Legolas

The sound of battle roars through the mid-afternoon sky like an enraged dragon as I make my way down the river, after the escaped dwarven prisoners. Orcs—hideous and of all shapes and size—tail the fleeing party as well, attempting to strike at the dwarves with their weapons from afar without falling into the clear blue rapids below. Remarkably, not one of them has landed a blow past the barrels the dwarves have encased themselves in, and their attempts to stall them have been remotely unsuccessful due to the swiftness of the current, which carries the small dwarves away with ease.

I cannot say the same.

Although my targets are not Oakenshield and company, per se, I take out all orcs I come across, sometimes killing multiple at once. Most of which fall dead before they can even identify their killer, while others only catch a glimpse before an arrow or dagger is lodged deep within their skull or throat.

As I near the doors where the dwarves path has been closed off, I notice Bolg leading the orcs. Our guards lie dead at his feet, blood pooling from their lifeless bodies. The orcs appear desperate to kill the dwarves as they slice at them with their weapons. But their targets are fighting them off quite well, considering they're cornered with the doors shut and only wield stolen weapons they must've acquired by accident on their way down the river.

Moreover, the scrawny one Tauriel spoke with earlier has managed to climb out of the water to reach for the lever that can open the river gates. The only obstacle that impedes his task: an arrow stuck in his calf, leaving him writhing on the ground, groaning in pain like a worm.

I stop for a moment to take in the sight.

I must recapture them quickly, before the gates can open. They cannot go free.

Swiftly, I maneuver my way further down the river, cutting through and shooting down any foe that dares block my path. One after another they fall, their corpses tumbling into the waters below as I rush along the river's edge.

After jumping to the other side of the river yet again, I land on a large, flat rock.

I look to the dwarves.

An arrow shoots past me. It pierces an orc that's about to strike the scrawny dwarf with an axe.

Without looking, I already know it must be Tauriel. No other guard could achieve such a shot from that far a distance. My suspicion's only confirmed when I glance over my shoulder and see her and a few other guards a few paces behind me.

But then another arrow whizzes past Tauriel from much farther back.

I follow its path, only to see it strike the river gates' lever hard enough that the doors open. The dwarves immediately pull their wounded comrade back into a barrel, brace each other for the fall, and escape down the river, out of our immediate reach. I glance back in the direction of the shot, and a foreign, elven woman with long, pitch black hair and ivory skin runs past Tauriel, a longbow firm in hand. While she runs, she shoots at the orcs closest to the dwarves, taking each enemy out with lethal precision. Her lithe body dodges any attacks intended for her with ease, her movements as smooth and fluid as the flow of water, her blue eyes just as clear, showing no signs of fear or struggle.

Before long, she has caught up with me. But sooner than she can pass me, a handful of orcs launch an attack on us from both sides. The two of us cluster together. She growls something under her breath, more than likely a curse. And then the next second, the two of us engage with the charging orcs, using a mixture of our bows and daggers.

Between opponents, I catch glimpses of her in action. Not once does her stance falter, despite her being a foot shorter than Tauriel while slaying much larger enemies. The aura of confidence around her remains constant as well, which I strike as odd, considering her lack of armor or clothing around her midsection.

Soon, the two of us are down to our last orc. I end mine quickly by launching forward and plunging my dagger deep into the orc's right eye. Once he has fallen, I spin back around and draw my bow and arrow.

My gaze focuses on the foreign, elven woman, standing before me, my arrow aimed straight at her heart. She's directed one of her arrows at me in kind.

For a moment we merely stare at each other, huffing, panting, and then Tauriel and the other trailing guards surround us, their weapons drawn and pointed at the stranger.

Seeming to realize her disadvantage, the woman glances around, drops her weapon, and laughs. "I bet you ten silver you will regret this later, prince," she says with an odd, unfamiliar accent. "I guarantee it."

"Enough." I lower my bow and turn to Tauriel. "Bind her and confiscate her weapons. We're taking her back with us."

To my surprise, our way back is quiet, minus the occasional grumbling from the one orc we captured. The strange woman never says a word. She only looks at me once and smirks, a blizzard raging in her cool, blue eyes. She does not complain, even after she's thrown into a cell and stripped of all her weapons, of which there are many. More than I could've ever anticipated. Some hidden in some rather . . . unexpected . . . places.

That coldness is all I can think about now, as I stare down at the lifeless orc, twitching on the ground before Father. The decapitated body twitches in a pool of its own filth, shaking every couple of seconds—its fate of its own making, when failing to answer Father's questions during its interrogation.

