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Chapter Text

What if Aragorn never joined the Fellowship—because his twin sister stole his name?
Rauthmirelle was never meant for the sword. She was meant for soft silks, courtly manners, and an arranged life among the golden trees of Lothlórien. But Rauth never listened.
Neither, it turns out, did her brother.
While Estel secretly trained in the healing arts—Rauth snuck into the wilds with a blade, disguising her voice, her body, and eventually… her name.
So when the time comes for the mysterious ranger to answer the call of the Ring, it’s not Estel who steps forward.
It’s her.
Now, hiding behind her brother’s legacy, Rauth travels with the Fellowship toward Mordor, cloaked in lies. But one member of the company watches her too closely: Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood. Sharp, and impossibly perceptive—he's the one complication she can’t afford.
Because she’s starting to wish she wasn’t lying.
As kingdoms rise and fall, and secrets tighten like a noose, Rauth must fight not just for Middle-earth, but for the truth of who she is—and who she dares to love—before everything unravels.
She’s not Aragorn.
And she might be the only one who can save them all.

Chapter Text

There were light.
Two lights actually.
One radiating with molten gold that seemed to flicker the grace of sunlight.
One flow with solid darkness that covered the other half of the world.
They met in the hush of twilight, where day kissed night and the world dared not speak.
The golden one didn’t speak at first, hovering, afraid to speak.
“Come,” the dark said, raw and barely there, “see her.”
“She’s... she’s not like him.”
“No,” the dark said, smiling faintly. “She’s not like anyone.”
“She has your mouth,” the gold whispered.
“And your eyes.”
“No,” the gold said, almost in awe. “She has something else. Something... ancient.”
“We can’t keep her hidden forever.”
The darkness met the gold as the latter whispered: “But let tonight be ours.”
For a while, they simply breathed. All three of them.
Then, softly, the gold asked, “What will we call her?”
The dark was silent a long while, as if weighing the stars. Then:
“Rauthmirelle.”
Gold blinked. “Shadow and light...”
“Because she is both,” the dark said. “Ours, but not ours. Meant to be seen, and yet never known.”
For now, she slept. The world waiting.
And that was Rauthmirelle’s first memory.

Chapter Text

Ew, sour!
Rauth liked the fruit. Not the taste—ew, sour!—but the squish it made when she mashed it under her little thumb. It made a noise. A funny one. And it left a splat on her tray like a splash of color.
She grinned. Then giggled.
Squish. Splat.
Squish—!
“Rauthmirelle,” someone said. Maybe the elf with the silver strings on his robe. Not Ada. Not golden.
She turned her face, big grey-blue eyes blinking slow.
Next to her, her brother sat up very, very straight. He held his spoon right. He chewed slow. He didn’t even look at the jelly. Boring.
Estel was quiet.
Estel didn’t make splats.
She tossed a bit of berry. It bounced off the tray and onto the floor.
No one saw.
Grown-ups were talking again. Grown-ups talked a lot. They made mouth sounds with no color, no fun. All hums and sighs.
She slid down.
One little leg.
Then the other.
No one noticed.
The floor was big. Her legs were small. But the wind was singing, and she wanted to go there—where the breeze came in and the sunlight danced on the stone.
Bal-con-y.
She liked that word. Though she couldn’t say it.
She tottered to the edge. The wall was tall, but not taller than her want. She grabbed the stone ledge with chubby fingers, pulling. Huff. Wiggle. Climb. Her toes scrabbled like tiny paws.
She was almost up—almost!
One hand slipped.
And then—
Down.
Wind in her hair. Sky spinning. No tray, no fruit, no grown-up mouths. Just fast, and down, and—
Light.
Big light. Bright light.
Golden.
She crashed into arms. Warm arms. Safe arms.
There was a sound, not loud, but close. A breath.
Then a chuckle. Deep, soft. The chest she hit shook like it was laughing.
She blinked.
Gold. Gold hair, gold voice. She reached up and grabbed some. It shimmered between her fingers.
“Rauth,” the golden one whispered. “You fly already, little star?”
The golden light held her. Big hands, gentle. A soft sway, like leaves rocking in wind. She liked that.
Far above, voices rose.
“She’s not in her seat—!”
“She was right there, Lord Elrond, I—”
“Rauthmirelle!”
Ah, the sound again. Her name. Long and shiny.
The golden one walked. His steps made soft thumps and swishes. His chest rumbled with sounds she didn’t understand, but they felt nice. His voice wrapped around her ears like warm blankets and sunshine.
They went up. Stone steps. Wind brushed her curls. Then—
Light again.
Voices.
Gasps.
“By the stars—!”
“She was—!”
“You caught her?!”
The golden one chuckled, warm and unbothered. “I did. She came tumbling down like a star dropped too early.”
Chairs scraped. Cloaks shifted. A cup wobbled.
Elrond stood with a sharp breath, his robes swaying like a stormcloud. “Rauthmirelle—”
“She’s unharmed,” Glorfindel said gently, as if handing back a fallen flower. “And quite proud of herself.”
Rauth wiggled happily in his arms, one hand stretching toward the table again. Squish time? The berries had looked very red today.
“I turned my eyes for one moment—” Elrond began tightly.
“You turned your eyes for three,” said Lindir, half-rising. “I counted.”
“Your timing is always convenient, Lindir,” muttered Erestor, reaching to pluck a fig from the dish. “What was she doing?”
“Climbing,” Glorfindel replied, utterly unfazed. “With admirable commitment. She nearly made it to the ledge.”
“She was playing with her food,” said Erestor from his seat.
Glorfindel lowered himself into the empty chair beside Estel — the one Rauth had abandoned — and set her in his lap like she’d always belonged there.
“Not bad,” he murmured, scooping up a spoonful of berry mash. “Just brave. And curious. Like someone ought to be.”
She opened her mouth wide. Then closed it again with a gurgle and a grin. Purple juice painted her chin like war paint.
Lindir winced. “That tunic was clean this morning.”
“It’ll wash,” Glorfindel said simply, wiping her face with the corner of his sleeve, not hers.
Erestor leaned an elbow on the table, eyebrow raised. “So this is what council has come to. Jam and child-catching.”
Glorfindel smiled, not even looking up. “Better to raise bold little wolves than fearful lambs.”
“She favors you,” Lindir said, almost accusing.
“She favors falling off buildings,” muttered Elrond, rubbing his brow. “Or giving me heart failure.”
“She favors freedom,” Glorfindel corrected, offering another spoonful to the happily squirming girl in his lap. “It’s not a flaw.”
“She’s going to be trouble,” Erestor said fondly. “And your son—” he gestured at Estel, still sitting straight as a reed, “—your son is going to rule an entire kingdom while apologizing for her every step.”
“She has presence,” Glorfindel said, eyes twinkling.
A soft pause.
Then warm laughter rolled around the table.
“Yes, Estel,” Elrond said, smoothing the boy’s dark hair. “You are. But your sister may grow up to command your armies.”
“Or your council,” Glorfindel added.
“Or start a war,” Erestor said, smiling despite himself.
At that very moment, Rauth smacked the spoon in Glorfindel’s hand. It catapulted across the table.
Berry mash landed squarely on Elrond’s sleeve.
Silence.
Glorfindel blinked, then calmly reached for another spoon.
“…Yes,” Erestor said mildly. “A storm indeed.”

