalf had been correct. You needed to figure out what Smaug had done to you and why, even with his death, you were still tied to him. Regardless of what happened with Thranduil, you wouldn’t live a full life unless you resolved that. Thranduil seemed genuine enough with his desire to help you. He even seemed to entertain your ludicrous idea of seeking out the new Dúnedain chieftain and securing his permission.

You weren’t entirely pulling his leg on that one. You were going to have to do that at some point, even if the permission was mostly ceremonial in nature. It wouldn’t be considered a valid marriage from the Dúnedain perspective if you didn’t. You had always thought the inheritance laws were stupid, particularly for women, but at least in this instance, they would buy you some time. You couldn’t marry Thranduil immediately even if you wanted to.

If you were going to go through with this ludicrous idea of keeping your betrothal to Thranduil, then you were going to do it on your terms. You would renegotiate the contract on your own behalf because Thranduil was right about one thing…everything was different now. 

You tabled your reply to Lord Elrond, and got up from your chair, grabbing your cloak as you headed to the front door of your house. The walk from Dale to Erebor took you only a handful of minutes, and you steadied your breathing as you approached the grand front gates. You hated every moment of being inside the mountain, but you were going to have to endure it if you wanted to carry out your plan. 

The guards at the gate let you into the mountain immediately, and you traversed the familiar hallways towards the throne room of the King Under the Mountain. You clamped down on the sick feeling in your stomach as you did so. Erebor was almost unrecognizable from when you had lived there with Smaug, but there was still a lot of work to do. You knew that most of the horde had not been cleared out, and while the citizens of Dale and the elves had been paid most of their portion of the treasure, there was still quite a bit to go through. 

Plus several things were still missing, hidden within the walls. One of those items was something that you knew belonged to Thranduil, and he desperately wanted it back.

King Dáin received you almost immediately, and you bowed deeply when you were granted an audience. 

“I thought I gave you a reprieve so you could rest, eh Lass?” he joked, “I’m surprised to see you in these halls so soon.”

You smiled, weakly. 

“It will take me some time to be comfortable here, and I might never truly be,” you replied, “But might as well start now.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dáin said, “Now, what brings you here, My Lady?”

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. You had already told Dáin about Thranduil’s proposition, and you knew that he was waiting just as much as the Elvenking to hear your decision. 

“I have decided to renegotiate the terms of my engagement with the Elvenking,” you said, trying to sound confident, “I believe that the match could bring benefits for both of us.”

Dáin raised his eyebrows at your proclamation. 

“I’ll admit, I am surprised to hear you say this,” he said, “How did that princess possibly convince you to marry him?”

You chuckled at Dáin’s characterization of Thranduil. 

“He didn’t convince me, but rather I realized that I need help that only the elves can provide,” you explained. 

Dáin considered you for a moment.

“I see,” he said, “I cannot deny that the elves would have a better insight into your condition than anyone, loath as I am to admit it.”

“Believe me, I am not looking forward to telling Thranduil that he is right about anything,” you laughed, “He is already too arrogant for his own good.”

“Oh Lass, you don’t even know the half of it,” Dáin chuckled, “Are you asking for my blessing? You have it, so long as you are happy.”

“I am grateful to have it, Your Majesty,” you said, “But I have come to ask of you one thing.”

Dáin nodded. 

“Name it.”

“I would like to start off the betrothal on a better foot than sixty years ago,” you continued, “I would like to ask you if I can take the White Gems of Lasgalen with me.”

Dáin’s eyes widened. 

“The White Gems?” he asked, astonished, “Those are one of the pieces that is lost in the mountain. It has been a point of contention between Thandruil and me, you know this. We have been searching for them for the past year. Don’t tell me that you have known their location this whole time?”

You shook your head. 

“I cannot guarantee their location, but Smaug liked to hide things in very unusual places. I spent most of my time here looking for his hiding places while he was asleep. It was a sort of game that I liked to play with myself. Eventually, I found them all,” you explained, “I will hazard a guess that White Gems might be in one of those locations.”

Dáin rose from his seat suddenly. 

“Lass, I understand why you could not, but truly, I wish you had told me of this sooner,” he scolded.

To your credit, you bowed your head and had the grace to look embarrassed. But Dáin brushed it off and moved to call for some of his men to come to his aid.

“All right, Lass, show us where you believe these gems are,” Dáin ordered and you complied. 

You led Dáin and his guards down several flights of stairs and through several winding, twisting passageways. You noticed some of his guards becoming confused, having clearly not been down this far into the mountain before. Even Dáin had not come this far. This portion of Erebor was unstable and too dangerous for more than a few people at a time. Some of the bridges and walkways were unfinished, making it a tricky task to get the six of you to your destination. 

Eventually, after several minutes, you stopped in front of an old door, wooden and slightly splintered. It had clearly seen better days. 

“I had no idea there were rooms down here,” Dáin grumbled, and you sighed. 

“As you saw, it is not easy to get down here,” you mumbled, “I would not recommend coming down here frequently if you don’t have to. Especially if you plan to carry heavy equipment.”

Dáin just grunted in response. 

“Are you telling me that the White Gems are behind this door?” he asked, starting to get annoyed.

“They may be,” you said, “But I haven’t been back down here in a few decades. It is possible Smaug moved them to another hiding place. Unfortunately, some of those are even more difficult to access, and my memory escapes me for most of them. Let us hope they are here.”

Dáin huffed and motioned for his guards to ready the door. They drew their axes, ready to strike if anything unexpected came running from the room, and carefully opened the door. Surprisingly, it swung open rather easily. The guards entered the room and after a few moments, one popped his head back into the doorway. 

“It is safe, My King,” he said.

Dáin gestured for you to enter, and you took a torch from one of the guards and carefully entered the room. It was an unremarkable space, maybe ten by fifteen feet at the most, and made entirely of stone. There was nothing in the room immediately and Dáin grumbled.

“Lass, there is nothing in here,” he growled, his annoyance rising. 

“That would be too obvious, My King,” you mumbled, turning to the guards, “If you could please help me, several of these stones are loose. The White Gems may be behind one of them.”

It took you and the guards several minutes to rip back the stones from the walls. The dwarves were far less gentle than you and used crowbars to rip apart the rocks regardless of if they were loose. Eventually one of the guards shouted that he had found something. You turned immediately and walked over to him as he was pulling out a heavy-looking wooden box. 

You sighed in relief. You recognized the writing on the outside of the box as Elvish, even if you couldn’t read it. This had to contain the missing gemstones. Dáin ordered the guards to open the box to confirm it, and surely enough as they did so, you were all met with a blinding white light. You had to avert your eyes for a few moments before you could look upon the gems in their brilliance. 

“That’s it then,” Dáin mumbled, “We have finally found them, thank the Valar.”

He moved to address you. 

“You may take them to Thranduil,” he agreed, “I want these accursed stones out of my kingdom. They have caused nothing but problems.”

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King Bard allowed you the escort of two human guards as you made your way to Mirkwood for the second time. The White Gems of Lasgalen were packaged carefully and inconspicuously into a sturdy bag and a special contraption was created for your saddle so that you could essentially affix them just behind you on your saddle. You could not afford to take any chances with them.

You had decided not to inform Thranduil of your arrival, figuring that it would be a waste of time sending a messenger to Mirkwood when you could just go yourself and tell him of your decision. Feren was on duty at the front gates to Mirkwood and looked surprised at your arrival.

“My Lady,” he addressed, politely, “Our apologies, we were not informed that you would be visiting us.”

You shook your head. 

“I thought it would be easier to just come myself,” you said, “I would appreciate it if you could inform your king that I seek a private audience with him, at his earliest convenience.”

Feren bowed to you and allowed you through the gates to Mirkwood while one of his guards went to fetch the king’s valet to inform him of your arrival. Your escorts were given rooms and something to eat while you were escorted to the king’s personal study, clutching the bag with the White Gems in your hand, tightly. The king’s valet, Aeron as you learned his name was, knocked on the door and you waited a few moments before the king granted permission for you to enter. Aeron gave you a small smile before opening the door, bowing, and announcing your presence. 

You gingerly stepped into the study and Aeron quietly closed the door behind you. In front of you, Thranduil sat behind a beautifully carved, mahogany desk with stacks of papers neatly arranged across it. He looked a bit surprised to see you. 

“My Lady, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, voice honeyed and smooth, “May I assume that you have come to a decision?”

You straightened your posture as best you could and nodded. 

“I have, Your Highness,” you began, “I…I…would like to honor our betrothal and future marriage, if that is still agreeable to you. I hope that I can provide the help that you seek.”

Thranduil leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing in relief. He took a few moments before opening his eyes and giving the barest hint of a smile. 

“I am relieved to hear that,” he replied, “In return you will have the full protection of my kingdom and my support in healing from your captivity in the mountain. It is my sincerest hope that in time, we will come to trust each other utterly.”

You nodded. 

“That is my hope as well,” you concurred, “If I may take the first step toward establishing this trust?”

Thranduil knit his eyebrows together and tilted his head in curiosity, but nodded nonetheless. You approached his desk and laid your bag on top of it. You opened the bag and gingerly pulled out the large, wooden box, and set it on top of his desk. Thranduil sat up immediately, posture ramrod straight as he recognized what it was. 

“Are those…?” he breathed, not daring to say aloud what he desperately hoped to be true. 

You nodded and took a few steps back from the desk to allow him some space. He bent over the box and reached for the lid. You noticed a slight tremor in his hands as he lifted the lid. Once again, the room was filled with bright, white light from the gems in front of him. He reached down and pulled out a beautifully crafted necklace and ran his fingers over the piece, reverently. You thought you saw the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes, and you averted yours, feeling as though you were intruding on an intensely private moment that you were not supposed to witness.

Eventually, Thranduil managed to collect himself and he spoke. 

“How–how did you find these?” he questioned, voice raspy with emotion, “Dáin told me that they could not be found. I never truly believed him.”

“Please forgive King Dáin, My Lord,” you said, “It is not his fault. Smaug hid these gems in one of many hiding spots he created, deep within the mountain. I remember finding the particular spot in which he put the gems fifty years ago. I was unsure if they had been moved since then, and my memory of all his hiding places is fading. I did not want to inform you until I was absolutely sure that I knew where they were. If there is anyone to blame for the delay in their return, it is me.”

Thranduil sighed and closed the lid to the gems, keeping his hands on the box as though afraid that it would disappear any moment. 

“I see,” he replied, his normal eloquence escaping him. 

“King Dáin sends these with his regards, as a peace offering,” you explained, “I hope to start our betrothal anew.”

Thranduil nodded and took a breath to steady himself. 

“Thank you for returning these to me. You will forever have my gratitude,” he said, sitting back down in his chair, “How long will it take for you to make preparations to relocate to Greenwood?”

You were grateful for the change of topic. 

“Maybe a week,” you guessed, “I don’t have many things. I just need to finish a few errands with King Bard in Esgaroth before resigning my post.”

Thranduil nodded.

