How I Leave You

I Will Have War

After giving the Arkenstone to Thranduil, I do not stick around long enough to watch the satisfied smirk on his face at his victory over the dwarven king. It is no victory at all. Not when no battle has even been fought.

Or, at least that is my goal in giving the mountain's heart to an enemy of its king. But Thorin would never actually wage war over something as superficial as a treasure, regardless of its size.

Right?

As I turn to exit the the elven king's tent for the second time in two nights, Thranduil says:

"This is grand of you, Ilwien. All the people of Laketown are indebted to you. I am indebted to you."

None of this matters to me. He could've told me I had just been made heir of Mirkwood and I could have cared less.

I leave with a nod, the drapes closing behind me.

But for the first time since joining Thorin's company on this journey, I do not know where to go.

Home?

I do not have it in me to return to Rhûn before Esgaroth is rebuilt, if not completely, then at least somewhat. I, too, awakened the fury of the dragon. I, too, am to blame for its fire.

"One day," a familiar voice says, "Thorin will thank you."

Gandalf steps from the dark of the camp into the light of the flame. Immediately, I fall around his neck.

"He will hate me," I say into the shoulder of the wizard.

He claps my back as he always does.

"Maybe so." Gandalf looks at me with wisdom in his eyes. "But hatred is sometimes the price we must pay for doing the right thing."

I shake my head. It's weighed down with guilt.

Guilt, but not regret.

"He would never have let me walk away with it if he'd known I'd be walking right into Thranduil's tent."

"He cares for you, Ilwien. If he didn't, he would have taken it from you the moment he learned it was in your possession."

"Maybe so. Maybe he did care for me once, in spite of himself. But after negotiations tomorrow... after learning what I have done..."

I do not intend for my gaze to land on Erebor. Not a single light shines from the mountain.

"We will take it as it comes, my child. Right now, our main task is to avoid a war with the dwarves at all costs."

This tears my eyes away from the Lonely Mountain.

"Do you really think it might come to that? A war of two armies?"

Gandalf not as much as smiles when he says:

"Let us only hope there will be no more armies than two."

Sleep does not seem keen on finding me tonight. Not that I have been particularly looking for it. Instead, I find myself wandering about the camp, taking in the culture of a people so far from my own.

To prepare for what might turn into battle, some of the elven warriors sit around bonfires, sharing memories and telling stories. Others have drawn into themselves, preparing for what might be their first battle.

Or last.

I keep walking. No one here is familiar to me. Nothing is.

That is, until I hear the voice. Her voice.

Tauriel.

From a tent whose draping is only partly closed, her words reach out to me, pulling me closer. You can say much about naiads. If there is one thing we are, it's curious.