Sunlight danced in from the open windows.
Rauthmirelle sat cross-legged on a soft cushion, chewing the tip of her braid.
Estel sat across from her with perfect posture, hands folded in his lap like a miniature grown-up.
Lord Elrond, all robes and long dark hair and the smell of books, knelt between them, holding a carved wooden letter in each hand.
He was saying something again. A sound. A new word.
“Ahh-dar,” Elrond pronounced, slow and clear, with a smile that held far too much hope.
Estel blinked. Then tried:
“Ah... dah!”
“Very good,” Elrond said warmly. “Again?”
“Adar!” Estel said, louder this time, proud as a prince.
Rauth chewed her braid harder.
“Rauthmirelle,” Elrond turned to her, lowering his voice gently. “Can you try it, little one? ‘Adar.’ That means me.”
She stared at his mouth, then at the little wooden letter in his hand. Then snatched it.
“Hmm,” she said, examining it upside-down.
Elrond chuckled. “No, not chew it—say it.”
She stuck the letter in her mouth.
Estel gasped. 
“Rauth,” Elrond said patiently, reaching to take the soggy wooden letter from her tiny teeth. “Let’s try again. Say, ‘Ahh—’”
Rauth grinned wide and smacked her hands on her cushion.
“Ahhh—blehhh!”
Estel frowned. 
“I’m aware,” murmured Elrond, rubbing his brow.
Rauth made a honking noise with her hands over her nose. Then, noticing her brother’s stern little face, reached out and bopped his forehead.
Estel let out a scandalized “Oww!” and batted at her hand.
Rauth laughed and poked his cheek again. He swatted. She grabbed his ear.
“Adar!” Estel cried, red-faced. 
There was a soft thud as the twins collapsed into each other on the floor, limbs flailing, small growls erupting from them both. Estel began to cry in earnest, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Enough,” Elrond said, scooping them both up at once — a feat that should’ve been impossible with such elegance. “Lesson is over.”
Rauth wriggled like a trapped eel. She grabbed at Elrond’s braid, tugged it gleefully.
“Elbereth, no—” he hissed through his teeth, lifting her higher with one arm to protect his hair. “Your mother’s spirit lives on in full.”
Estel sniffled, clutching the edge of Elrond’s robes with one hand and pointing the other accusingly at his sister.
“She is spirited,” Elrond said, carrying them down the hallway, cloak trailing behind him like a ship’s sail. “And you are sensitive. A dangerous combination.”
Rauth kicked hard against his chest and tried to climb his shoulder.
“Bed,” he announced, “before diplomacy fails.”
The twin room smelled like lavender and wool. Moonlight filtered in, catching motes of dust as Elrond set them both down on the wide bed with matching pillows.
Rauth immediately burrowed under a blanket and peeked out, giggling.
Estel rubbed his eyes, sniffled again, and curled up near the wall, facing away.
“Peace, little ones,” Elrond said, smoothing back Rauth’s hair despite her attempts to catch his fingers. “Tomorrow, you may try again. Perhaps with less violence.”
He kissed Estel’s head, then Rauth’s, though she tried to bite his nose.
With a sigh, he stood, turning to leave.
“‘Adar’,” Estel mumbled softly into his blanket.
Behind him, Rauth gurgled and blew a raspberry.
“Close enough,” Elrond muttered as he shut the door behind him.
The door clicked shut.
Footsteps faded.
Peace hovered like a prayer.
Estel had already curled toward the wall, blanket up to his chin, breathing like a perfect little princeling. One hand stuck out like a white flag of peace.
Rauth glared at it.
Then at him.
She blinked once.
Then bared her teeth like a wolf cub.
Attack.
She exploded from under her blanket like a launched catapult. Tiny knees thudded across the mattress. Her fist already cocked mid-flight.
“Mmfh!” Estel squeaked. An elbow jabbed his ribs. A knee to the spine. Then a flurry of wild, triumphant blows—fists as small as walnuts, twice as determined.
“ADAAAAAAR!!” he wailed.
Rauth shrieked in glee. “HAAA!!”
She straddled his back like a conquering general and began bouncing. One hand seized his hair. The other jabbed his shoulder. He cried louder.
The door exploded open.
Robes stormed in like thunderclouds.
“Valar save us—what is happening now—!” Elrond swept forward, snatching Rauth up by the middle. 
She kicked. She twisted. She bit air.
“Rauthmirelle!”
“GRAGH!” she roared, eyes blazing, legs cycling like a furious beetle.
One tiny fist thumped Elrond’s collarbone with alarming force.
He staggered back. “Ow—! Stars above! No, no—we do not maim our family—”
She shrieked in protest and tried to bite his sleeve.
Estel hiccupped under the blanket. “Adar…?”
“I am being assaulted by a very small barbarian,” Elrond muttered, spinning slightly to keep her feet out of his face. “Whose soul, I swear, is made of fire and bad decisions.”
Footsteps padded softly in.
A glow entered the room.
“Again?” Glorfindel asked calmly.
He surveyed the chaos: Estel tear-streaked, Elrond wrestling a gremlin in a nightgown, furniture slightly askew.
He held out his arms without hesitation.
“I’ll take the battle sprite.”
Elrond marched forward and deposited her like a live bomb. “I welcome your sacrifice.”
Rauth froze as she hit golden silk.
She blinked once.
Then twice.
Then curled into Glorfindel’s chest like a kitten with claws just slightly retracted.
He rumbled a low laugh. “You give even trolls a run for their coin, little one.”
She grunted, grabbed a handful of his hair, and sniffed it suspiciously.
“Very brave,” he said solemnly. “Very bold.”
Elrond rubbed his temples. “Very damaging. She has the spirit of five wild orclings and none of the manners.”
“Then perhaps,” Glorfindel said, turning toward the door, “what she needs… is a sword.”
Elrond made a sound like a man on the verge of collapse.

Glorfindel’s chamber was enormous.
Lit only by the soft spill of starlight through tall windows and the low flicker of fire near the hearth, it looked more like the lair of a dragon than a bedchamber.
Rauth’s eyes went wide.