“Easily done,” he said, “I would like for you to be settled here before we seek Lord Elrond’s services. I will write to him shortly. I received word that Prince Legolas is currently in Gondor and intends to remain there for a while to learn the ways of men. When you are ready, I will send for him. He will escort you to Rivendell.”

You frowned at that. 

“My Lord, surely Prince Legolas has more important matters to occupy his time than…watching me?” you ventured.

Thranduil frowned deeply at your words. 

“Certainly not,” he insisted, “You are the future queen of Greenwood. In my absence, there is no one more qualified and certainly no one I would trust more with your safety than him.”

You blinked in surprise at hearing your future title for the first time. When he put it like that…yeah…it made sense to have Legolas as your escort. 

“You both may find the answers you seek in Rivendell,” Thranduil continued, “There is more there than just healing.”

You raised an eyebrow at his cryptic response. If there was one thing that Thranduil was right about, your life was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

Your footsteps echoed loudly through the halls of Erebor as you descended the steps down to the hoard, several dead rabbits clutched in your hand making up the entirety of your food for the next couple days. Since living with Smaug, you found that you needed to eat very little particularly in comparison to how it used to be before. The past six years had not been easy for you, and you dreaded how much longer your torture would continue. 

You prayed to the Valar everyday to just end your suffering. 

Smaug had not returned to the mountain since dropping off his latest batch of food for you. Once you had picked up the dead rabbits, he had taken flight and flown off to find his own food. He had done this many times before, and you knew that it usually took him a few hours to eat his fill before he returned. 

You had only a few hours to enact your latest escape attempt. The past few times you had done this, Smaug had caught you almost immediately, and his displeasure was visible in the many scars that now littered your legs. You had been impulsive then, trying to escape with no semblance of a plan or an idea of what you would do. Even if you had been successful, you had no transportation and very few options of where to go. 

Your father had died about six months ago, having failed in his final attempt to rescue you from the mountain. Smaug had burned him and his men to a crisp and made you watch as he did so. You cried yourself to sleep for weeks, Smaug offering little comfort, only laughing as he witnessed your distress. But what he had underestimated was your anger, and your anger drove you to be bolder than you had before. 

You skinned the rabbits and began preparing a fire on one of the outdoor terraces of Erebor. By your estimate, you had about twelve hours before Smaug returned from his hunt. It was not long enough for you to get to your final destination, but it would give you a good enough headstart. You would need to cook your meat and store it properly so you could keep it for the several days’ journey to Mirkwood. 

Only King Thranduil could help you now. He was the only person that knew you were still alive, and probably the only one who would give you temporary shelter if you made it that far. But you weren’t sure because your escape would naturally engender Smaug’s wrath. King Thranduil would be well within his rights to cast you out of the forest and leave you to your fate, but it was a risk that you had to take. 

There would also be the inevitable migraine that would hit you once you left the foot of the mountain. The first few times you had tried to escape, it had been incapacitating, but each time, you endured just a little bit longer. You were going to have to fight it. You had no choice but to do so. 

Once you had prepared your provisions, you took a deep breath and began making your way to the only entrance to the mountain that Smaug kept open. It was a chore making it over the crumbling rocks, but you had done this a few times before, so you knew where the worst of the snags were. The moment you exited, you took off running as fast as you could, making it to the ruins of the city of Dale in just a few minutes. You paused for a moment, waiting for the tingling of the migraine to begin, but to your surprise, nothing happened. You decided not to dwell on it further and began quickly making your way down the mountain, with the hopes of making it to the edge of the lake where you knew a couple of old boats were. 

The boats were probably full of holes and may sink the moment you placed them in the lake, but you would swim the entire length of the lake if you had to. If you could just make it to Laketown before Smaug returned to Erebor, you would have the best chance of putting this ordeal behind you than you ever had. 

Your determination was so strong that you barely noticed the fact that the migraine had not returned. You found the surviving boathouse and dragged the wooden contraption across the beach and into the lake. It was old and definitely dingy, but it would get you far enough to Laketown where you could hopefully hitch a ride on a merchant ship heading to Mirkwood for trade. 

You rowed all day, the sun beginning to set over the hills. Smaug would be back in a few hours, and you were almost to Laketown. Freedom was so close, you could almost taste it. Your arms were burning and your heart was racing from the exertion but you pressed forward until you were just at the border of Laketown, heart leaping in your throat when you realized that you…might actually make it. 

You looked around the lake for a moment to realize that it was still. Too still, save for you. Something was…wrong. 

Your migraine had not returned. In fact, you felt…completely fine. 

This was too easy. 

Before you could contemplate it further, a dark shadow blocked the last light of the sun, and you heard several screams from the town behind you. You closed your eyes and placed your head in your hands. Smaug had returned. 

Suddenly you were snatched from your boat and lifted into the air, the wind knocked out of you as Smaug took you higher and higher. You could barely think as the cold air whipped in your face and the speed took your breath away. 

“So,” he growled, “You thought you could escape me? You thought I would not realize?”

You were speechless, unable to form any words as he climbed higher into the air. 

“You thought you could make it to Mirkwood, did you?” he accused, “You thought your pretty elf king would save you? From me!? You dared seek out his presence?”

Tears stung your eyes as the cold air continued to lambast your skin. 

“You have not learned your lesson,” Smaug hissed, stopping his ascent and bringing you to face him, “So, it appears I must once again teach you. You belong to me!”

With that declaration, he took off flying but not in the direction of Erebor. In the direction of Mirkwood. You saw the writing on the wall immediately. 

“...No,” you breathed, barely able to make your voice work, “No…please!”

Smaug scoffed. 

“Perhaps now, you will learn!” he roared, and he dived into the forest of Mirkwood, belly quickly heating with his impending fire. 

“Please…no! Punish me instead!” you cried.

But Smaug did not listen, and you watched in abject horror as he let loose his great fire and began burning down the forest of Mirkwood. Below you, you heard the frightened screams of the elves as they scattered, desperately trying to regroup and find a way to fight the dragon. Smaug tore through the kingdom, razing everything in his wake, while you were forced to watch, large tears streaming unchecked down your face. This was all your fault. 

All your fault. 

But the worst was yet to come.

“Ah,” Smaug chuckled, “Defiant as always. Perhaps King Thranduil will finally learn the true meaning of dragon fire.”

You twisted around to see a figure on the ground, astride a glowing white elk, twin swords raised in defiance. King Thranduil. 

“Please, I beg of you,” you sobbed, “Don’t do this.”

Smaug cared little for your pleas. He circled around, placing his form in the king’s line of sight. Thranduil, ever the valiant fighter, showed absolutely no fear as he bid his elk to charge forward, weapons positioned in front of him to either strike a killing blow or die trying. Smaug chuckled and opened his maw, letting loose a huge stream of fire. You screamed uncontrollably as you watched the flames charge forward, engulfing Thranduil. The look on his face was one of utter betrayal as he stared directly at you…

…You sat bolt upright in your bed, drenched in sweat and heart pounding in your chest. You panted hard, not initially recognizing your surroundings, before your eyes started adjusting to the dark. You placed a hand to your chest, willing yourself to take deep breaths to calm your racing heart. Moonlight streamed through a crack in the curtains next to your bed, giving a soft glow to the room, and you began to make out features of the now familiar chambers. 

You were in Mirkwood. You had been for about ten months now. 

It took you several minutes before you were able to convince yourself that the nightmare you had had was not real. Mirkwood was still standing. Smaug was dead. King Thranduil was safe. He had not perished from Smaug’s fire. It was all just a dream. 

And not the first one you had had since permanently relocating to Mirkwood and taking up your position as the king’s betrothed. In fact, as you grew closer with the king, the nightmares only seemed to be getting worse. This was the first time where you had actively dreamt of King Thranduil’s death, let alone his death at the hands of Smaug. 

Whatever the dragon had done to you, it was getting worse. Smaug had been dead almost two years now, and yet his hold on you was as bad as it had been when you were trapped in the mountain. You could not be entirely sure why it was getting worse, but you could hazard a guess. If Smaug had somehow managed to attach his life force to you, then he would be able to continually affect you until you died. Smaug was a possessive, jealous creature. He had never been willing to part with a single piece of gold, so why would he consider you to be any different? 

The part of Smaug that still remained was obviously furious that you had gone forward with your betrothal to King Thranduil, and he was making his ire known. Now, instead of just making you relive moments of your captivity, he was escalating by fabricating images of your new kingdom perishing at his hands. 

Just like what he had done to your father. 

You couldn’t take this anymore. You needed to get out of this room.

You scrambled out of bed, threw on a robe to protect you from the winter chill, and exited your room, quickly walking towards the entrance to the palace gardens. You did not care if your footsteps echoed through the empty halls, waking the elves with sensitive ears. You just needed to get out of there. The walls seemed to be closing in on you, suffocating you, and you felt as though you couldn’t breathe properly. 

It took you mere minutes to exit the palace and take refuge in the garden. The gardens were exquisite and exceedingly well-kept, but their beauty escaped you at this very moment. You found a lone tree, plopped yourself against it, sitting with your back to the trunk, and gazed up at the stars. At the sight of them, you felt yourself begin to calm immediately, your heartbeat slowing down and your breathing becoming less ragged. You dug your nails into your palms, the pain grounding you, convincing you that you were awake and no longer dreaming. 

Mirkwood was still standing. Everything was fine.

You heard soft footsteps approaching you, and you whipped your head around to find King Thranduil standing a few feet away with a concerned frown on his face. 

“The nightmares continue?” he asked, softly, “This is the first time you have sought refuge here. It must be serious this time.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your tears not to fall again. You had not cried in front of Thranduil yet, and you were still wary of doing so. 

“I—needed to be sure,” you whispered.

“Sure of what?” he questioned.

“That…that…the forest still stood,” you confessed, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing yourself to calm.

Beside you, you felt Thranduil lower to the ground to sit beside you. A part of you was shocked that he would deign to sit in the dirt, while the other part of you tried not to think about the fact that this was the closest the two of you had physically been since you relocated to his kingdom. You weren’t sure if you were capable of handling the implications of what that meant. 

Thranduil did not crowd you, and did not move to touch you. He simply sat next to you and looked upon you, his concern growing. He had known about your nightmares and knew that you still suffered from them, but he had failed to grasp the depth of their severity. Part of him wished that you would open up a bit more to him, to allow him to try to help you, but the other part of him understood your need to keep your battles private. After all, it wasn’t as though he had been forthcoming about his own experience with dragons either. 

“Will you tell me what you saw?” he asked. 

You took a shuddering breath and opened your eyes. His gaze was soft and genuine, and at the moment, you saw no good reason to keep this particular dream from him. 

So, you told him. You described in vivid detail the events of your dream, failing to contain your tears as you recounted Smaug’s assault on Mirkwood and how you had woken up just before Thranduil’s death. When you had finished, you furiously wiped your tears on the back of your hand, and pointedly refrained from looking at him. 

“I’m sorry,” you rasped, “This is not your burden to bear.”

