mithril

XIV.

— XIV —

Thranduil waits for us on the bridge into Dale astride his stag. His mouth is set into a knowing smirk as we approach.

"He will give us nothing," Bard tells the king.

"Such a pity. Still, you tried." He looks at me, those pale blue eyes flashing to the bloody handprint against my neck. He knows what our failure means. He knows what the ache in my returning gaze has been caused by.

"I do not understand," Bard mutters. "Why? Why would he risk war?" Behind us, there is a massive clattering of stone as the Dwarves continue to reinforce the mountain face.

"It is fruitless to reason with them. They understand only one thing." Thranduil draws out his long blade, raising it slightly in the midday light.

"My Lord Thranduil, you know I will not let you strike at him," I whisper in cracking Elvish. My will is spent, utterly drained as my entire being turns to focus around the pain in my center. I feel like the surrounding stones, cracked and battered now where they once stood tall and proud. The Elvenking ignores me.

"We attack at dawn."

Bard's hand stills mine as I reach for my blade. He brings my arm back down to my side and presses it there.

"No," he murmurs. "That would be unwise."

Thranduil catches the exchange, raising an eyebrow at Bard's fingers wrapped around my arm. He turns his steed away from the Mountain, spinning his blade.

"Are you with us?"

I slide from Bard's horse as we enter Dale, running after Thranduil. His guards stop me before I enter his tent, their blades passing across the entrance and barring my way. Inside, the Elf waves his hand. The guards lift their blades, snapping to positions of attention as they resume their watch.

"Let me go to him. Please. I will speak better with the Dwarves when I do not have a blade to my throat." I lift my hand to my neck, still feeling the cold ghost of steel there. Thranduil doesn't answer me, moving instead to a table at the center of the tent. He pours a goblet of wine, which he passes to me. He gestures at the seat next to his own. I sit reluctantly, perching on the edge of it in my impatience.

"I would not have you fight against us, Little Wolf," he finally answers me, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. "But if I bade you leave, the next time we shall meet is at your funeral pyre."

"Do you truly seek to command my heart the same way you command that of your son?" I ask quietly. The Elf frowns.

"You know nothing of him," he scolds.

"I know enough. Please, Thranduil. The longer I spend in this city the more it aches. I can not bear another moment."

"You are aware I can not directly send you to the Mountain?" He asks, stirring the wine in his goblet lightly. He gazes deeply into the dark liquid without looking up. "Drink, Little Wolf, before I dismiss you from my company. You will not find wine this fine under the Mountain." I sense the deeper meaning of his words. I remember his command in the throne room of his Realm. The one that Tauriel took so literally. I sip the wine, draining the cup before placing it in his waiting hand. "Leave me now," he dismisses me. I rise from my seat, bowing at the waist.

"My Lord Thranduil."

"And Léra?" He calls out. I pause, turning slowly. The Elf rises, moving to a trunk across the tent. He pulls something from it and offers it to me. "I imagine you will make use of this."

It's my cloak. The dark green material is repaired seamlessly, as clean and perfect as it was the day I set out from Imladris. I take the heavy garment gratefully, swinging it around my shoulders. Thranduil steps forward, helping me draw the clasp. He lifts my chin with a gentle hand, brushing against the cut on my cheek.