Everything sparkled or shone. Everything was sharp, or ancient, or humming with importance.
Swords glinted above the mantle. Long bows rested along the walls like sleeping beasts. A shield leaned against a velvet cloak; a golden circlet gleamed like a captive sun. There were scrolls in cracked leather, silver spurs, a painting of a creature with wings and fire behind its eyes.
She launched from Glorfindel’s arms without hesitation.
“Wait—don’t—” came Lindir’s voice from the corridor, halting as he peered inside. “You brought her in there?”
“She insisted,” Glorfindel said mildly, watching as Rauth grabbed a leather belt and whipped it through the air like a whip. “Let her look.”
“She’ll destroy something,” Erestor muttered from behind him.
“She’ll conquer it first,” Glorfindel said, folding his arms. “Then destroy it.”
Rauth, meanwhile, had toppled a small armor stand and was now attempting to wrestle a gauntlet onto her leg like a greave. When it wouldn’t fit, she bit it.
“See?” Glorfindel murmured, amused. “Tactical thinking.”
He knelt beside her as she huffed, one determined brow furrowed.
“Too heavy?” he asked gently. She grunted.
So he reached for something else. From a carved chest near the wall, he drew a small wooden practice blade — polished and smooth, made for elflings in training.
He held it out.
Rauth paused. Dropped the gauntlet. Took the blade.
She swung it.
Stumbled. Swung again.
Giggled like war drums were the funniest joke she’d ever heard.
They went through everything. Opened drawers. Tore apart a scroll chest. Glorfindel let her wear his circlet — she dropped it twice. He wrapped her in a velvet cloak like a war banner. She climbed a chair. Fell. Climbed it again.
Once, she tried to open the locked chest with her teeth.
Glorfindel simply watched, amused, and said, “You’ll need better tactics for that one, Commander.”
Lindir returned once and left again, muttering something about ‘madness.’
Erestor came twice, caught her climbing the tapestry, and left without a word.
Hours passed like wind.
And then, finally, she slowed.
Her little limbs wobbled. Her sword drooped. Her head nodded once, then again.
Dawn crept like quiet footsteps across the floor.
Glorfindel lifted her with practiced ease. She curled into his shoulder, hot-cheeked and dusty, smelling faintly of ink and leather and victory.
He carried her to his bed and sat, arms around her tiny frame.
She gave a small sigh, hand curling in the fabric of his tunic.
His voice, rough with sleep and something else, brushed the air:
“You are fire and storm, little one. The world will not know what to do with you.”
A pause.
Then—
“…Adar.”
The word was soft. Sleep-drunk. Clumsy.
But clear.
Glorfindel froze.
Then smiled.
And gently lowered his brow to hers.
“Aye,” he whispered. 

Chapter Text

Rauthmirelle was four when she first went to elven school to learn her letters.

Adar, it meant Elrond had long announed that perhaps some social life with other elflings could do her temper some good since she set the entire kitchen(and Estel’s hair) on fire while Rivendell was asleep and of course, everyone got to see how their magnificant lord screaming his head off as the ground beneath his feet burns.

Anyway, that was the kindest thing a father could say to their child, and the worst thing to say for ones like Rauth.

She wore a crooked braid she had done herself, one boot on the wrong foot, and a belt tied tight around her tunic because “warriors don’t sit still.” A wooden dagger bobbed at her hip, carved by Glorfindel and chewed on when she thought no one was looking.

 Estel held her hand as they walked into the classroom.

 The other elflings were already seated, pale and perfect in their embroidered robes, hands folded on their desks like little sculptures.

 They stared.

 Whispers bloomed like mold.

 “Elrond’s human son…”

 “Look at his ears—he doesn’t even have points.”

 “Do they let mortals into the library now?”

 “Who's the wild one next to him?”

 “She’s his sister, didn’t you hear?”

 “Elrond has a daughter?!”

 Rauth’s ears twitched. Her braid puffed slightly.

 But she did not growl.

 Not yet.

 She climbed into her seat beside Estel, knees swinging, and began to dig through her satchel for her “battle notebook” (which was really just blank pages with smeared jam stains and badly drawn horses).

 Then a boy turned around and grinned at Estel.

 “My brother says you’re not a real son. He says Elrond found you in a pigsty.”

 Rauth blinked.

 “Say that again,” she said, her voice tiny and calm.

 The boy smirked. “I said—”

 Rauth leapt across the desk.

 “NO ONE CALLS MY BROTHER A PIG!” she yelled, tackling him with all the ferocity of a very small puppy pretending to be a warg.

 The classroom exploded.

 “I WILL EAT YOUR FACE!” she shouted, tiny fists flailing.

 The boy shrieked and kicked his chair over. Another elfling tried to grab Rauth by the shoulders and she bit him—just a little—then clung to Estel like a baby bear cub guarding a cub twice her size.

 Lindir dropped his chalk.

 “Lady—Lady Rauthmirelle—! Please—”

 “ESTEL IS MY BROTHER!” she screamed. “I DON’T CARE IF HE’S HUMAN OR A DUCK!”

 One girl sobbed, “She’s scary!”

 “She’s Elrond’s daughter, that’s why—”

 “Elrond has a daughter like this?”

 “She’s the beastling of the north!”

 Rauth stood on the desk, arms thrown wide like a war general.

 “YOU THINK I’M SCARY? I HAVEN’T EVEN STARTED!”

 A rain of ink pots and parchment. Screams. Someone fainted.

 Lindir, pale as milk, was halfway through a panicked chant for divine protection.

 “GET GLORFINDEL!” he shrieked toward the hall. “GET THE GENERAL! NOW!”

 Rauth was on top of a fallen bookshelf, shrieking at a chorus of terrified elflings who were hiding behind overturned desks.

 “HE’S WORTH TEN OF YOU! TEN! YOU HEAR ME?!”

 “Make her stop!”

 “She’s feral!”

 “YOU WANT TO LAUGH AT ESTEL?” she yelled, arms spread. “YOU LAUGH AT ME TOO!”

 And she leapt from the bookshelf like a tiny thunder god.

 Right into Glorfindel’s waiting arms.

 He caught her mid-air like a hawk catching a stone.

 “Alright,” he grunted, “that’s enough conquering for one morning.”

 “PUT ME DOWN! I’M NOT DONE!”

 “You’ll be done when there’s no more children left standing,” Glorfindel said calmly. “And I imagine Lord Elrond would prefer you not bite half the council’s heirs before lunch.”

 Rauth kicked once, then panted. “They insulted Estel.”

 In the private training grounds, shaded by towering ancient trees, Glorfindel set Rauth down and handed her a polished wooden sword.

 “Here,” he said. “This is your weapon.”

 Rauth gripped the sword eagerly, eyes blazing.

 Glorfindel’s voice lowered, steady like a flowing stream. “You have much fire inside you. That is good—for a warrior. But fighting with fists and teeth on others your age… it is not the way.”

 Rauth’s lips pressed into a pout. “But they mocked Estel.”

 “Turn that anger,” Glorfindel instructed, “into strength that serves you. Charge at the dummy.”

 Rauth raised her wooden sword high, then charged, a small storm of fury and focus. She struck the training dummy again and again, each blow echoing with her spirit.

 Glorfindel watched quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

 Glorfindel nodded, pride shining clear in his eyes. “we will play the Elven Steeplechase.”

 Rauth’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. She imagined horses and wild races—but this was something far more exciting.

 The course was a twisting path through the forest clearing, dotted with low wooden hurdles, narrow balance beams made from fallen logs, and hanging ropes to swing across. At certain spots, wooden dummies stood ready for sword practice—waiting to be struck cleanly as she dashed by.

 “Your goal is to race through, leaping and ducking, striking targets as you go,” Glorfindel explained. “But you must keep your balance and stay swift—no faltering!”

 Rauth grinned fiercely. Her tiny boots pounded on the earth as she sprinted, hurdled over a low barrier with a wild whoop, then balanced carefully across the narrow beam, arms spread like a bird’s wings.