“Do not apologize,” Thranduil said, forcefully, “I agreed to share this burden with you.”

He was right about that, you supposed. You still hated leaning on other people, preferring to deal with this yourself. But it was becoming clear that you were not going to be able to manage this much longer. 

“I have underestimated the severity of Smaug’s hold over you,” Thranduil sighed, “You are in urgent need of Lord Elrond’s care. I will send for Prince Legolas in the morning.”

You squeezed your eyes shut again and nodded, resisting the urge to argue with him…to try to make the false assertion that you had this under control. Something about this dream forced you to realize that you could not survive this much longer. It had only been two years since Smaug died, and you were rapidly approaching your hundredth year, looking no different than you had when you were in your early 30’s. Smaug’s plan had been to keep you captive for the rest of your days, and even in death, he was fulfilling that plan. 

You felt a gentle hand on your shoulder, and you opened your eyes to find Thranduil looking at you with a soft expression. 

“You need rest. Would it help if you weren’t alone?” he asked. 

You thought for a moment, thinking that having one of your attendants stay in the room with you for a while might help you fall back asleep. Your main attendant, Mirima, would be the most logical choice. 

“I…yes, I think that would help,” you mumbled, “I will find Mirima.”

Thranduil sighed quietly. 

“Or, if you would prefer to keep this private, I can stay with you,” Thranduil offered.

You couldn’t keep the shock from blanketing your face, and Thranduil quickly explained himself. 

“I have quite a bit of paperwork to complete this morning. My study has a large chaise, you can rest there,” Thranduil continued.

“You–don’t need to rest as well?” you ventured, “It’s still quite early.”

Thranduil shook his head. 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed but elves require much less sleep than mortals,” he explained, and you chuckled slightly at his phrasing, “I prefer to work before the majority of the palace has awoken. It is quieter.”

You couldn’t blame him on that one.

“If…it would not be too much trouble,” you said, “Then your company would be…most appreciated.”

Thranduil nodded and stood, holding out his hand for you to take.

“Come,” he invited, and you took his hand, letting yourself be guided back to the palace and to the king’s study once more. 

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It took several months for the messenger to reach Gondor with King Thranduil’s letter for Prince Legolas, and several more months before he finally returned to Mirkwood. By the time Legolas arrived, you had been in Mirkwood for about fifteen months and sleeping in Thranduil’s study after a nightmare had become a regular occurrence. He never seemed to mind, and you found that your sleep was much sounder knowing that his steady presence was nearby. Smaug seemed to sense his presence too and rarely bothered you with him around. 

It was unnerving. 

Thranduil had also insisted that you learn how to defend yourself, considering that the road from Mirkwood to Rivendell was dangerous. You had never been formally trained in swordcraft or even archery, your father holding to the Dúnedain traditions of men doing most of the heavy lifting in that area. The most you had ever done was stab a few orcs in self defense during the Battle of the Five Armies. Thranduil had looked mildly horrified when he had realized that you had survived that battle on a combination of nihilistic nonchalance and no small amount of luck. Needless to say, he was not amused.

You were not a warrior, and you weren’t trying to be, but your goal was to try not to get yourself killed. Yes, while Legolas would be accompanying you on your journey, and you couldn’t be in better hands, it would be most helpful to him if you weren’t completely incompetent. The elven guard assigned to train you was very patient and taught you how to properly hold a shortsword and a few long elvish hunting blades. You practiced with him for a couple of hours almost every day, leading to you practically crawling back to your quarters, exhausted and sore. If there was one benefit to the physical activity, it tired you out to the point that you barely dreamt of Smaug. 

Prince Legolas arrived from Gondor with more fanfare than you suspected he would have liked. He had been away from Mirkwood for two years, which was really nothing in the lifetime of an elf. You stood at the entrance to the palace to receive him, electing not to join Thranduil in the throne room. He gave you a small smile as he approached. 

“My Lady,” he greeted, bowing respectfully when he saw you, which you were totally unprepared for. 

“Prince Legolas,” you said, “It is good to see you again.”

“And you as well, My Lady,” he returned, “I must admit I was not expecting you to renew your engagement to my father. Nonetheless, you have my congratulations.”

Valar, you hadn’t actually thought much about Legolas in this process and how awkward this entire situation would be for him.

“You are most kind, My Lord,” you said, “To be frank, I was not expecting to renew my betrothal either, but here we are I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Legolas concurred, nodding, “Will you be accompanying me to see my father?”

You shook your head. 

“No, that conversation is for the two of you alone,” you explained, “I will be around. Feel free to find me at any time if you would like to discuss anything.”

Legolas nodded and gave you another small smile before striding forward to enter the throne room. You stood outside the palace for a moment, drinking in the fresh air before begrudgingly making your way over to the training grounds to continue your lessons. Today was archery, and you were absolutely abysmal at it. You could only hope that Legolas, the legendary archer himself, wouldn’t be around to witness your inability to hit close-range, stationary targets. 

Which…because the Valar really just hated you…was unfortunately exactly what happened. You had misfired for probably the hundredth time that day, your arrow landing several feet from the target, and your frustration was growing. Your trainer normally had infinite amounts of patience, but you could tell from the tenseness in his face that even he was starting to get annoyed. 

You had survived sixty years of a fire-breathing dragon. There was no way in Mordor you were going to let some stupid arrow get the best of you. You immediately nocked another arrow and took aim, squinting hard to see the target as best as you could. Before you could fire, you heard your trainer call out someone behind you. 

“My Lord, Legolas!”

Shit.

You lowered your bow and turned to find Legolas strolling into the training guards with his own gear. He spoke quietly to your trainer for a moment and then dismissed him. The guard bowed, seemingly pleased that he had been relieved of babysitting duty for the moment, and wandered off. 

“My father mentioned that I might find you here,” Legolas stated, “It appears you are training in archery. That is commendable.”

You huffed and shook your head. 

“‘Train’ is a generous word,” you grumbled, “‘Failing’ would be the more accurate term. After three weeks of work, I still cannot even hold the bow straight.”

Legolas shook his head. 

“Three weeks is hardly enough time to learn anything,” he insisted, “You should not compare yourself to any of the elves. They have been training for centuries.”

You couldn’t argue with that logic. But you were human, you weren’t logical on a good day.

“I’m not trying to become a warrior queen,” you grumpily said, “I’m just trying to make sure I don’t become warg food before we arrive at Rivendell. I don’t think Lord Elrond will be able to do much if I show up in pieces.”

Legolas frowned. 

“I shall be with you. I will not let you become…warg food,” he declared.

You internally chuckled. For someone who was cresting three millennia in age and who had spent a couple of years in Gondor, Legolas was still a bit naive to mortal nihilism. It was a bit funny. 

“It was a joke,” you explained, “I’m not questioning your skills at all, quite the opposite. It’s a wonder my lack of battle prowess has gotten me this far. I nearly got squished by one of those troll things during the Battle of Five Armies. One of these days, my luck is going to desert me.”

Legolas’ frown deepened and a pained look flashed across his face for a moment. 

“You…shouldn’t jest about such things,” he warned. 

You sighed and shook your head. 

“No, you’re right, I shouldn’t,” you conceded, “Your father hates it when I make these comments too.”

To say that Thranduil hated your dark humor was the understatement of the century. The first and last time you had made such a quip had been after a particularly bad nightmare where Smaug had finally gotten fed up with you and had just burnt you to a crisp.

“Well,” you had mumbled, “At least death by incineration is faster than my current slow descent into insanity. Too bad Smaug decided to go with the latter. How inconvenient.”

If looks could kill, you wouldn’t have had to worry about Smaug anymore, because of the absolutely scathing look Thranduil had given you at that comment.

“Do Not. Ever. Say such things again,” he had hissed, voice so low it was almost a growl.

Yep. You weren’t making that mistake again.

Legolas tilted his head in curiosity. 

“Then why do you make such comments?” he pressed.

You sighed. 

“It’s just…gallows humor, Prince Legolas,” you rationalized, “It’s a very human thing to do. Humor helps us cope with uncomfortable situations. Surely you encountered it during your time in Gondor?”

Legolas shook his head. 

“No, I did not,” he said, “I shall take your word for it. But I do not like it. I do not find death amusing.”

Well, fair enough. No gallows humor for Legolas either. You simply nodded in acknowledgement and waited out the awkward silence that ensued before Legolas spoke again. 

“You…hold your bow too stiffly,” he observed, “Perhaps if you’d like, I can help you with your archery practice?”

Your eyes widened at his offer. Prince Legolas, who has trained for millennia, would deign to help you learn archery? It seemed ridiculous until you reminded yourself again that you were about to marry his father, and become his…well…you couldn’t exactly say step-mother. The elf was literally three thousand years older than you. 

“Are you sure?” you ventured, “I don’t want to impose…”

Legolas sighed, sounding eerily similar to his father as he did so. Valar, you were going to have to deal with two of them now. 

“You are to be the next Queen of Mirkwood,” he said, “You cannot possibly impose upon anyone.”

There was that damn title again. It felt so…wrong. Mirkwood had had a queen, and inheriting her title didn’t feel right. But that was a conversation for a different day. 

“If you are offering, then I will gladly accept,” you agreed, “But do be warned, I am hopeless at this. I’m much better at stabbing things from a short distance.”

Legolas smirked lightly at that. 

“Well, allow me to help you become proficient at shooting things from a greater distance, then.”

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Preparations for your journey to Rivendell took about six more months, and it felt as though the time just kept flying by. By human standards, six months was a sizable amount of time, but it had passed in the blink of an eye, and you wondered if this is how elves felt at the passing of centuries. Your swordsmanship had improved quite substantially, and your archery had too, but to a lesser degree. Legolas was even more patient than your previous trainer, and he seemed to instinctively know how to adapt his advice to your human physicality. You suspected that that was a direct result of him spending a couple years in Gondor and then frequently visiting Dale upon his return to Mirkwood. He seemed to interact with humans more easily than his kin, and you wondered if that was a natural result of his endless curiosity. He wasn’t as jaded and cynical as Thranduil, and you found that very refreshing. 

However, you found yourself becoming closer to Thranduil than you had anticipated. After you spent a couple hours with Legolas in the archery range each day, you spent whatever time you could with Thranduil, doing your best to get to know him. Most of the time, the king was in constant meetings, so you had taken to sequestering yourself in his study and finishing the paperwork that he was unable to complete. You would have never guessed that a king of Thranduil’s stature would complete such busywork himself. You would have expected him to pawn this off to an advisor or an attendant, but as you had quickly figured out, Thranduil was a massive control freak. He often insisted on drafting important regulations and treaty provisions himself, which was incredibly unusual. Even your own father had his advisors take care of these things. 

But what it showed was that Thranduil cared deeply about his subjects, so much so that he took these things into his own hands rather than carelessly handing the work over to someone else who may not complete it to his standards. While Thranduil could not yet trust you with everything, you were at the very least in a position to answer letters on his behalf, particularly to people he didn’t care for, or draft contracts with local businesses for work that needed to be completed around the palace. You truly came to admire such unwavering dedication to his people, and hoped that they knew how intensely their ruler worked to ensure their safety. 

