mithril

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Mirkwood looms before me, deep in the draws of autumn. The leaves of the tall trees are a brilliant and deep red-gold as I find my path into the Woodland Realm. I remember the last time I found this path. The forest had been dark. Poisoned by an evil I could not hope to understand. An evil that had been driven away. It was friendlier, now.

Thranduil is waiting for me. The Elvenking, for all his harsh ways, looks worried as I step into his halls. The cold of this autumn has not been kind to me, despite the time I spent with Beorn. I took a great deal of time resting there, taking the days in stride until I had regained weight and felt healthier. Yet the plunge into Mirkwood has made me fatigued. I'm desperate for the peace of resting in these halls, but Thranduil has other plans.

After all, the Feast of Starlight is here once more. His people will be partying and enjoying each other through the night. As a guest again, I am welcome to join him.

"Legolas has not yet returned?" I ask the king as he walks me through his halls.

"Legolas has taken his leave of my kingdom for now."

"Where has he gone, then?"

"I sent him after Estel."

"You did?" I ask sharply. "Why?"

"I rather think my son and the young Ranger will have a fast friendship. He will need close friends at his side if he wishes to rise to the throne of Gondor in time."

"You support his claim, then?"

"I will not stand in his way," Thranduil answers. "And I also think his cousin of the same blood should meet with him before she decides to be married off to a Dwarf."

I open my mouth, ready to argue. Then I pause, considering his words. "I ache for home. Delaying my journey would–"

"Just because you are blessed with the long life of kings does make the years apart from him shorter. He doubts himself. Cross swords with me, Little Wolf," he presses, reaching for his blade as we reach the open space of the feast halls.

I draw Angolain in answer, eyeing the curving sword facing me. It wasn't a challenge, really. He will go easy on me, especially in this state. I grow stronger every day, but even at my peak I would never be skilled enough to beat the Elvenking at hand-to-hand combat.

Thranduil steps forward, his advance elegant. I was correct, this is more of a dance than a duel. I meet him, our swords clashing lightly and singing as he draws the blade away. Like the bow of a violin. Creating a sweet melody between two Elven blades. He pulls his slashes and keeps the movements easy. A song of the swordplay void of intense stabbing or clashing. Not like fighting with Orcs, or even Dwarves. We move fluidly, the Elven tunic flowing around my arms like liquid with each movement.

"Go to the Ranger. Find him in the Wild. Speak to him before you return to Thorin and make good on his destiny. Doubt is a darkness he must avoid. The world is on the cusp of changing, Little Wolf. It started with you. It must end with him," Thranduil instructs, swirling his sword around me like a gust of wind.

"And where would they be, out there in the Wild?" I respond, stepping to the side and opening my stance with Angolain.

"This side of the Misty Mountains. North."

"Framsburg North or Gundabad North?"

"I would not send you to Gundabad," he answers softly. I see his face shift slightly. The pain of a lifetime crossing his regal features. Pain I only knew of in whispers from the Silvan Elves of his kingdom. They were rumors, for most had been born long after the great wars of Old.