 She reached a cluster of swinging ropes—Glorfindel’s challenge was to grab one, swing across a muddy patch, and land without stumbling. She felt the thrill of flight, heart pounding wildly.

 Next, she slashed swiftly at the wooden dummy, the clang of her sword ringing through the trees.

 “Excellent!” Glorfindel praised warmly. “You’re learning to harness your strength with both heart and mind.”

 Rauth grinned despite herself, feeling a spark of joy she hadn’t known was possible in the midst of all the chaos. Fighting the other kids had been exhausting—and frustrating. But this… this was different. It was a way to be strong without losing herself to blind fury.

 She thought about Estel, imagining herself standing guard by his side, ready to fight anyone who dared mock him again—but now with purpose, with skill.

 Glorfindel paused, then knelt beside her, voice low but serious. “You must promise me something, Rauthmirelle.”

 Her eyes locked on his, curious and cautious: “Anything, adar.”

 “Don’t tell anyone about what we do here. This is our secret, a place just for you to grow stronger.”

 Rauth’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “My secret weapon training?”

 Glorfindel chuckled softly. “Exactly. A warrior’s secret.”

 Before she could start another round of sword swinging, he caught her arm: “Another thing, please call me by my name in public, I would prefer your adar not to know you’ve been calling me.”

 After the chaos in Lindir’s classroom, whispers followed Rauth everywhere like shadows. The other elflings eyed her with a mix of awe and fear, calling her the wild daughter of Elrond — fierce and untamable. Yet, beneath the whispers and cautious glances, Rauth was learning. With Glorfindel’s guidance not far away, she practiced biting back her rage, channeling it instead into quiet determination. She knew her moment to prove herself properly was coming.

 One morning, Lindir cleared his throat in the classroom, his usual calm voice carrying a rare excitement.

 “Children, we shall have a field trip to the small woods beyond Rivendell. Prepare yourselves for lessons in nature, survival, and elven lore.”

 The room buzzed with murmurs.After Lindir’s announcement, the twins raced home, already sparring about what to pack.Estel dumped bandages, herbs, and tiny vials on the table with a serious frown. “You have to bring these. What if someone falls? Or a bug bites them? You can’t just stab everything.”

 Rauth shoved her bag down, sword and daggers clinking inside. “Ugh, you pack like a boring healer grandma. I’m bringing weapons — because when danger comes, you don’t cure it, you smash it!”

 Estel rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out. “Yeah, and when you smash it, who’s going to fix you? Your ‘smash’ plan isn’t very smart, sword-sister.”

 Rauth crossed her arms, smirking. “At least I won’t smell like herbs and sweaty bandages all day. You’re gonna look like a walking apothecary stall.”

 Estel stuck out his tongue. “Better that than getting eaten !”

 Rauth gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I’ll have you know I’m a professional tree-smasher!”

 “More like a professional tantrum-thrower,” Estel teased.

 Rauth stuck out her tongue right back and grinned. “Takes one to know one, Estel.”

 On the day of the trip, lined up by the gates, Rauth’s mood was no less stubborn.

 A group of warriors were waiting for them with saddles and horses at the front gate, and each elfling was assigned to one duo for protection.

 “Why can’t I ride alone? I’m a warrior, not a toddler!” she complained loudly, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

 One of the adult warriors chuckled, reins in hand. “Rauthmirelle, you’d probably charge straight into a tree.”

 Rauth narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. “Well, better a tree than a horse that’s too slow! I’m faster on foot anyway.”

 Estel smirked beside her. “Yeah, faster at falling on your face.”

 Rauth shot him a mock glare. “I do not fall on my face! You’re the one who trip on thin air all the time like a clumsy little duck!”

 A few younger kids were already crying softly, clinging to their warriors. The warrior gently helped her onto the horse, steadying her. Rauth grumbled, but there was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes as the group started moving.

 Estel called after her, “Try not to knock yourself out.”

 Rauth yelled back over her shoulder, “Watch me!”

 The horses clopped lazily through the trees as Lindir rode at the front of the group, spine perfectly straight, voice droning like a lullaby of endless facts.

 “Now children, observe the súlimë-loth. It blooms only during spring, and its petals—yes, Aníel, read the inscription aloud, please.”

 Aníel stammered through the long Elvish paragraph, voice shaky. Rauth groaned dramatically.

 “I’d rather fight a hundred wargs,” she whispered to the warrior behind her, a tall, broad-shouldered elf named Thandor who’d drawn the unlucky lot of riding with her.

 He gave her a strained smile. “Perhaps try learning instead of sharpening your teeth.”

 “Too late,” she grinned, then sneakily tickled him in the side with her finger.

 Thandor jolted so hard he nearly dropped the reins. “Rauthmirelle!”

 She giggled, innocent as a rabbit — a rabbit with a dagger hidden behind its back.

 “Hey, do you hear that?” Rauth gave her horse a light kick as it moved to stand beside her twin brother.

 “Huh?” Estel gave her a side-way glance, confused as he was listening intrigued to the lesson of wild plants.

 “Warriors and hooves, stupid.” She rolled her eyes.

 “Perhaps, adar told us there are lots of patrol team around here.” Estel murmured.

 “That’s not possible, your adar is too busy in his study.” She pinched him.

 Her twin brother rubbed at his arm: “Ouch! And he is your adar too!”

 “So what?”

 “You never call him adar!” Estel exclaimed.

 “Well, I never heard you call me your sister!” Rauth argued.

 “Adar like me more!” Estel stuck out his tongue.

 “No, he like me more!”

 “Me!”

 “That’s because you always follows him and calls him adar all the time!” Rauth shot back.

 “Lady Rauthmirelle, do you have something to say about Kingfoil?” Lindir asked.

 “No I don’t. But I do have something to say about your idea of a trip.” She spoke up.

 “It would be my honor to hear you opinion, my lady.” Lindir tried, several warriors smirked.

 Rauth sat taller in the saddle: “That I think you are very very boring.” She announced.

 A collective gasp, the poor ellon nearly fainted.

 “Thank you, my-my lady.” Lindir stammered, pale faced.

 Eventually, the group reached a small forest pond. Lindir raised a hand. “We shall rest here while the horses drink. Do not wander. I repeat—”

 “—Do not wander, do not breathe too loudly, do not live joyfully,” Rauth muttered, mimicking his tone.

 Thandor began dismounting. Rauth leaned back with her sweetest smile. “Oh mighty warrior of Rivendell, I think my horse’s hoof might be cracked. Could you check it?”

 Thandor frowned. “It looked fine just moments ago—”

 “Maybe it tripped on your boringness.” She batted her lashes.

 With a long sigh, Thandor slid off to inspect the horse’s leg.

 The moment his feet touched the grass, Rauth seized the reins.

 Her eyes sparkled. “Like Adar taught me…”

 She gave a sharp tug and clicked her tongue. The horse reared — majestic, dramatic — just as she had practiced in Glorfindel’s training yard.

 Thandor let out a startled yelp, stumbled backward—

 SPLASH!

 —straight into the pond.

 Rauth adjusted her grip on the reins, her eyes narrowing as she heard the muffled clinking of armor and voices up ahead — the Rivendell patrol. A grin crept across her face. She carefully steered the horse behind a thicket, then sniffled loudly, rubbing her eyes with impressive theatrics.