Seeing his work firsthand helped put his actions after your kidnapping into his perspective. You still had several complicated feelings around it, and you had pushed many of them to the side to deal with more eminent issues. But at the same time, you were starting to understand his perspective bit by bit. While you couldn’t say that you had forgiven him yet, you did know that you would be able to one day, which you considered to be great progress.

On your final evening before you left for Rivendell, Thranduil insisted that you have dinner with him. Usually, you would voluntarily share your evening meal with him, but this time, he wanted to make sure that he could speak with you. 

“Thank you for joining me this evening,” Thranduil said, taking a sip of his wine, “I trust all of your preparations for your journey have been made?”

You nodded. 

“Yes, My Lord,” you confirmed, “Prince Legolas and I have everything we need.”

Thranduil nodded, looking pleased. 

“I am glad,” he continued, “I wanted to ask something of you while you are in Imladris.”

You tilted your head in curiosity.

“Of course,” you said. 

Thranduil gripped his goblet just a fraction too tight, and you could tell that his body had gone slightly tense. 

“Did Mithrandir ever tell you about my encounters with the dragons?” he asked.

You shook your head in response. 

“He…mentioned that you had extensive experience with them, but did not elaborate,” you explained, “And I did not want to ask.”

Thranduil nodded. 

“You have more right to ask than others, and you are certainly the only other person in Middle Earth who would understand. But nonetheless, I am grateful you did not,” he said, “But there are a few things you do need to know.”

You remained silent and gave him a small smile to encourage him to continue. 

“I have fought many battles against the enemies of Mordor,” Thranduil explained, “My father, King Oropher, was killed in the War of Last Alliance. I fought alongside him and was there when he passed. We lost two-thirds of our army during that battle. I assumed the throne shortly after the war ended.”

You closed your eyes and nodded in sympathy. You knew very well the pain of losing a parent, but you could only imagine how you would have felt if you had witnessed your father’s death. You were not sure if you would have recovered. 

“At that time, the fire drakes were more plentiful than they are now,” Thranduil continued, “I had only been king for a mere fifty years when we received reports of a fire-drake terrorizing our lands. We assumed that it must have traveled down from the Grey Mountains. I still do not understand what it wanted, even to this day. All I knew was that I had to kill it.”

You let out a slow breath. You could see where this story was going. 

“I lost more of my army facing that beast,” Thranduil hissed, gritting his teeth at the memories, “And during that battle, I faced its fire directly.”

“You have been scarred,” you murmured, clenching your fists as you remembered the pain of the first time Smaug’s fire had blistered your skin. 

Instead of responding verbally, Thranduil closed his eyes, and his face contorted into an expression of pain. Immediately, you saw a great scar emerge on the left side of his face. The scar was raw and deep, red in color and clearly very painful. His left eye had also gone completely white, revealing his blindness in that eye. You sat there, sympathy rolling in your gut, as he struggled against the pain of the scar. And then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished. He must have reinstated the illusion magic he used to conceal the scar and give his face the impression of normalcy. 

Both you and Thranduil were silent for a few moments before you decided to break it.

“Gandalf had mentioned to me that you had experience with dragons,” you recalled, “I did not realize that it was…that serious.”

Thranduil nodded but said nothing as he waited for you to process what he had shown you. 

“Thank you for telling me this,” you said, “That could not have been easy.”

Thranduil looked a bit surprised at your gratitude, but did not acknowledge your comment further. 

“There are very few who know about this,” he warned, “Lord Elrond is one of them. He has provided me with potions and salves over the years to help with the pain.”

You nodded in understanding. 

“Most of my scars have been healed,” you revealed, “But I do have a few that were not. I have had to learn to manage through the pain. I barely notice it most days.”

Thranduil frowned slightly.

“I trust that our healers have provided you with something to relieve you of that pain?” he questioned. 

You nodded again. 

“Of course,” you hastened to explain, “My negligence in taking the medicine some days is my own fault.”

Thranduil huffed and shook his head as if your antics exasperated and amused him. Which they probably did.

“I must ask. You said that Smaug healed most of your scars,” he recounted, “How did he do it?”

“Unfortunately, My Lord, I’m not sure this method would be useful considering he is dead,” you said, regretfully, “But the only way to heal dragon fire scars, as far as I know, is with the dragon’s water. That is, their tears.”

Nothing could keep the shock off of Thranduil’s face when you said that. 

“How is that possible?” Thranduil breathed, “Dragons cannot–”

“Cry?” you interrupted, “I assure you, they can. If they want to.”

Thranduil leaned back in his seat, looking defeated. 

“So, there is no hope…” he trailed off, seemingly talking to himself.

“To heal your scars?” you volunteered, “I do not know, My Lord. But somehow Smaug has managed to affect my physical wellbeing even though he is gone from this world. Perhaps there may be another way.”

Thranduil simply raised a skeptical eyebrow at your comment.

“I’m not saying that I have all the answers, or that I am confident in anything,” you said, “But all I know is that if I had given up hope that I would survive the mountain, I would not be standing here today.”

Thranduil considered you carefully for a moment.

“You mortals have a remarkable ability to remain unfailingly optimistic. I cannot tell if it is some sort of wisdom innate to your kind or simple naïveté,” Thranduil remarked.

You shrugged at his comment. 

“When your lifespan is an average of seventy years or so, you don’t have the time to sit and dwell on things you cannot change. But you act decisively on those that you can, or think you can,” you countered.

Thranduil regarded you for a moment before chuckling lightly, and you blinked in surprise. That was the first time you had heard him laugh at anything. 

“I find your optimism…refreshing,” he complimented. 

Well. That was progress if you’d ever seen it.

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You awoke before dawn the next morning and immediately made your way down to the stables to begin loading your horse with the supplies you needed for the six-week journey to Rivendell. You and Prince Legolas had planned a rather indirect route to Rivendell to try to avoid some of the areas that were more heavily infested with orcs. There was also the slight weeklong detour that you were expected to take to Lothlórien to visit Lady Galadriel, who insisted on meeting you. You couldn’t help but wonder if it was a tradition for the prospective spouses of elven rulers to make some grand tour of all the elven kingdoms, and that Thranduil had just simply forgotten to tell you. You would certainly not be surprised if that was indeed what was going on here. 

You and Legolas would receive a company of four guards for assistance in beating back any spiders until you reached the edge of the Mirkwood forest. After that, the two of you would be traveling alone to divert attention from yourselves while on the road. You were a bit confused at first and wondered why Thranduil would not have assigned other guards to protect his only son and his betrothed on their full journey. But you had to eventually acknowledge that your original party of twenty people might have been what attracted Smaug’s interest on your ill-fated attempt to travel to Mirkwood sixty years ago. You were forced to admit that this was probably the wiser course of action, even though it meant six weeks of travel time alone with Prince Legolas.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with Legolas, just the opposite. He was nothing but unfailingly kind and polite to you and treated you with the highest level of respect. There seemed to be very little that could anger him…except maybe his father, but that was to be expected. But outside of your core training hours, you hadn’t interacted with Legolas much, preferring to give him his space as he adjusted to the reality that his father was getting married again. 

To a human nonetheless. About three-thousand years younger than himself and Valar knew how much younger than his father.

If you were him, you’d be weirded out too. But as you were quickly learning, age gaps didn’t seem to bother elves as it did humans. It certainly helped that elves didn’t age past a certain point in their lives. Still, if you thought too hard about it, it kept you up at night. And with Smaug already causing you nightmares, you tried not to think about it.

As you prepared your saddle, you heard someone call out for you. 

“My Lady?” 

You turned around to find Tauriel, King Thranduil’s Captain of the Guard, entering the stable. You had met her a handful of times, but had never spoken with her extensively. Thranduil always seemed a bit short with her and you were never sure why. You didn’t really want to ask. 

“Captain,” you greeted, “Will you be accompanying us out of the forest these next few days?”

Tauriel smiled, weakly.

“Indeed, I will,” she said, softly, “I came to see if you require assistance with anything?”

You shook your head. 

“No, thank you, I believe I am fine,” you replied, “I just have one last bag to collect from my chambers.”

Tauriel frowned. 

“I shall happily collect it for you, My Lady,” she offered. 

“Oh, that is not necessary, I can get it myself,” you refused, “No need to inconvenience yourself.”

Tauriel looked like she was going to say something further when Prince Legolas quickly strode into the stables. 

“Tauriel, please send someone to fetch Her Highness’s things,” he ordered, curtly, abjectly refusing to look at her as he prepared his own horse.

Tauriel for her part looked a bit cowed in Legolas’s presence. Once you recovered from the slight shock of Legolas using a completely different title for you, you glanced between the two of them, noticing the tension. Clearly there was history there. 

“Of course, My Lord Legolas,” she submitted, and she quickly left the stables, off to obey his orders. 

Once she was out of earshot, Legolas spoke. 

“Forgive me,” he murmured, “But you will need to become accustomed to others handling these tasks for you. That is how it will be in Lórien and Imladris.”

Well…fair…but it didn’t make it any less comfortable to make an attendant do something that you could reasonably do yourself.

“I suppose I should expect a title change, then?” you inquired, trying to laugh it off, but Legolas looked completely serious as he answered you. 

“The distinction between a betrothal and a marriage is mostly semantics. By elven standards, you are my father’s wife in all but name. You can expect to be treated as such, even before you are officially crowned queen,” he explained.

You let out a long, slow breath at that. Once again, nobody had actually bothered to tell you any of this. 

You and Legolas didn’t speak further and within a short hour, the two of you and your company of guards were standing in front of the gates of Mirkwood. Thranduil approached your party and stopped just short of you, his gaze intense as though inspecting all of you for imperfections. You couldn’t blame him. After all, he was about to send his son and his betrothed/wife/whatever-you-were on the road to Rivendell alone. Anyone would be anxious about it. 

“May your journey be swift and unhindered,” he declared, “Go with caution, and stay near the roads. I expect your safe return. Both of you.”

Thranduil gave you and Legolas each a separate, but equally pointed, look. 

At the conclusion of his swift speech, you, Legolas, and your guards mounted your horses and at Thranduil’s nods, the gates to Mirkwood were opened. Tauriel and Legolas set off first, with you just behind the prince. The rest of the guards trailed behind you, bringing up the rear. The journey through Mirkwood would be about three nonstop days of riding, the perils of the spiders too great for you to consider making camp anywhere. 

Your first two days were relatively uneventful, but as night fell on the third day you were ambushed by spiders. You had spent the majority of the third day feeling on edge, as if some impending doom was imminent. So, when the first spider appeared, you felt almost relieved that you weren’t completely crazy. Thankfully, you had five elves with way better hearing than you, so your party wasn’t taken completely by surprise. It was a small nest, but the fight was nonetheless brutal. 