"My, how unbecoming," the foreign woman's accented voice suddenly purrs behind us.

Father and I both jolt and turn to face her.

Two guards stand at her sides, her wrists bound tight behind her back. The corners of her lips curl upward in contempt as she glances between the two of us and the twitching corpse.

"For a king to close off his kingdom, while the rest of the world lies in peril. No wonder the mortals hold no respect for us," she sneers, and I don't miss the dark look that flickers in her eyes.

"Quiet, girl! You will speak when spoken to," one of the guards snaps and drags her closer.

Father scowls at the woman. "Who is this?" he asks, turning to me.

"She is the woman we captured at the gates. She helped Oakenshield and his men escape," I explain.

Father snorts quietly through his nose. "You are not one of us, yet you address royalty so casually. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Only that if you do not release me immediately, Smaug and Bolg's underlings will be the least of your worries," she snarls.

One of Father's eyebrows quirk up. However, whether it's from annoyance or amusement, I cannot tell. "Bold words from a bound prisoner. Are you perhaps unaware of your own predicament?"

The woman grins. "The fact that I still remain bound shows that you are the one who is unaware, your highness. And you would be wise to heed my words, lest you anger me further."

"What have I to fear from a lone woman?" Father laughs. He turns to take his leave and waves the woman and guards away. "Lock her up. She will be dealt with at a later time."

The woman lets out a low, hateful chuckle. "Tell me," she calls after Father before he's out of ears reach. "Who do you think of at the mention of the wood elves of Thedas, Fereldan in particular?" she asks.

Father stops. He looks back at her, a quizzical look on his face. His eyebrows crease together as he considers her words further. And then, they rise, his eyes now open wide after reaching some sort of realization.

The woman grins. "Ah, it seems you've finally understood. Good," she murmurs and stares down at the ground. She then looks back up and glares at Father, murderous intent clear in the endless blue. "Now unless you wish me to destroy your kingdom from the inside out, you will untie me immediately! Am I understood, Thranduil, oh noble king of Mirkwood?" she shouts, authority coating her voice like a highborn noble's.

Father jolts, and everyone turns to face him. "Release her," he utters, his gaze fixated on the woman.

The guards tilt their heads. "Your . . . Majesty . . . ?"

"I said release her! Now!" Father yells, and I watch just as perplexed as the guards scurry to follow his sudden change of heart.

The woman rubs at her free wrists, and Father bows his head deeply.

"My humblest apologies, Warden," he says. "Had I known you would be gracing us with your presence, such misunderstandings could have been avoided."

"I'm certain," she scoffs, crossing her arms, her cool gaze scanning the others in the room, myself included. "Based on the expressions of your men though, they have yet to catch on to the situation. Allow me a proper introduction." The woman lowers her arms by her sides and stands up tall, her small hands balled into tight fists. "My name is Aranel—Aranel Mahariel. Grey Warden, descendant of the Dalish Sabrae clan, and Hero of Fereldan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She bows her head then refocuses on Father.

Surprise racks through me. My breath catches deep in my throat.

Hero of Fereldan? No. I look at the small, foreign, elven woman again. I take in all that she is—her long, dark hair, her lean frame, her scarce leather armor. This is the woman who single-handedly defeated three dragons and decimated almost half a horde of darkspawn? The woman of legend from across the sea?

No matter how hard I look at her, the words don't seem to add up.

How could a woman so small and lean, whose armor barely covers her curves, be the hero of legend? She must jest. For although her stunning looks match the description we've all heard of in tales, such a powerful woman would not be captured so easily . . . unless, that was her plan all along, knowing such an act would happen.

"I bet you ten silver you will regret this later, prince." Her words from earlier repeat in my head. "I guarantee it."

Dread fills my stomach.

The statement only furthers my suspicion. But how I hope I'm wrong.

"Pray tell. What has brought you to our woodland realm?" my father inquires, shaking me from my quiet reverie.

I refocus on the two in front of me.

He poses a good question. Why would the Hero of Fereldan be in Middle Earth, if her words are indeed the truth?

Aranel purses her lips. She stares at Father with evident disdain, perhaps debating how much she's willing to disclose. "Up until my capture, I was lending my assistance to the dwarves serving under Oakenshield," she says. "After all, who else better to ask to fight a dragon than a warrior who's already slain one? Unfortunately, however, my job was interrupted not once but twice, while passing through these parts. The first being when my company was imprisoned within your walls, and the second . . . well," she pauses and glances at me, "that's self-explanatory."