 “Time for a little rescue mission,” she whispered.

 She galloped up toward the patrol, lower lip trembling.

 “Help! Help please!!”

 The three armored elves turned around, startled. Captain Maeron stepped forward, brows furrowed. “What’s happened, child?”

 “It’s—” she hiccupped, rubbing at imaginary tears. “It’s Lindir’s school! We were attacked! Orcs—or something like orcs—maybe goblins—or worse, really tall squirrels! All the elflings—captured!”

 The warriors blanched. One immediately reached for his sword. “By the Valar—where?”

 Rauth sniffled dramatically. “I barely escaped. You mustn’t let them know you're coming. We mustbe very sneaky. And fast. They’re holding everyone hostage!”

 The patrol team exchanged quick glances. "Lead us there," Maeron commanded.

 “Of course,” Rauth beamed, instantly dropping the tears. “Follow me!”

 She made sure to stay just behind them on the trail. Her eyes darted between their horses — calculating.

 When they reached the clearing where the rest of the children were still gathered around the pond with Lindir lecturing (again), Rauth narrowed her eyes and slapped the first horse's flank.

 “YAH!!”

 The horse bolted.

 “Wait—what are you—!” cried the startled warrior atop.

 Before anyone could react, Rauth darted between the rest of the patrol and began whacking every flank she could reach.

 “YAH! Go! Save the elflings! CHARGE!!”

 Suddenly, half a dozen armored warriors were barreling into the field trip like possessed centaurs, hooves thundering, warriors shouting, and chaos erupting.

 Elflings screamed and scattered.

 “MONSTERS?!” one wailed, diving into the shrubbery.

 “My books!” shrieked another.

 Lindir spun on his horse, eyes wide in horror as the patrol stormed into view. “What in Elbereth’s name—?!”

 “Protect the children!”

 From behind the mayhem, Rauth gave one last spank to a horse and then jumped off her own ride, now on foot, wild with adrenaline.

 “YOU!” she screamed, spotting Lindir. “YOU PUBLICLY HUMILIATED ME!”

 “AAAAAAAAAAH!” Lindir screamed, abandoning his lecture scroll and galloping away.

 “COME BACK, YOU COWARD!” Rauth thundered after him, tiny fists pumping, her wooden sword high above her head.

 “I’M TELLING LORD ELROND!!”

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 “NOOOO—”

 The entire forest rang with elflings crying, warriors cursing, Lindir screeching, and one unstoppable little girl wreaking absolute havoc, grinning like a warrior-queen at the center of her self-made battle.

 Elrond arrived on foot, long robes untouched by dust, eyes sharp and unreadable. The moment he stepped into the clearing, silence spread like a wave. Even the frogs stopped croaking.

 Rauth turned to him, smile faltering.

 “Adar!” she chirped.

 He raised one brow. “Rauthmirelle.”

 Behind him, Lindir peeked out from behind a tree trunk, face ghost-white, hair tangled, and tunic splattered with pond water and crushed violets.

 Elrond surveyed the battlefield — the overturned supply bags, the crying children, the patrol warriors who looked like they’d seen war, and the unmistakable hoofprints leading in mad circles around the woods.

 “I presume,” Elrond said slowly, “you have a very good explanation.”

 Rauth straightened, planting her feet like a soldier reporting to command. “The school was at risk, Adar. I did what I had to. I used tactics. I diverted the enemy. I ensured the elflings’ survival.”

 “You stampeded four horses into a group of toddlers,” Elrond said mildly.

 “War is chaotic.”

 “You slapped the patrol lieutenant off his mount.”

 “I told him to be stealthy! He refused! What choice did I have?”

 “You told the warriors Lindir was being held hostage by ‘Moss Goblins.’”

 “…Yes,” she said proudly. “And it worked.”

 One of the elflings began crying again.

 Elrond closed his eyes for a long moment.

 Then he exhaled and opened them again, gaze pinning her in place. “For endangering the patrol, distressing your schoolmates, and reducing Lindir to a shaking leaf, you will be punished.”

 Rauth’s grin vanished. “What kind of punishment?”

 “You will spend the next week assisting Lindir. Cleaning scrolls. Tending to inkpots. Listening to long lectures on plant classifications. No sword. No mischief. No screaming. And absolutely no horses.”

 “No—!”

 “Yes.”

 “But Adar—!”

 “Do I need to assign Estel to report your behavior daily?”

 Estel, bandage pouch still slung over one shoulder, smirked with all the smugness of a sibling who didn’t try to raid the forest that morning.

 Rauth crossed her arms. “That’s cruel.”

 “That’s parenting,” Elrond replied.

 She huffed. “I bet ad--- Glorfindel would’ve let me charge the enemy.”

 “Glorfindel,” Elrond said with a sigh, “has no idea what I go through.”

 Rauth’s punishment began the very next morning.

 Lindir’s scroll-room — usually filled with quiet quills, the gentle scent of pressed flowers, and calming light — now felt like a battleground. Ink splattered like blood. Leaves were crumpled like fallen soldiers. And Rauth was at the center of it all, arms smudged with charcoal, her tunic stuck with labels like “birch,” “hemlock,” and one unfortunate “frog.”

 “I told you to place the plants in alphabetical order,” Lindir groaned, scrubbing at his temples.

 “I did!” Rauth chirped, proudly displaying a basket where every herb was simply arranged by size.

 “You put deadly nightshade next to sugarleaf!”

 “They were the same height,” Rauth said, blinking innocently.

 It was mid-afternoon when Estel arrived, careful footsteps echoing through the corridor.

 “Adar said I could visit,” he said gently, holding a small tin of dried ginger.

 Rauth perked up immediately. “Finally!”

 Estel blinked at the chaos. “...What did you do to the scrolls?”

 “Made them better.”

 “I see one’s on fire.”

 “That’s how you know which one’s important.”

 Lindir had gone to lie down in another room.

 Estel, sweet as ever, knelt by the herbs, already separating roots and flowers with quiet precision. “Rauth, look — this isn’t mint. It’s feverbane. It smells different.”

 Rauth leaned in, sniffed... then sneezed violently and knocked the entire bundle off the table. “Well now it’s just floor-leaf.”

 Estel laughed, and Rauth grinned at the sound. She adored him. But she also needed fun.

 So, she hatched a plan.

 The very next morning, Rauth told Lindir she needed “fresh ink,” and skipped merrily out the door with a pouch of silver coins “borrowed” from the healing hall with Estel.

 The two returned with identical haircut, same shoulder length brown hair. Before that, adar always insisted to make her dress in small gowns while Estel in tunics.

 “Estel,” she whispered as she dragged him behind a tree later that day, “we’re doing something awesome.”

 “What is it?” he asked, eyes suspicious.

 “You’re going to be me.”

 “And I’ll be you.”

 Estel stared. “Rauth… I don’t think—”

 She was already tugging her dress off and throwing him one of her leather vests. “No one will notice! Just walk a little grumpier, look furious all the time, and say ‘Tactics!’ every ten minutes!”