At one point, you noticed a spider creeping up behind Legolas while he was distracted with another one. Panicking, you drew your bow, aimed, and fired, somehow managing to strike the spider in one of its eyes, partially blinding it. It shrieked in pain, which drew Legolas’s attention, and he gracefully turned around and dispatched it quickly with his sword. You were able to shoot three more spiders during the battle, and while you didn’t kill them, you weakened them enough so that they became easy kills for the other members of your party. 

High on adrenaline, you and Legolas raced through the rest of the forest, managing to clear the edge of the forest around midnight. Legolas dismissed your guards who bowed their heads and turned around, riding back to the Elvenking’s halls, while the two of you set off to find a good spot to camp for the night. Only once you had tied up the horses and set up your bedrolls were you able to come down from the adrenaline rush. This had not been your first battle, but it was the first one you had fought with proper training. 

Legolas turned to you and regarded you. 

“You fought well today,” he praised, “Your archery skills are more improved than you thought.”

You shook your head. 

“I–I don’t know,” you mumbled, “I just saw the spider and knew I had one second to act. So, I did.”

Legolas nodded. 

“In battle, you cannot think. Only do,” he said, “Thinking gets you killed.”

You couldn’t help but think how that was the best advice you had ever been given, despite having trained for two years now.

The two of you passed the next three days in relative silence as you rode to Lórien. Riding for this long was extremely tiring. The last time you had attempted to ride this long was when you passed by Erebor sixty years ago, so your stamina was not the greatest. But if you didn’t keep moving, you would be in more danger. You were skirting too close to Dol Guldur for either yours or Legolas’s comfort, and while the forces of the evil fort had taken a hit during the Battle of the Five Armies, there was no telling what else may be brewing there. Begrudgingly, Legolas agreed to set up camp for the night and make the final push to Lórien the next day.

The two of you found an outcropping of rocks by a few trees and were able to tie the horses to them and set up camp. Being this close to Dol Gudur, you didn’t dare start a fire, so you rummaged around for your packages of lembas bread and salted meat while Legolas refilled your water flasks from the stream. When he returned, the two of you ate and drank in relative silence, before you finally decided to ask something that had been on your mind for weeks.

“Prince Legolas,” you called, “If I may ask you something?”

“Of course, My Lady,” he invited, giving you his full attention. 

“You do not need to answer this if you do not wish,” you assured, “My betrothal to your father, even sixty years ago, happened suddenly. I imagine you were given little opportunity to provide input.”

Legolas didn’t reply to that, but his silence confirmed it. 

“If I had indeed married your father sixty years ago, I would probably be on my deathbed now,” you pointed out, “So, realistically, you would not have had to deal with my presence for very long.”

Legolas frowned deeply at your self-deprecating language, but allowed you to continue. 

“But now, given the very real possibility of the dragon extending my lifespan, I could live for centuries,” you continued, “I guess all I want to know is…what is your opinion on this? I know that it is incredibly unusual for elves to remarry, let alone to a mortal.”

Legolas paused, considering his words carefully before replying. 

“My Lady, I appreciate your concern, but my opinion on the matter is irrelevant,” he replied. 

Now, it was your turn to frown. 

“On the contrary, My Lord, your opinion matters the most, I think,” you countered, “If I were in your father’s position, I would want my son’s approval before taking such a consequential decision.”

Legolas chuckled darkly. 

“My father has cared more for duty than my happiness,” he muttered, “But if it is my approval you seek, then you have had it for sixty years, My Lady. I gave my father my blessing many years ago when he first made the decision to seek out a second marriage.”

You narrowed your eyes. 

“I hope you are not saying this to spare my feelings,” you accused. 

Legolas shook his head. 

“No,” he confirmed, “I was involved in…selecting the best candidate for my father’s hand.”

Well, that was news. That made you feel somewhat better that Thranduil hadn’t completely disregarded his son in this process.

“I see,” you faltered, “Were there many candidates?”

Legolas sighed. 

“My father is both wealthy and powerful,” he added, “It took us well over a year to select you.”

You weren’t sure if you should feel flattered, but a part of you did, just a bit. 

“You…weren’t concerned about disrespecting your mother’s memory?” you ventured, cautiously.

Legolas stiffened, and you worried that you had gone too far. You opened your mouth to apologize, but Legolas interrupted you. 

“My father suffered for millennia after my mother’s passing,” he responded, “His grief has affected the whole kingdom and the forest. My mother would have been devastated to learn what her passing has done to him.”

You dared not to breathe lest any movement or sound interrupt Legolas’s thoughts. 

“The relationship you have with my father is between the two of you alone. It is not for anyone else to judge, even me,” Legolas continued, “I only ask two things of you. Take care with his heart, it is more delicate than he would have you believe. And please respect my mother’s memory, which I can tell you already do. If you can promise me this, then you have my blessing, and I shall happily call you my friend.”

You smiled at his words. 

“Of course, Legolas. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Mae Govannen King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen,

I am pleased to inform you that your son and your betrothed have safely departed Lothlórien and are continuing on their journey to Imladris. I greatly appreciated their visit, and I thank you for encouraging them to come to our borders. I particularly enjoyed meeting your betrothed, the young Lady of the Dúnedain. She is a tenacious woman with an aptitude for diplomacy. Her calm and pleasant demeanor belies her eternal strength. I had always considered your decision to take a second wife, let alone a human one, peculiar. But I will admit, she is a wise choice and will make a formidable queen.

I spoke with her at length about her experiences in the captivity of the dragon. I have found that she is modest. She claims that she survived primarily on luck. I rarely meet anyone, elves, men, or dwarves, who possess the proper courage and steadfastness of heart to survive such an encounter. She has not succumbed to dragon sickness because of the goodness of her heart and the strength of her soul. I believe this is what attracted Smaug to her in the beginning. She is his sole opposite…someone he cannot be and cannot hope to attain, but try he did. 

I believe this is why even in death Smaug cannot let her go. Dragon magic is old, mysterious, and dark, and I believe that Smaug fused his life essence with hers so that he may keep her for eternity. If he had not perished, she would have remained in his physical captivity for all time. Even now, Smaug’s remains lie imprinted on her soul, and this she must fight. She is strong and has fought for so long, but I fear how much longer she will be able to.

The dark forces that reside in the lands of Dol Guldur will rise once more, and this time, they will be led by Mordor. Until this evil is defeated, I fear no one can be free, and our Lady of the Dúnedain must continue to struggle against these forces, as we all do. While you fight the spiders in the woods, she must fight the dragon in her heart. Neither of you can do this alone, and you must take strength from each other. 

I hope you are prepared to undertake this great task.

Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien

Thranduil leaned back in his chair and contemplated the letter with a slight frown. He was glad that you and Legolas had made it safely past Lothlórien and beyond pleased to hear that you had impressed Lady Galadriel. She rarely sent such frank letters describing her encounters, so the fact that she had taken the time to point out several of your beneficial qualities meant that you had done well in your first meeting. Thranduil had felt slightly guilty at not informing you of the usual elven protocol in cases of high profile marriages. Normally, Lady Galadriel, as the greatest of elven rulers, notionally approved or disapproved of these marriages. She rarely gave her disapproval, but in the case of the Elvenking marrying a human, nothing was certain. 

Thranduil was puzzled by Galadriel’s parting line. He knew that she may have some insight into your condition, but as was typical of her, her words elicited more questions than they answered. Thranduil was well-aware that Smaug’s hold over you was serious and that you had been actively fighting against it. You waged a war every day and you had yet to take out your frustrations on anyone who did not deserve it. Thranduil did not think he could admire you more, as he knew firsthand how difficult such a feat was. 

The idea that you would be fighting this evil until the forces of Mordor were finally defeated, while unsurprising, did not sit well with him. He had hoped that sending you on this journey would help you find a way to get rid of Smaug and eliminate his presence from your life so that you could move forward and take on your new position as queen with fewer troubles. But perhaps it would be possible that between Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel’s guidance, you would find a way to better manage the dragon’s curse. 

Thranduil silently vowed that he would provide whatever aid you needed in your enduring struggle against this evil. He may not have been able to help you while Smaug was alive, but now that he was dead, there was a lot more that Thranduil could do. 

Provided that you would be willing to accept his help.

Trust was still a problem between the two of you. Thranduil could sense in every interaction with him that you were holding back, not fully feeling comfortable in his presence. He did not take it personally as he understood deeply where the mistrust came from. After the passing of his beloved wife, Calathiel, he found it very difficult to trust anyone, particularly outsiders. 

But, you were making progress. When you had first emerged from the mountain, finally free of Smaug’s captivity, you had managed to avoid him for a whole year, despite his incessant attempts to contact you. The King Under the Mountain had provided you cover, and in the early stages of repairing such a rocky relationship, not even Thranduil had dared to cross him simply to seek an audience with you. Thranduil was nothing if not patient, he was willing to wait as long as it took for you to begin to trust him and he you.

Thranduil’s gaze shifted to the box that sat on his desk which held the White Gems of Lasgalen, the gems of pure starlight that he had commissioned for Calathiel. He kept them in his study as a reminder not just of her, but of you. Specifically, he was reminded of your kindness, your generosity. You had gone to great effort to ensure that the gems were returned to him and his people, venturing deep within the mountain of Erebor, undoubtedly relieving the trauma of your captivity in the process. You had done it all to show that you were willing to meet him halfway and to work with him. For the first time in millennia, Thranduil was unsure of himself…unsure if he deserved such kindness, considering how he had failed to come to your aid in your hour of greatest need. 

You were so very unlike his wife, Calathiel. She had been a noble maiden of Lothlórien and a trained warrior. She was passionate, unreserved, very much unlike himself, but that was why he had fallen deeply in love with her. She had been opinionated, challenging him at every turn, and encouraging him to become a better king. She was not a woman afraid of confrontation, which was so desperately needed in a kingdom plagued by darkness. She had fallen in battle, defending her kingdom from an orc ambush, when Legolas was merely five hundred years old. 

Unlike Calathiel, you did not fight on the battlefield with a sword. No, your battles were in the court, and words were your weapons. Your father had taught you to open your ears and sharpen your mind, how to read your opponent and gauge what he wanted before he himself knew. You knew when to push and when to pull back, conceding a small point so that you may be able to score a larger victory in the long run. You did not rush into anything headfirst or impulsively. Instead, you sat back, carefully calculating and considering your options, evaluating how others may respond before you made your decision. It was this skillset that you had honed during your captivity under Smaug, and your diplomatic way with words had allowed you to survive. 

Smaug was never going to be an enemy that you could physically defeat. You had known this from the very beginning. To survive, you had had to be clever, and that cleverness was what had allowed you to accomplish what so many powerful human and elven warriors could not.

Thranduil found himself wholly agreeing with Galadriel. You would make a valuable addition to his court and a formidable Queen of Mirkwood. Whereas Calathiel had been impulsive but inspiring, you would be pragmatic but loyal. Thranduil knew that your respect and loyalty were not freely given, but if he could earn them, he would unlock a partnership that would indeed be capable of banishing the evil from the forest for good. He had chosen well in selecting you as his second queen, even if others could not see it yet. 

