Illicit Affairs ⋆ Thorin Oakenshield

𝖛𝖎𝖎. Mereth Nuin Giliath

Since the night of Bilbo's  great disturbance in the palace, time had moved forward like a quiet river beneath frost. The tremor of that event—of shattered vases and upturned halls, of vanished shadows and phantom presences—had faded from the memory of the guard. No culprit had ever been found, no reason uncovered for the chaos. And so the matter was laid to rest, as such things often are in grand and guarded places.

The palace had exhaled. It had returned to its usual rhythm of soft music and measured steps, of silken courtyards and cold, unyielding stone. But beneath the polished veneer, something had shifted—at least for one.

Myríel had not forgotten. She had not ceased to think of the halfling's wild mischief, nor of the night she had stolen from time with the dwarf king. Since that night, her thoughts had drifted more often to Thorin, like leaves carried downstream, reluctant to stop. The things she could not say gathered in her like twilight in an empty room.

Now, the festival had come.

It was the night of Mereth Nuin Giliath—the Feast of Starlight. The oldest and most sacred of the woodland holidays, it was the night when the stars were said to draw closer to the earth, and the veil between the mortal and the eternal grew thinner than the breath on a mirror. Silver lanterns were strung through the trees like constellations caught in the branches, and the sky itself—clear, endless—seemed to lean down and listen.

At the heart of the feast was the ancient tale of the elenhóre, the Starheart. A lost jewel said to have fallen from the sky in the Elder Days, it symbolised peace—peace between peoples, between hearts, and, most curiously, between elf and dwarf.

The legend was older than any elf could remember. It told of a time when love could exist between such unlikely souls, and that when it did—when it was true, and pure—the Starheart would awaken, and perform wonders beyond mortal comprehension. Wherever it lay now, nobody knew.

Each year, the tale was told anew in the garden of lanterns, through music and dance. Two elves would take the stage, playing the roles of the two lovers. This year, Myríel was the elf. And Eridor, her unwelcome betrothed, would take the part of the dwarf.

The irony did not escape her. How the elves of Mirkwood celebrated a legend of unity even as they locked dwarves in cold stone cells. How they praised love that crossed boundaries while scorning it in truth. It felt to her more a fable than a prophecy, more performance than faith.

Still—she wanted Thorin to see it.

The tale mirrored something in her own heart, unnamed but undeniable, and tonight, with the guards drinking in the halls and the palace emptied into the gardens, she knew she had the chance. Most of the guards left in the dungeons would be more concerned with wine than duty.

She took her chance.

The lower halls were quiet, scented faintly with damp stone and the remnants of kitchen hearths cooling for the night. She moved swiftly, the hem of her gown whispering over the floor like smoke. As she passed through the archway into the dungeons, a flicker of lamplight and the soft murmur of voices stilled her steps.

There, ahead, stood Tauriel, cloaked in shadow, speaking through the bars to Kili. Their voices were low, their words threaded with laughter and quiet warmth.

Myríel remained hidden in the half-dark for a breath or two. Long enough to hear the fond tilt in Tauriel's voice as she spoke of the Feast of Starlight, and the stars that once guided the first Elves across the night lands. Kili's reply was equally soft, his tone laced with gentle teasing. The moment shimmered like spun glass—intimate, delicate. Not meant for her eyes.

She stepped forward with the echo of purpose in her footfall. The hush between them broke like glass dropped on stone.

Tauriel turned sharply, face a mask of composed vigilance, but her body betrayed her startle.