 She tied his hair into twin plaits with ribbon, then shoved her extra wooden sword into his belt. For herself, she braided her hair flat and neat like his, slipped into one of his soft grey robes, and threw on the second wig.

 Estel looked down at the messy vest. “This smells like pony.”

 “Victory smells like many things, Estel.”

 When they stepped back into the scroll-room, Lindir was still napping with a cold cloth on his forehead.

 “Back to work,” Estel said, scowling deeply and puffing his chest.

 “I brought ginger tea,” Rauth added in the most prim, Estel-like voice she could muster.

 Lindir sat up, blinked blearily at them… then blinked again. “Why… are you both so well-behaved?”

 Estel (as Rauth) growled: “Because of discipline.”

 Rauth (as Estel) nodded angelically. “And love for plants.”

 Rauth wore Estel’s soft grey tunic like a second skin, her wild hair tamed into a smooth braid beneath the blonde wig. With her brother happily sorting roots beside Lindir and mumbling herbal facts, she slipped away like a shadow.

 “Estel is such a diligent child,” Lindir said dreamily, watching her vanish behind a tapestry.

 “Mm,” the real Estel mumbled, focused on a patch of yarrow.

 Boots too soft for her usual stomp made no sound as Rauth ducked through corridors and over balconies, eventually pulling free the wig, stuffing it in her belt, and sprinting into the trees. Her daggers tapped lightly at her hips. Her small wooden sword swung proudly at her back. The moment leaves brushed her shoulders, she felt right.

 “This is a real field trip,” she whispered, eyes bright with mischief.

 But her play ended too fast.

 They came from between the rocks and under brush — foul, gangly orcs with yellow teeth and mud-streaked skin, grunting in tongues she didn’t know. There were five. No, six. No — eight. She drew her dagger and roared, feet planting like Glorfindel taught her.

 “I am the wrath of the West!”

 But small arms and a wooden sword didn’t hold up long. One orc grabbed her arm. Another pulled her braid.

 “Wiggly little squirrel, this one,” one hissed.

 She kicked. She bit. She shrieked.

 And then—

 Arrows whistled.

 Steel sang.

 And the orcs fell like rotted trees.

 She blinked through dust and blood and feathers as a golden-haired warrior vaulted from his steed, sword spinning, armor glowing faintly in the dusk. He landed beside her with the grace of falling starlight.

 “Estel,” Glorfindel said calmly, blue eyes sharp with worry and knowing.

 Rauth froze.

 He crouched and checked her quickly — a scrape on her arm, mud on her cheek. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and whispered, “I… I’m not—”

 “I know.” He gave her a crooked smile and tousled her braid. “You’re Estel today, aren’t you?”

 She nodded, uncertain.

 “Well,” he stood and looked at his soldiers. “We’ll take Estel with us tonight.”

 The patrol team rode steady through the hills, their commander unusually quiet. Rauth rode beside Glorfindel, her legs too short to sit comfortably in the saddle. He caught her each time she tilted.

 That night, they set camp in a quiet glade, a fire crackling low.

 Rauth sat on a rock, chewing dried fruit and watching flames flicker.

 Glorfindel joined her.

 “Hey, Estel,” called one of the younger ellons, a lanky warrior with a crooked grin and a sword too big for his age. “Didn’t know Elrond’s boy was such a little terror.”

 Another snorted. “I saw him — I swear he bit that orc.”

 “And screamed like a falcon while doing it!”

 Laughter rolled through the patrol.

 Rauth flushed with pride, puffing out her chest a little, gripping her reins tighter.

 “I did bite him,” she declared, trying to deepen her voice just a touch. “Orcs deserve worse.”

 The ellons laughed louder.

 “Spoken like a proper warrior,” said one. “You’ll make a better captain than some of the oldlings if you keep that spirit.”

 “What d’you fight with?” another asked, trotting closer.

 “Daggers and a wooden sword,” she said proudly. “But my adar said I can try steel once I stop falling on my own feet.”

 “You fall a lot?” one teased.

 “I fall heroically,” she replied with a smirk.

 They passed the evening trading jokes and war stories — exaggerated ones, mostly — and Rauth soaked it in like sunlight. There were no lacy dresses here, no tight braids or scolding looks. Just the swing of horses, the shine of blades, the bond of voices under open sky. No one told her to sit still. No one blinked when she shouted or interrupted. No one flinched at her too-loud laugh or wild questions.

 “I like this,” she murmured during a quieter stretch, when the moon had risen and the chatter calmed.

 Glorfindel, riding just beside her, looked over. “Like what?”

 “Being Estel.”

 He raised a brow. “Do you mean being a boy?”

 She hesitated. “No. I mean… being free. I can be loud. I can yell and swing my sword and everyone laughs with me.”

 He nodded slowly, voice softer. “It’s not being a boy that makes that happen. It’s being yourself, and finding the right company who sees that as good.”

 She frowned, chewing on that.

 “But it’s easier to be myself when they think I’m Estel.”

 Glorfindel didn’t argue. “Then be Estel, for now.”

 “I heard about the raid,” he said, eyes twinkling.

 She groaned. “Did Estel tell you?”

 “No. Lindir did. After he screamed and nearly fainted.”

 Rauth snorted, then laughed, then slouched. “I didn’t mean to sneak that far. I was just playing.”

 “I know.”

 “But then there were real orcs.”

 “I know.”

 She looked up at him again, voice small. “Were you mad?”

 Glorfindel leaned back on his elbows and stared at the stars. “Mad that you ran? Maybe. Mad that you fought? Never. You are yourself, Rauth. Not some soft-sand version of a child.”

 She smiled shyly.

 “But,” he added, lifting a finger, “you need to know the difference between stupid danger and brave danger. You can’t help anyone if you’re caught too early.”

 “I was about to stab the big one,” she grumbled.

 “I saw. Right in the knee. Very tactical.”

 They both giggled.

 Then he grew serious. “Next time you want to go on an adventure… take me.”

 “Yes, adar.”

Chapter Text

At eleven, Rauthmirelle sat in Elrond’s study like a storm bottled in silk. Her feet, booted despite protest, tapped under the table in restless rhythms, while her sleeves — pristine and ruffled — hid fists clenched tight with boredom. Beside her, Estel copied Elrond’s posture with saint-like effort, nodding thoughtfully at every phrase about “proper greeting titles” and “noble household traditions.” Rauth, meanwhile, had already torn her practice parchment in half (accidentally, she insisted), dipped her quill into the tea pot (it was an experiment), and tried — twice — to convince Lindir that bowing too much would snap a spine, at least his precious spine.  

It started with a squirm.

Rauth shifted in her stiff-backed court chair, feeling a strange warmth — something wet, unwelcome. Her stomach churned, a low twist like battle nerves, but worse. She glared at Lindir mid-lecture, blaming his droning voice for the unease. When Elrond finally dismissed them, she bolted. Not with her usual stomp-and-scowl routine, but fast and quiet.

Back in her chamber, she peeled off the layers of skirts and linen. And then she saw it

Blood.

On her undergarments.

Her shriek could’ve shattered the Silmarils.

“ESTEL!”

A heartbeat later, her twin stumbled into the room, still chewing a honeyed apricot.

“What? What?! Are we under attack? Did someone die?!”