The question was how to earn that loyalty. Thranduil knew that you cared deeply about his kingdom…and himself, perhaps to a lesser extent. The dream you had shared with him, the one where Smaug burned down the forest and killed him, had disturbed and shaken you. You had become emotional at the thought of something like that happening in the real world, and up until that point, you had not shown such vulnerability with him. The fact that you were willing to open up to him had inspired him to reveal his scar, something he had not planned to show anyone else. 

Thranduil was…cautiously optimistic that this relationship could work. More optimistic than he had been when he had ordered his advisors to approach your father to suggest the match. He had not known you at the time, and had had little information to work off of when making the decision. Your father’s ambassador had described you as a pensive, hard-working woman with a penchant for diplomacy. His own ambassador had corroborated that description and remarked that you were quite beautiful, for a human. 

When Thranduil had briefly met you for the first time, now over sixty years ago, he had agreed. You were very beautiful, and if the descriptions of your personality were true, he would not find it difficult to get along with you. However, he had not taken the initiative to know you further, and had summarily lost his chance when Smaug kidnapped you. He regretted that he would never truly know who you were before your kidnapping. He could not be certain if your personality had been fundamentally altered as a result of spending sixty years in captivity. While he did not think that was the case, it saddened him that he would never know for sure. 

One thing that he had picked up was your penchant for sarcasm, a very human trait. Elves never communicated that way, preferring to speak plainly. The only elf he had ever met that occasionally used sarcasm was Lord Elrond, but Thranduil had justified that on account of Elrond’s human parentage. The one time you had used sarcasm in Thranduil’s presence was to make a…joke…about your death. 

Thranduil hated it. Merely thinking of your death caused his chest to constrict and panic to rise in his throat. He had barely survived the death of one wife. He was not sure he could survive another, even if he had only known you for a short time.

It was ironic then, that he had selected a mortal to marry. At the time, Thranduil had felt that it was his only option. While he would mourn the loss of a human spouse, he had assumed that he would not be as devastated as he had been when Calathiel had passed. Because elves only loved once in their lives. 

Yet, Thranduil was beginning to realize that that was a foolish thought. Thranduil had not known you for very long, but if you suddenly died tomorrow on your journey to Rivendell…

…No, he could not think about it. He already felt his chest begin to constrict at the thought. 

Thankfully, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. He bid the person to enter, and his valet, Aeron, approached and bowed. 

“Aran nin, the council awaits your presence,” Aeron informed, and Thranduil let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

Normally, he found council meetings tedious. But at least in this moment, matters of state would provide a welcome distraction. 

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Your four-week journey to Rivendell after your detour in Lothlórien was utterly exhausting. The quickest way to Imladris was to backtrack, at least part of the way to Mirkwood, until you reached the Misty Mountains, and then cross those. Although this leg of the journey could be feasibly made in three, maybe even two, weeks by an elf, you were absolutely incapable of traveling quite that fast, no matter how many times Legolas encouraged you to keep going. 

Crossing the Misty Mountains was the worst part. The elves of Lothlórien had given you additional stock of food and blankets to keep you warm, but while that would have been sufficient for Legolas, you struggled with the snow and cold. At one point, the two of you had to dismount and walk next to the horses because of the amount of snow on the mountain pass. The snow came up to your thighs—not as bad as it could have been, but certainly not fun—and you were forced to wade your way through it while Prince Legolas just glided over the damn stuff like it was no big deal. He never gave you a hard time about your limitations, but you could tell that traveling with humans was not something he was used to, and it irked him slightly. 

But being human meant that you were predisposed to being a tenacious little shit, so you tried your best to still your chattering teeth and force your way up the mountain pass, cursing in as many elven dialects as you could think of.

You had survived sixty years of a fire-breathing dragon. You were simply not going to let some snow get the best of you. 

Eventually, Legolas found a small cave in the mountain pass for the two of you to rest. Thankfully, the cave was not deep and dead-ended about twenty feet in, so the two of you were reassured, for the most part, that nothing unpleasant lived there. You led the horses inside the cave and tied them to some rocks jutting out of the wall. Legolas did his best to light a fire, and he managed to get a small one going, but most of the kindling that you had brought with you was damp from the snow. Still, a small fire was better than no fire at all. You pulled one of the blankets tightly around your shoulders and stared at the small flame. 

“My Lady,” Legolas called, “Are you all right?”

You sniffed. 

“Oh yes, fantastic,” you mumbled, grumpily, staring at the flames again before realizing Legolas hadn’t responded. You looked up, and he was frowning at you. 

Damn. This elf really didn’t understand sarcasm. Hanging out with the Rangers of the North was going to be an absolute chore if he didn’t figure it out eventually. 

“What I mean is, no, I’m not feeling great. I’m cold and tired, but I can handle it,” you clarified, “Thank you for agreeing to rest for the night. I would not have been able to navigate the snow with my limited night vision.”

Legolas nodded.

“Do not fret, we shall be through the mountains by tomorrow’s eve,” he assured, and you could only nod and hope that that was true. 

The rest of the journey, though taxing, was nowhere near as eventful. The worst that happened was that Legolas had managed to pick up the trail of a nearby orc scouting party, and the two of you were able to hide in the trees while they passed. You counted yourself lucky that you hadn’t faced more perils on the road, because that was certainly not normal.

Rivendell was absolutely magnificent. You had always wanted to visit, having heard tales of its beauty, and you had anticipated that you would have plenty of opportunities to do so during your marriage to King Thranduil. After your kidnapping, the hope of visiting lands beyond Erebor had faded, but hadn’t died out completely. You were glad that you found the internal strength to push through each day of the last sixty years. You would not have had the opportunity to see such a spellbinding place if you didn’t. 

The legendary elf, Lord Glorfindel and one of Elrond’s sons, Elrohir met you at the gates of the city, along with a few guards. You supposed that given Legolas’s status as a Mirkwood royal (and yours for that matter), it would only be proper to be received by high ranking members of Lord Elrond’s court. 

“Welcome, my friends,” Elrohir said as you approached, “I imagine your journey was long.”

He didn’t even know the half of it, but you kept your mouth shut. Thranduil would probably be displeased if you mouthed off to the son of the Lord of Rivendell. Truth was, you were grumpy and tired, and you hoped beyond hope that you didn’t have to meet Lord Elrond immediately.

But hope was futile. After Legolas and Elrohir exchanged greetings, Lord Glorfindel turned to address you. 

“Your Highness, welcome to Rivendell. Lord Elrond is most eager to meet you. I have been instructed to take you to him, once you have had a moment to rest,” he said with a smile. 

Joy.

You politely returned the smile and as if on autopilot, parroted off some response that you hoped was acceptable before following them into the city. Your horse was taken to the stables and an attendant escorted you to your quarters, where you found fresh clothes and a bath were laid out for you. 

Although you had been used to some creature comforts, being the daughter of a Dúnedain tribe leader, a hot bath smelling of lavender was not something you came across often. You thanked the attendant who returned later to find you clean, dressed, and ready to meet with Lord Elrond. The attendant surveyed your appearance for a moment before frowning. 

“Is everything all right?” you asked, checking your dress to make sure that you had tied it up properly. 

“Your Highness, were you not given a diadem to wear?” she asked, confused.

You were in fact given a headpiece, one suitable for a visiting elven queen…or rather the queen of an elven realm. But you weren’t exactly a queen yet.

“I was,” you clarified, “But King Thranduil and I are not yet married. It…did not feel appropriate to wear one.”

“Your Highness, it is only proper for a member of a royal family to wear one,” she insisted. 

You had to refrain from rolling your eyes. Elves had such rigid decorum and procedures, so much so that even Prince Legolas found it difficult to deal with. And if he, who had grown up in this culture, found it tedious, then certainly you were allowed to be impatient about it too. But you had absolutely no energy to argue with her, and if wearing a damn headpiece got you through this process faster, then so be it. Reluctantly, you placed the silver circlet on top of your head, its presence foreign to you. You wondered how Thranduil managed with those heavy crowns that he wore while holding court. 

Finally, after what seemed like forever (which you supposed you were just going to have to get used to with elves…they were never in any rush), you were escorted to Lord Elrond’s study.

“My Lady,” he greeted, warmly, as you entered his study, “Welcome to Rivendell. I trust your journey was not too taxing?”

You smiled as you approached Lord Elrond. You had never met him before, but he had a presence that made you feel at ease instantly. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” you returned, “This is my first time on the other side of the Misty Mountains, and I am very grateful that I had the opportunity to travel this far and visit your beautiful city.”

You might be grumpy, hungry, and tired, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t put on a pleasant face and schmooze when you needed to. Dáin would not have appointed you as an ambassador if you couldn’t.

“I am glad that you are here,” Lord Elrond said, genuinely, “Please, sit.”

He gestured to one of the chairs, and you took a seat while he sat across from you. An attendant came in and brought the two of you some tea. You gratefully accepted the cup, and Lord Elrond waited until the attendant had left before speaking again. 

“I received a letter from King Thranduil many months ago describing some rather serious symptoms that you have been experiencing,” he began, getting straight to the point, which you appreciated, “But I would like to hear from you how I can be of service.”

You nodded and set your mug of tea down, before taking a deep breath. You had not expected to get into your trauma so quickly, but something about Lord Elrond made you feel as though you could trust him. You supposed that this was why he was so renowned as a healer. He had the correct aura about him.

“I’m sure, My Lord, that you have heard of my story by now. It has been something of a legend, I’ve heard,” you started, “But while the dragon Smaug has left this mortal plane…he has not left me.”

Elrond frowned in concern but did not interrupt you, and sipped at his tea. 

“At first, I would have nightmares of my time in captivity,” you explained, “Mostly memories…things that were traumatic to relive, such as one of the many times I tried to escape and Smaug burned the soles of my feet. I could not walk for days.”

Elrond remained stoic, expression not changing, and you wondered if you were overwhelming him. But that thought seemed absurd. Elrond was an experienced warrior, several millennia older than you. You doubted that much could overwhelm him anymore. 

“But as of late…” you continued, breath becoming shaky, “The nightmares are…lucid. They are not memories. It is as if…Smaug can control what I see. He…he can talk to me…and he tells and shows me awful things.”

You could feel the emotions rise as you remembered the latest crop of your dreams, but you clamped down on your tears as hard as you could. 

“The nightmares have gotten worse. I feel as though I cannot escape,” you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, “It was this…behavior that concerned King Thranduil. I thought this was something I could handle on my own, but he disagreed, and encouraged me to come here to seek help. I found that I could no longer argue with him on this.”

Lord Elrond nodded, but remained silent. 

“I do not know what has happened to me,” you said, “Smaug is physically gone, but he still remains inside me. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why. All I know is that I want to be rid of him, he has tortured me for long enough. Will you be able to help me?”

You felt very meek, as though you were begging. But you could simply not handle this anymore. Smaug continued to disturb your dreams, even while you were on the roads with Legolas. He hadn’t noticed because of your uncanny ability to hide your suffering. 