"Again, I offer my sincerest apologies. We were unaware you were among their company, or of their intetions," Father tries to reassure her.

She nods once. "True. This I can understand," she replies, crossing her arms.

But then, her eyes grow harsh—harsher and colder than ever before.

"What I do not understand, however, is why even after hearing Thorin's request, you still refuse to lend aid without having him indulge your selfish desires," she snaps.

Father stiffens. His eyes snap wide open in alarm, and I'm no exception.

Aranel smirks, appearing to have expected such a reaction, and even reveling in it. "Yes, I overheard your conversation," she confirms. "Your walls are far less secure than you realize." She points around the room in a circular motion, as if that alone how she breached all our defenses. "But that's not the topic we currently have at hand, now is it?"

She pauses and stares at Father.

"From your conversation, I gather you do not understand the severity of this situation," she says. "I come from a land, who has just overcome a blight—one that united all of Fereldan, for the sake of taking out a common enemy, and nothing more. Yet, here you stand, refusing to lift a finger, hiding in the shadows like a cowardly rat, while the rest of Middle Earth crumbles at your doorstep. And for what? Thorin refusing to lend you a hand as you did to his people in years past?" she nearly spits out the words, her anger apparent in her scrunched-up nose and scowl.

She takes a couple steps closer to Father. The guards flinch and prepare to intercept her, but I hold my hand up to have them hold. Although we all can sense her angers, there's no bloodthirst, yet. And we'd need more reason than that, to avoid further conflict with her or the Wardens' potential wrath.

"If their attempt fails, Thranduil," she continues, stopping short of Father, "how long until Smaug and his men are banging at your doors? Do you think you can simply lock yourselves away and take the army out later yourself? Or that they will not dare come for you, if you do not interfere?" Aranel scoffs. "Do not be a fool. By then, their forces will have multiplied, and you would have no allies in sight. Your only hope is to gather your forces and fight now. Otherwise, your kingdom will fall, along with the rest of Middle Earth. And then you and all of your people will die! You must know this to be the truth!"

Silence descends the hall. No one moves or says a word.

The Warden's gaze softens, and she takes a cautious step back. "My apologies," she whispers, looking almost alarmed at her own reaction or recalling something of importance. "I did not intend to vent my frustration upon you. It is your decision how you and your people address this situation. I let my feelings get the best of me. For that, I am sorry."

Father takes a deep breath, and his lips form a thin line. "Your words are not lost on me, Warden," he says, closing his eyes. "I will . . . consider them."

Without another word on the matter, Father shifts his concentration on the guards.

"Fetch her belongings and return them immediately," he orders, and the two guards bow and rush to execute his command. He then looks at Aranel again. "Warden, to make up for the treatment you've endured here, allow me to prepare a boat for you, so you may catch up with your companions. My son, Legolas," he motions to me, "will accompany you, along with the captain of our guard. While the boat is being prepared, please join us for a humble feast to formally welcome you into our kingdom. In the morning, you may set sail, with my blessings and more."

Aranel squints at Father.

The guards return before she can respond. They offer her the confiscated weapons, and after glimpsing them over, she starts requiping them, one by one. Once all appear to be accounted for, she looks back at Father, her longbow grasped tight in one hand.

"Very well," she says, "if that is what you wish."

But I hear the reluctance in her voice and see the distrust, lingering in her glare.

"Legolas," Father addresses me then.

I wait for what I know will be new instruction on my part.

"Please show our honored guest around then guide her to her resting quarters. I imagine she needs her rest." I nod and bow to Father slightly. Father then motions to his attendants and walks away. "Come. We have much to prepare," he says to them, and they disappear down the nearest steps.

The guards excuse themselves as well, and I signal for the Warden to follow me. She does so, quietly, without complaint. I can't help but watch her in the corner of my eye as we proceed down one of the nearest halls. She, however, seems indifferent to my presence. Perhaps deeming me an unwanted intruder or just another unworthy guard.

"You remember what you told me earlier when we captured you?" I ask, focusing on the hallway straight ahead.

"Yes," she murmurs.

I dig into my pocket, grab a handful of coins, then hold out my fist for her. She opens her palms, and I place ten silver coins in her hand.

She follows me down the rest of the hallway with an amused snicker, ten silver pennies richer, and a smug smirk plastered on her tiny face.