“I’m dying!” Rauth wailed, flinging herself into his arms. “It’s over, Estel. I have minutes—minutes!—left. Tell Adar I forgive him for making me study court etiquette. Tell Glorfindel to bury me with my sword and my wooden dagger!”

Estel dropped the apricot. “Wait, where are you hurt? Did someone stab you?!”

“NO! I’M DYING!” Rauth cried, grabbing his collar and hauling him fully into the room. “I think my insides ruptured! There’s blood—actual blood! And not from battle!”

Estel blinked at her. Then squinted. “Where?”

She pointed at the pile of bloodied sheets.

“…That’s just wine, right?”

“It’s not wine!” she wailed.

Estel squinted harder. “No, that’s definitely blood. But… are you sure you didn’t stab yourself in your sleep?”

“It’s internal!” Rauth sobbed, clutching her stomach. “I—I bled from inside my own underthings! What sort of cursed wound is that?!”

Estel’s face drained of color. “No. No, no, you’re too young to die! I was going to make you carry my packs on our next scouting trip! I never said thank you for stealing those jam tarts from the kitchens!”

Rauth flung herself across the bed. “I should’ve told you sooner—I do like the way you braid your hair sometimes! I was just jealous! And now you’ll never know!”

Estel dropped to his knees beside her. “Don’t go to the Halls of Mandos without me! I’ll come too! I’ll—I’ll eat the herb soup Lindir always makes, the one that tastes like boiled weeds!

“You would do that for me?!” she gasped, hand fluttering to her heart.

“Of course I would! Because we’re twins, Rauth! We came into this world together, and we’ll leave it together!”

“I’ll save you a place beside me in the halls,” she whispered.

“I’ll bring my bandage kit! Maybe Mandos likes to be prepared—”

The door slammed open. Glorfindel stood in the doorway, breathless from sprinting.

“What in the Everfrosted Hells is happening—?”

The sight that greeted him:

• Estel clinging to Rauth's hand like it was a lifeline.

• Rauth sprawled in dramatic elf-maiden despair on the bed.

• A suspiciously bloodied pile of linens tossed across the floor.

Glorfindel blinked. “Estel. Out.”

“But she’s dying! I’m giving her my final rites!”

“OUT.”

Estel scrambled upright. “Take care of her! She's got sword fever! Or internal bleeding! Or—orc curse—!”

Glorfindel pinched the bridge of his nose as the door slammed shut again.

“Rauth,” he sighed, “you’re not dying. You’ve just had your first menstruation.”

She stared at him like he’d just turned into an orc.

“…What.”

“It’s normal. Female body things. Blood, yes. But not death. Not fatal.”

“You're sure?”

“Certain.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh. THANK THE VALAR.”

Twenty minutes later, Glorfindel stood in the training yard, golden hair tied back too tightly, sweat already collecting on his brow despite the crisp morning air. In front of him, a vaguely womb-shaped diagram—though it could’ve easily been a deformed rabbit or a lopsided boot—was etched into the dirt.

He jabbed it with a stick like it had personally offended him. “This… is the fortress of your body.”

Across from him, Rauth had her arms crossed and an incredulous look plastered on her face. “That’s not even close to where the bladder goes.”

“I am a warrior, not a healer!” he huffed, cheeks already pink. “Just—listen. Once a month, your body sharpens itself. A cycle. A rhythm. Like drawing a sword. The barracks prepare for—no, not barracks, that’s terrible—look, there are... twin daggers involved.”

“Daggers?”

“Ovaries.”

“So the uterus is a barracks?” she said, flatly.

“A siege tower,” he corrected, then faltered. “Or perhaps more of a... weapons vault? The—listen, the point is, you can decide whether or not to allow enemy troops in. Not that anyone should be thinking about enemy troops right now. You’re young. But in the far future, should a worthy… knight… arrive—”

Rauth squinted. “Do not say ‘sheathe a sword.’”

“I would never,” he said quickly, blushing furiously. “Never. I was going to say… storm the keep.”

“Oh my Valar.”

He tried again, rubbing the back of his neck, golden hair tied too tight and face flushed scarlet. “Look. You are in command of your body. If you ever choose not to bear children, you can focus on the warrior path. There are herbs, certain teas, training schedules that override cycles.”

No one can decide that for you. Not even your Adar.”

“Which one?” she asked. “The one who reads treaties or the one poking a dirt diagram like it’s a war map?”

Glorfindel’s hand dopped, and he looked at her then—really looked. His voice dropped slightly, not serious in tone, but grounded. “I may not be your father by name. But I hope I’ve earned a place somewhere near that.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

His hand came to rest on her back, firm and steady. “Good.”

Then—

“But I’m still telling Lindir you called the uterus a siege tower.”

“I’ll exile you.”

“Valar help me.”

They trained until the sun rose higher, Glorfindel occasionally stumbling through even more metaphors (“Think of the cervix as a portcullis—no, wait, forget I said that”), and Rauth, for all her teasing, listened. Because this was the man who carried her wooden sword when her hands were too small. Who waited in the cold when her court lessons ran long. Who had never once asked for the title "Father," but wore it like armor all the same.

Estel was already seated, nervously nibbling at the edge of his quill. When Rauth stormed in, fully dressed, eyes bright, hair braided back and expression smug, he nearly choked on air.

“You’re alive?” he gasped, leaping up. “You were dying yesterday!”

“Turns out I was bleeding with purpose,” Rauth announced, throwing herself into the chair beside him. “It’s called menstruation, Estel. It’s like… your body preparing for siege warfare. Twin daggers, frontal gates, barracks—well, sometimes the barracks fall—”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine now. Adar—no, not Adar—Adar Two—he explained everything.”

“You have a second father now?” Estel blinked. “I thought we agreed Glorfindel’s title was ‘emergency sword mule.’”

“He said if I train hard enough, I can stop the bleeding with sheer willpower. Like redirecting cavalry mid-battle.”

“WHAT?”

“He called the… things ‘twin daggers.’ And the portcullis opens once a month to test if the siege team gets through. Which is apparently… bad.”

Estel paled. “So you’re under siege from within?”

“Exactly!”

They both stared into the middle distance, horrified.

At that moment, the heavy doors swung open. Elrond entered first, robes immaculate, followed by Lindir holding an entire stack of grim-looking scrolls. And behind them—being dragged by the sleeve like an unrepentant elfling—was Glorfindel, whose expression suggested he’d rather be in Mordor.

“I see,” Elrond said slowly, glancing at his adopted children. “That your morning discussion has already begun.”

Estel raised a hand. “Adar, is my sister being attacked by cavalry inside her body?”

Elrond froze. Lindir dropped a scroll. Glorfindel pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered a word that was definitely not court-appropriate.

Rauth leaned back and smirked. “He also said with enough warrior focus, I can will the menstruation away. I’m already practicing.”

“You told her what?” Elrond turned, furious, to Glorfindel. “She is twelve!”

“She threatened to enter the Halls of Mandos voluntarily!”

Lindir looked physically ill. “Why did she mention siege towers—”

“Portcullis,” Rauth corrected helpfully.

Estel nodded. “And twin daggers.”