Instead of frowning or sighing in exasperation at the monumental task ahead of him, Lord Elrong gave you a reassuring smile. 

“My Lady, I thank you for telling me all of this. Believe me when I say that I understand how difficult it must be for you to constantly relive your pain,” he assured, “Both Mithrandir and Thranduil had described to me the seriousness of your condition, and I have done some study in preparation for your visit.”

It was your turn to nod and remain silent while he spoke.

“I am sorry to tell you that I fear that some of the effects from prolonged exposure to Smaug’s black magic may be permanent,” he lamented.

Your heart nearly stopped at his words, but Lord Elrond was quick to clarify what he meant. 

“I am of the opinion that Smaug used his magic to bind his lifeforce to yours. In essence, he has bonded his soul to yours,” Elrond said. 

That…made you feel a whole lot worse actually.

“Wait…” you breathed, “Does this mean…I am permanently tied to him?”

Elrond shook his head. 

“No,” he said firmly, “Smaug could not have accomplished this on his own. He needed to ally himself with the dark forces of Mordor to achieve this power. I believe it is those forces that are allowing him to maintain this connection with you, even in death.”

You let out a shuddering breath and clenched your teacup so hard, you wondered if the porcelain might shatter. 

“So, what you mean is that in order for Smaug to leave me, the evil of Mordor must be defeated,” you summarized. 

Elrond nodded. 

“I am sorry, My Lady, but yes. Unfortunately, I do not believe there is an easy fix to this,” he apologized, “But, we may be able to formulate a plan that will help you manage these symptoms and fight Smaug’s influence.”

That sounded exhausting. But you didn’t really have a choice, did you? 

“What about side effects?” you ventured, “Gandalf believes that the dragon’s magic may extend my life. I am Dúnedain, so it is natural for me to live longer than most humans. But exactly how much longer am I to live?”

Lord Elrond sighed.

“That, My Lady, I believe, is one of the permanent effects,” he explained, “Dragons are immortal beings. Smaug was not planning to die, so to keep you, a mortal being, with him, he needed to bind his life force to yours so that you would match his lifespan.”

You stilled at his words. 

“My Lady, I believe that you may have inadvertently become immortal,” Elrond said. 

You barely heard the sound of the teacup shattering as it fell from your grasp.

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The wind blasted your face as you urged your horse to go faster and faster. You were almost to the end, to victory. Suddenly, you heard hooves stomping beside you, and you quickly turned your head to find Arwen, Lord Elrond’s daughter, gaining on you, until the two of you were side-by-side. And that distraction was your fatal mistake. She smirked and with an Elvish command, urged her horse to soar past yours and cross the threshold of the gates of the city just before you. 

You groaned as you encouraged your horse to slow to a stop. You had lost. Again. You were sure that you had had that race. But once again, Arwen’s centuries of experience had given her an advantage. 

“Do not despair, mellon nin,” she assured, “You performed very well today. I almost thought that I would surely lose.”

You grumbled. You weren’t normally a sore loser, but keeping up with the elves was starting to get to be a little frustrating, and you tried not to let it show. 

“Frankly, I also thought I was going to win,” you admitted, “Alas.”

Arwen laughed, her voice melodious.

“Shall we go again?” she challenged, and you lamented that you would have to refuse this time. 

“I apologize, but I do have a meeting with your father this afternoon,” you informed her, “He set me an…assignment, and unfortunately, I have yet to complete it.”

Arwen laughed again and shook her head. 

“What sort of assignment?” she asked, and you shrugged.

“One of his usual reading assignments,” you sighed, “About dragon magic. I am to come prepared to discuss it with him. Normally, I find most of the books he gives me quite interesting. However, I have been…procrastinating on this particular one.”

Arwen narrowed her perfectly manicured eyebrows in an expression of concern. 

“Are you certain that you are ready for an assignment of that magnitude?” she questioned. 

It was a fair question. You had been in Rivendell for about six months, and your weekly sessions with Lord Elrond were becoming more difficult to get through. The assignments he had given you involved mostly reading or speaking with experts on various topics from medicine to magic to history. Additionally, Lord Elrond would have you record the days you had nightmares and include a brief description of each one, if you could remember. If you could not, he had you describe what you felt upon waking. It helped him monitor your progress at combating Smaug’s influence. You had been grateful at Lord Elrond’s attentiveness throughout these past six months. You were not his only patient, but you knew that he had promised Thranduil that he would oversee your recovery personally. You just hadn’t expected him to be so generous with his time.

Lord Elrond had devised a three phase plan to aid in your recovery. Phases one and two would be completed in Rivendell simultaneously, where you would work on both your mental and physical ability to fight Smaug’s influence, and by extension, the growing evil within Middle Earth. Phase three would require Thranduil’s help, but Elrond had not offered specifics as to what that would look like. You really hoped it didn’t involve some type of…couple’s sessions. You would voluntarily lock yourself back up in Erebor before talking about your feelings with Thranduil in front of a third party. No way. 

You turned back to Arwen and offered a tired smile. 

“He seems to believe that I am ready for it,” you explained, “I am not sure I believe it, but I trust your father.”

Arwen nodded, and gracefully dismounted her horse. You followed suit and the two of you led the horses back to the stable where you passed off their care to the stablehand. 

“We are expecting a visitor later this week,” she said, “I imagine that Ada will speak to you about it further.”

You frowned. You wrote to Thranduil on a regular basis; surely he would have told you if he had planned to visit you and Legolas in Rivendell.

“My husband?” you asked. You had finally caved and began referring to Thranduil as your spouse because that was what everyone else called him, despite you not being officially married yet. You couldn’t deny…it had a nice ring to it. 

You would sooner jump in Mount Doom than admit that, however. 

Arwen shook her head and gave you a smile. 

“No, not him,” Arwen said, “Someone else. He is coming specifically to meet you.”

Well that was…concerning.

You were unable to pry any further information out of Arwen, and you spent the rest of your afternoon stewing over her words rather than complete the assignment Lord Elrond had given you. You knew that he wouldn’t be upset as you had diligently completed any work assigned to you thus far, but you felt guilty at the thought of wasting his time. You kept wracking your brain trying to figure out who, other than your betrothed, would possibly want to travel all the way to Rivendell to see you. The only person you could remotely think of was Mithrandir, but if that had been the case, you assumed that Arwen would have just said as much.

When it was time for your scheduled appointment with Lord Elrond, you made your way over to his study, as usual, and waited until he finished his previous meeting before sitting down in your usual chair. Once again, his attendant offered you tea, which you accepted, but you always made sure to set the teacup on the table after each sip. You had no desire to break one of his teacups again. 

“Good afternoon, My Lady,” Lord Elrond greeted, sitting down across from you, “How did you find the book I gave you?”

“Please forgive me, My Lord,” you lamented, “I’ve only completed the first two chapters before I got…distracted.”

“Oh?” Elrond asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Lady Arwen informed me to expect a visitor later this week,” you clarified, “I’m afraid that I’ve spent most of the afternoon trying to work out who it could be and have fallen short.”

Lord Elrond chuckled lightly at this. 

“Ah yes, I meant to discuss this with you today after our session, but I suppose it is no hardship to discuss it now,” Elrond conceded, “I received a missive last night from one of my former wards. He has spent the past few years in the north as a ranger.”

You blinked in surprise.

“A Dúnedain?” you asked, heart pounding in anticipation, “One of the Rangers of the North?”

Lord Elrond nodded and gave you a small smile. 

You leaned back in your seat and stared out the window for a moment, trying to collect your thoughts. You had not seen your people in over sixty years, and you were not sure if you ever would again. Growing up, the Dúnedain had been severely divided without a leader and very little loyalty to one another. Even though Legolas was seeking out the one they call Strider, you hadn’t truly believed that you would ever meet one of the Rangers of the North again.

You took a quick sip of your tea before turning back to Elrond. 

“May I ask…who is this ranger?” you inquired. 

“He is called Strider,” Elrond revealed, “I believe you knew his father. His true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn—”

“Isildur’s heir,” you interrupted, voice quiet, “Gods above. He is alive.”

“Yes,” Elrond affirmed, “He has been under my care since his father passed.”

You closed your eyes, remembering the bright and vibrant child Arathorn used to be. It had saddened you deeply to learn of his passing a few years ago. He was very young.

“King Thranduil told me that nobody knew of his whereabouts,” you remembered.

“Yes, we have kept his identity hidden all these years for his safety,” Elrond explained, “King Thranduil is one of the few that knows him both as Aragorn and Strider, but Aragorn is constantly on the move, once again for his safety. He only tells one or two people where he can be found at any given time.”

You nodded. 

“Yes, that is wise,” you concurred, “I suppose then he will be coming to reunite me with my people, as my new chieftain?”

Elrond smirked. 

“Yes, that, but do you not need his permission to continue with your marriage?” he questioned. 

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes and hung your head in embarrassment.

You had forgotten about that.

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You were sitting outside in one of the many alcoves overlooking the waterfalls of Rivendell, quietly reading one of the tomes Elrond had selected for you. You heard soft footsteps, and looked up from your book to find a young human man with dark, curly hair approaching you. He had a kind face adorned with a smile.

This must be Aragorn. You returned his smile, set your book aside, and rose to meet him. 

“Lord Aragorn,” you greeted, “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“I must say, the honor is entirely mine, My Lady,” Aragorn returned, bowing as he approached you, which made you chuckle slightly. 

“My Lord, you are my chieftain and my king. If anything, I should bow to you,” you insisted. 

“My Lady, you bow to no one,” he said, his expression serious, “I apologize for not greeting you when you first arrived in Rivendell. I have been tracking an orc stronghold up north. I came as soon as I heard that you had arrived in the city.”

You tilted your head in curiosity, and gestured to the alcove, inviting Aragorn to sit, which he did.

“There is nothing to forgive,” you assured, “However, I confess that I am surprised. I was unaware of how far my story has spread. I was unsure if the remaining Dúnedain tribes realized that I was still alive. Indeed, you are the first of our people that I have seen in some time.”

Aragorn’s expression softened at your words.

“Several surviving members of your tribe eventually made their way past the Misty Mountains, and swore allegiance to my father, after yours passed,” Aragorn explained, “I was of course not yet born when you were kidnapped, but your story was well-known to both my grandfather and my father. You knew them both, did you not?”

You nodded. 

“Yes,” you reminisced, “I used to tend to your father on occasion when my father and your grandfather held long meetings. He was a child at the time.”

Aragorn’s expression brightened.

“What was he like?” he asked, excitedly. 

“Oh, he was a very sweet and precocious child,” you replied, smiling, “And quite mischievous. He liked to slip my watch and wander off to areas he wasn’t supposed to go. I remember once, we were playing some game, and he ran off and found a frog that he tried to stick in my pocket! Imagine the fright I had when I noticed what he was doing.”

Aragorn laughed heartily at your story, likely discovering a completely new side to his father from what he was usually told. 

