They say that the guards of the Woodland Realm are the finest soldiers of Middle Earth. Their swords are sharp, their arrows are true, and their skills are otherworldly. They are fluid warriors, the best of their kind. But they are wrong. The true guards of the Woodland Realm are the stars that circle overhead, the stars by whose passing the Elves mark the changing seasons and growing years. These stars are brilliant, shining memory that nightly watch over the realm. Clusters of small dots, regions of large suns, constellations that tell the stories of the race, nebulae that burst with colors of green and gold across the inky nighttime sky. These are the ultimate guardians of the Woodland Realm, the watchful eyes that remember the past and herald the future, the memories that create story and call the wandering home. It is through starlight that Lastande, daughter of the King of Men, found her way back to the realm, and back into the destiny that was forever written in the stars.

She stood before the throne with bowed head. A brown cloak hooded her hair and swept along the floor behind her, billowing around her short frame. Underneath the cloak, she wore a deep green tunic, belted at the waist and tucked into dark pants. Faded and dirty boots reached her knees, giving the girl an even shorter appearance. An empty sheath graced her belt and an unfilled quiver hung from her shoulders. The guards had taken her weapons upon her entrance into the kingdom, and the girl was clearly uncomfortable without her sword and arrows. She shifted awkwardly where she stood, keeping her eyes on the floor and hands folded in front, twisting nervously from time to time.

"Stand still in the presence of the King," came a harsh voice from behind her.

She stopped fidgeting and attempted to remain calm in the increasingly tense space.

The throne room was simultaneously calming and unnerving. The girl knew that certain elements of the Woodland Realm held hallucinogenic properties. She certainly perceived them. The scents of honeysuckle and lavender combined and arched toward the ceiling, their smells mixing with the arching birch branches overhead. Pale branches drooped with golden leaves and red berries. Through their gaps, she could see the bright starlight piercing colored leaves and bursting nebulae painting the darkness. It was surreal, other worldly, and would entrance any human. The girl steadied her breathing and focused her concentration, glancing up the branching staircase before again lowering her eyes to the floor.

Up the winding staircase from the girl, the Elf-King of Mirkwood sat atop an ornate throne of majestic branches and antlers. His legs stretched out lazily before him, crossed over one arm of the grand throne. Heavily robed arms draped across the chair. The King's head rested against the carved back, his eyes unblinking and staring with amusement at the small girl below. A single strand of golden hair fell across his eyes, and the King idly pushed it back behind his crown of white branches and red berries. He then smiled, a cold gesture that did not reach his eyes, and slowly rose from his ornate throne.

He began to descend the twisting staircase, his eyes never leaving the girl.

"Few who enter my realm choose to remain anonymous upon their audience with me," he said, reaching the bottom of the staircase and approaching the hooded figure. "Either you have something to hide, or you are unaware of your surroundings."

The King slowed his pace and came to a halt mere inches from the girl. He crouched down, as though speaking to a child, and pushed his face underneath her hood. She shied away, turning her face to the side. The King smiled and stood again, walking around the girl in increasingly tighter circles.

"I believe," he said quietly, "that you are the former."

He again came to a stop in front of the girl. His eyes narrowed and lost all trace of amusement.

"Remove your hood," he said sternly.

The girl hesitated. Her hands twitched upward toward her hood, but she seemed to think better of her decision, and lowered them again to her belt. The King frowned and made a nearly imperceptible movement toward the girl, which she did not miss. Immediately, her hands went to her hood, flinging it back from her head.

From underneath sprung a mass of dark brown hair that curled around her shoulders and down her back. The suddenly freed locks framed a tanned face, dotted with freckles. Deep brown eyes stared at the Elven King, eyes defiant yet surrounded by lines, as though they hadn't seen sleep in many nights. A deep cut, only a day old, marred the girl's left cheek, a split lip betrayed a scuffle, and a black eye confirmed any suspicions of conflict.

The girl stared at the King, then stepped back and bowed deeply, her hands extending in a gesture that could only be described as mocking.

"King Thranduil," she spoke, her voice hoarse yet betraying the clear annoyance she felt, "I thank you for your warm welcome to your Kingdom. Doubtless, if all your guests receive the same comfortable quarters in your lovely dungeons, followed by this charming audience, then your friends outside this place must be overflowing."

The girl smirked then rose from her bow, her eyes daring the King to respond. His apparent lack of reaction seemed to confuse her momentarily, as the girl's eyebrows furrows and her head tilted slightly to the side. The King then released a harsh laugh and quickly closed the gap between him and the girl. To her credit, she did not retreat from his advance, but her flinch was visible. Thranduil lightly grabbed the girl's chin and tilted it upward, forcing her eyes to observe his own. After a few seconds, he laughed, more lightly this time, and released the girl's face.

"Always a pleasure, Lastande, daughter of Elessar Telcontar. I will send advance word to your father at Gondor that you are returning with a guard, as usual."

The King smiled, then turned and stalked back to the staircase winding upward toward the ornate throne. The girl shouted and lunged forward, only to immediately have her arms pinned behind her by two Elven guards. Thranduil slowly turned and raised an eyebrow at the girl.

"Yes?" he asked, remaining at the foot of the staircase.

The girl leaned forward in the strong Elven grasp. Her eyes were hard, her face impassive. But through her harsh façade, a pleading voice broke through her bleeding lips.

"Please," she said softly, her head dropping and eyes facing the floor as she hung forward in her captor's grasp. "Please don't send me back. I'll only return again, as I always have."

Thranduil's eyes widened, then he smiled and walked back to the girl. At the sound of his footsteps, she raised her head to meet his gaze. The King gazed evenly down at her.

"I would expect nothing less, Princess Lastande. You belong among us, but it is not within my power to allow you to stay. So I will gladly heal you and provision you, but you must return to Gondor."

With that, the King turned away and, with a lazy gesture, sent away his guard, dragging the protesting princess from his hall with them.