“Thank you, My Lady, for indulging me,” he said, gratefully, “My father passed away when I was young. I did not have the chance to know him.”

You nodded.

“I am very sorry, My Lord. It is my understanding that Arathorn was quite young,” you consoled, “I was deeply saddened to hear of his passing from Mithrandir.”

Aragorn sighed. 

“There are few Dúnedain alive these days who remember him,” Aragorn murmured, “Our numbers are dwindling fast.”

It was your turn to sigh and shake your head. 

“That was the case sixty years ago. It does not surprise me that this continues to be an issue today,” you lamented, “I am glad to hear that some of my tribe members survived Smaug’s desolation. I was under the impression that our tribe was extinct.”

Aragorn shook his head. 

“No, My Lady, I believe several descendants still live,” he confirmed, “But we are becoming more scattered every day.”

“How many of them know that the line of Isildur is still alive?” you ventured, cautiously, trying to work out just how desperate the situation had become. 

“Few,” Aragorn mumbled, “Lord Elrond insists that it is for my own safety.”

He sounded frustrated, and you couldn’t blame him. But you also knew that Lord Elrond was quite correct in this regard. If someone like Smaug, an ally of Mordor, had known of Aragorn’s existence…well…you weren’t sure that the two of you would be sitting here today. You hoped that the small piece of Smaug that still existed could not commune with the forces of Mordor…that was probably something you should have asked Lord Elrond a while ago.

“I am afraid that I must agree with him on this matter,” you said, “Smaug was but a symptom of a larger problem. The evil of Mordor grows stronger by the day. It would not be wise to reveal yourself until you are truly ready to assume the mantle of King of Gondor.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, teeth grinding in frustration. 

“And what if I do not wish to?” he hissed. 

You blinked at his words, slightly taken aback by the harsh tone of his voice. You had to remind yourself then that Aragorn was young. He was exactly the same age that you had been when Smaug kidnapped you. How little you had known of the world at that age, and how naive you had been to your role in the cosmic order of things. You had never been fond of the idea of destiny, a concept that the elves seem to revolve around. But spending time with Thranduil and Elrond had made you more open to the idea that things happened for a reason…whether you liked it or not. 

“You know, I was never particularly keen on being Queen of Mirkwood,” you stated, “In fact, just a few short years ago, I would have rather jumped in Mount Doom than marry King Thranduil. I managed to avoid him for a whole year after being liberated from Erebor.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, curiosity plain on his face as he tried to work out where you were going with this. 

“Practically speaking, I needed the Elvenking’s support, as I had problems that only he was equipped to solve,” you continued, “But as I moved forward with my betrothal, I began to realize that perhaps being queen was exactly what I was meant to do. It was certainly not the role I had envisioned for myself at your age, and even as recently as a few years ago. However, I soon understood that as much as I did not want to, I still had a role to play. And it was important that I played it, as much for my own sake as that of Middle Earth.”

Aragorn didn’t look convinced, and you couldn’t blame him. 

“Perhaps your betrothal now is your choice,” Aragorn commented, “But what about your first one? Why would you go through with a marriage with so much uncertainty? Particularly one on which you were not keen.”

You tilted your head and considered his question for a moment before replying. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to you, My Lord, but sometimes in life, we just have to do things we do not want to do,” you parried, “And when you are in a position of leadership, it is more pronounced.”

Aragorn nodded. 

“Exactly,” he asserted, “What good does it serve to be thrust into a role that you do not want?”

You sighed. 

“Well,” you continued, “Oftentimes the best leaders are the ones who do not want to lead, but who rise to the occasion when called. I did not want to marry King Thranduil sixty years ago, and I can assure you that he was less than enthused about marrying me. But both of us had our reasons for going through with the marriage, just as we do today. I suppose my reasons are less altruistic these days, but even if I personally stand to gain something now, there is still the issue of Mirkwood needing a queen. I have found that it is not useful to dwell on what could be and focus on the hand that the Valar have dealt.”

Aragorn looked a bit more contemplative.

“You could choose to abdicate your birthright if you wish,” you said, “I would certainly not judge you for it. But it would not solve the problem of reuniting the race of men and defeating the forces of evil that are plaguing this world. Pragmatically, you are in the best position to solve this issue.”

Aragorn sighed and closed his eyes, as if remembering something. 

“So was Isildur,” he lamented.

Your eyes softened as you discovered the root of his fears. You reached over and squeezed his hand in what you hoped was a reassuring way. 

“Last I checked, it is not Isildur who stands before me,” you said. 

Aragorn gave you a soft smile and squeezed your hand back. 

.

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My Lord King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen, 

I write to express my heartfelt congratulations on your betrothal and to formally grant my permission for you to wed my fellow tribeswoman. I additionally grant her the ability to act in my stead on any matters concerning the Dúnedain and Mirkwood during her tenure as queen. I would be most honored if you would permit me to attend the ceremony and stand in on her father’s behalf.

I have most enjoyed meeting your son, Prince Legolas. He has expressed interest in traveling with me after the wedding. With your permission, I believe his expertise would be most valuable as I attempt to unite the remaining northern Dúnedain tribes.

I look forward to your reply. 

Estel

King Thranduil smiled slightly at Aragorn’s words, glad that the last barrier to finalizing your marriage was finally overcome. Thranduil might be known for playing the long game, but for an elf, he was impatient. Prolonged exposure to his late Calathiel had exacerbated whatever impatience that he had been born with. He was sure that marrying a human would only make it worse, because on account of their short life span, humans were always in a rush. 

Lord Elrond had sent him a letter, along with Aragorn’s, updating Thranduil on your progress. You sent him letters as well, but Elrond had the natural gift of knowing his patients better than they themselves did. You constantly underestimated your strength and your abilities, whereas Elrond had nothing but praise for you. You had your moments of frustration, but by and large, you had taken your treatment plan seriously and were making great progress. Seven months in Rivendell, under the care of Elrond, had seen a great reduction in the severity of your nightmares.

Thranduil moved from Aragorn’s letter, and opened Lord Elrond’s, raising a curious eyebrow at its contents. 

King Thranduil, 

I am greatly pleased at your betrothed’s progress in her healing. She has reported approximately one nightmare a week, which is greatly reduced from nearly every day. Additionally, she describes that during her nightmares, she is able to interact with Smaug much more forcefully than she has before. She rarely dreams of the deaths of those she loves, and mostly recalls her memories from her time in the mountains. Occasionally, she dreams of her own death at Smaug’s hands, but ironically, she finds those dreams…amusing. It seems to be a peculiar human trait. She does not wish for her own death, but finds Smaug’s attempts to harm her…funny. I will confess to not having encountered this behavior before, but Estel was not concerned on the few occasions I have asked him about this. It may be something you may need to get used to. 

I am sure she has informed you of this already, but I have been of the opinion that her time with Smaug has permanently impacted her lifespan, making her immortal. Over the past several months, I have conducted a series of tests and compared her results to Estel’s from just after he entered his adult years. Indeed, the results are not the same. Even the Dúnedains exhibit monthly signs of age, but she does not. I believe it may be safe to conclude that my suspicions about her lifespan are correct. When she returns to Mirkwood, I will send instructions for your own healers to continue these tests regularly and report the results to me. If there is a change, of course, we shall handle it then. 

Her physical stamina has also improved significantly. Lord Glorfindel has generously taken charge of training her in swordcraft, and she has become quite proficient. I’m afraid that she still struggles with archery, but Prince Legolas is a most patient teacher. I hope you are proud of both of them. Legolas has come a long way since Calathiel’s passing, and he certainly shares her desire to see the world. I do believe that he and Estel would have much to learn from each other. 

I have not forgotten my promise to find a way to heal your scars, given that your betrothed has extensive experience with healed dragon fire scars. She has a few unhealed scars on her lower back, and we have tried several remedies. Unfortunately, none of them worked for her, therefore I will extrapolate that they will not have an effect on you. I will continue to work diligently to find a solution as your betrothed was able to provide more information on this process than I have ever encountered. Although my first attempts at a remedy have not worked, I feel optimistic that we will find a solution one day. 

I would like to continue to supervise her recovery for the remainder of the year, after which, I will gladly release her from my care. Estel has agreed to accompany her and Legolas back to Mirkwood and intends to stand in for her father at your wedding, with your permission of course. 

Lord Elrond

Thranduil felt immediate relief at Elrond’s confirmation of your immortality. Yes, you had mentioned it to him as a possibility several months ago, but Thranduil had not held onto the hope that it could be true. Humans weren’t immortal, and that alone had caused Thranduil a great amount of consternation over your marriage. However, this was no longer an issue, and you would live as long as him. 

He would not have to be alone again.

You had treated the subject of your possible immortality so casually in your letters that Thranduil had absolutely no idea how you felt about it. Elves grew up knowing that they would never die, at least from the ravages of time. However, aging and death were a constant for humanity, to the point where death did not bother you as much as it did elves. Thranduil worried for you—he knew firsthand what it was like to watch those around you die while you lived on. Although you had been reunited with the remnants of the Dúnedain, it remained to be seen how you would handle Estel’s eventual death. Perhaps you had not thought that far ahead, or more pragmatically, you had decided to only deal with one problem at a time. 

Your practicality was something that Thranduil greatly admired. You knew when to triage your energy and how to handle the obstacles in front of you. However, he worried that your ability to compartmentalize would mean that you would not allow yourself to work through your emotions, whether they were positive or negative. Thranduil himself was quite similar to you in that respect. He had hardened his heart after so many losses, and usually refused to deal with his own emotions. But if there was one thing that he could say, it was that you were pragmatic enough to know when you were overwhelmed with your own emotions. Perhaps you had trouble asking for help, but you at least knew when you needed it, which is more than Thranduil could say for himself. 

He had only known you for a short time, but he had learned much from you. You hadn’t been gone a year, a mere blip in the lifetime of an elf, but Thranduil felt your influence and your absence keenly. You brought a sense of calm and hope to his court and his life, and he had often found himself seeking out your guidance on matters of state. Not only did you have practical ideas, but you were able to act as a neutral third-party—you did not try to flatter him or sugarcoat your opinion. You respected him enough to give him your honest thoughts…delivered diplomatically, of course. 

Thranduil was reminded every day of why he needed to remarry and why he had selected you. He was glad that he had. While he was not in love with you…yet…he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was. In fact, he could feel those feelings rise every day. 

He missed you. Completely.

He hadn’t allowed himself to feel these feelings since his wife had passed. And now, he found that he couldn’t stop them. 

No, he was wrong. 

He was in love with you. Yes…he couldn’t deny it anymore. 

That had always been his problem. He felt too deeply, fell too quickly. That was why he had to close himself off from everyone because he could not bear to be hurt again. 

He was unsure of where you stood in your own feelings, as you could be more closed off than him when you wanted to be…an accomplishment in its own right. He knew that you cared for him, and that you were well on the road to forgiving him. But whether you could love him…that he did not know. 

He closed his eyes and prayed to Valar that one day you would.