“STOP TALKING,” Elrond thundered. “Both of you. Glorfindel. Sit.”

Glorfindel sat. Rauth crossed her legs primly like a lady. Estel leaned over and whispered, “So… you’re really not dying?”

Estel and Rauth sat side by side. Two identical quills. Two identical sheets of parchment. One serious future Heir of Gondor. One disaster goblin.

“Write this,” Elrond instructed. “Arathorn, son of Arador, was slain by orcs while riding against them with the Dúnedain.”

Rauth scribbled “killed = bad” in large looping letters and drew a stick figure being stabbed.

Estel dutifully wrote every word, his jaw tight, his neck red with effort.

“Gilraen, your mother,” Elrond continued, “was wise beyond her years, yet it pained her to see you raised in secret. She named you Estel — ‘hope’ — because the world needed it.”

Estel blinked fast. “I didn’t know that.”

“You were young,” Elrond said softly. “We sheltered you.”

Rauth leaned over, squinting at Estel’s paper. “Is that how you spell ‘secret’? Looks like ‘sweat’.”

“Get your face off my writing.”

“Your handwriting’s worse than Lindir’s when he’s drunk.”

“I’m mourning our parents, Rauth!”

“I am too! I drew an orc stabbing Dad! That’s grief!”

Elrond closed his eyes briefly. “Please. Focus.”

The twins tried.

For a minute.

Until Elrond said: “Now that you both are entering adolescence—”

Rauth instantly perked up. “Oh! You mean Estel’s second voice?”

Estel choked. “What?!”

“‘Adar, may I please slay an orc today’,” Rauth mimicked in a cracked, goose-like honk. “Sounds like a squeaky chair dying!”

“Shut up!” Estel turned beet red. “It’s just temporary!”

“You sounded like a toad yesterday.”

“I am mourning our parents! You can't mock me while I'm grieving!”

Elrond sighed. “We’re discussing the fall of Arthedain—”

“I bet you fall every time you try to hit the high notes,” Rauth muttered.

Estel elbowed her under the table. She elbowed back.

“You're jealous 'cause you're not in puberty yet,” he hissed. “Still squeaking like a baby.”

“At least I don't sound like a dying sheep!”

“Enough,” Elrond said sharply. “Your heritage is sacred. It does not deserve to be derailed by… squeaking sheep.”

Rauth raised a hand. “But does that mean we’re like… half-royal? Quarter? One-eighth?”

“You’re Isildur’s heir,” Elrond said, more sternly now. “And you—” he pointed to Rauth “—are his twin. You bear that legacy beside him.”

Rauth leaned toward Estel. “So if he’s king, does that make me Queen Chaos?”

Elrond pinched his brow. “No one is going to rule anything until they learn basic decorum.”

“I have decorum,” Estel mumbled, fixing his posture.

“Your armpits smell like horse fur,” Rauth said, gagging.

“They do not!”

“Do too! I’m sitting right here!”

Elrond smacked a scroll on the table, silencing both. “If either of you make one more comment about bodily odors, voices, or hormones, I will personally send you to scrub the kitchens for a week.”

A pause.

Then Rauth, quietly: “Do orcs go through puberty?”

Estel snorted.

“Enough chaos for one afternoon,” Elrond said. “Come. There is something I need to show you.”

Their ears perked at the tone.

They bolted for the door, still laughing.

As the library door slammed shut behind them, Elrond muttered to himself, “The blood of kings… diluted by complete madness.”

Elrond led the twins through Rivendell’s western wing, past alcoves of still air and gilded bookshelves, until they reached the Hall of Heritage — a vaulted chamber filled with the hush of history. The scent of parchment and old metal hung in the air like breath that had never quite exhaled. Ancient banners draped the walls in blue and silver. Relics shimmered under glass cases.

At the far end, behind enchanted crystal, lay a sword — shattered into long, jagged fragments. And beside it, a small silver ring, unassuming, dull.

“Narsil,” Elrond said quietly. “The sword that cut the One Ring from Sauron’s hand.”

Estel stepped forward. “That’s it?” He squinted at the plain ring. “It looks like something you'd lose in a drawer.”

“Elves would not,” Rauth said, pressing her nose to the glass. “We’d stab the drawer and retrieve it.”

“Elendil fell wielding that blade,” Elrond said, undeterred. “And Isildur, your ancestor, took up its shards. He struck Sauron down. But he failed to destroy the Ring.”

“He just… kept it?” Estel frowned.

Elrond nodded. “He thought he could master it. That mistake cost us a thousand years.”

Rauth tapped the glass, awed. “But he chopped off Sauron’s finger, right? I bet it flew across the battlefield. Just—fwip!”

Estel turned green. “Stop. Please.”

“He saved the world,” Elrond said softly. “But pride undid him. And pride may yet undo others.” He turned to face them fully. “That is the burden of your line — power, bound to ruin unless tempered.”

Estel's shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to chop fingers. I want to fix hands.”

Rauth snorted. “I want a flaming sword.”

Elrond’s gaze sharpened, yet not unkind. “Estel, your path is not lesser. The world needs kings who heal. And Rauth, yours… may differ. A lady fit to rule must know when to wield steel and when to lay it down.”

Rauth blinked. “‘Lady fit to rule’? I just knocked over a candle this morning because my skirt got stuck in a door.”

“You’re learning,” Elrond said. “Both of you.”

She shifted her weight, glancing once more at the broken sword. Something in it stared back. Not judgment — something older, something that recognized her.

She shivered.

“Adar,” Estel said quietly, “is this why we have to learn all those boring court customs?”

Then, calmly, Elrond said, “Estel. Starting next week, you’ll begin formal sword training.”

Estel froze. “Wait, what?”

“With Glorfindel,” Elrond added, as if that somehow softened the blow.

Estel’s face crumpled in horror. “You mean the Glorfindel? The Balrog-slaying, blood-spattered, curses-like-a-stable-hand Glorfindel?!”

Rauth lit up like a torch. “Oh, this is the best day of my life.”

“Why him?” Estel’s voice cracked embarrassingly high. “Why not… Lindir?”

Chapter Text

Glorfindel tossed a wooden sword to Estel, who nearly dropped it.

“Hold it like it’s your spine, not a dead fish,” Glorfindel stretched against a tree, resembling a lazy cat.

“I am holding it,” Estel grumbled, adjusting his grip.

“Not like that,” Rauth said, rolling her eyes. “You’re holding it like it’s your… you know.”

Estel blinked. “My what?”

“Your limp d—”

“Rauthmirelle!” Estel nearly dropped the sword again. “Don’t say things like that!”

Glorfindel, lounging nearby with his arms crossed, cackled. “She’s not wrong. That grip’s got all the passion of a soggy stocking.”

“I learned from you!” Rauth snapped, pointing her blade at Glorfindel. “You’re the one who told me to yell ‘swing for the jewels’ during a charge!”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” Glorfindel said proudly. “Disarmed Erestor and bruised his ego. Excellent aim.”

“I don’t even have jewels,” Rauth said, frowning, then grinning. “So I fight without fear.”

Estel groaned into his hands. “Why are you both like this? You talk like tavern goblins.”

Rauth shrugged. “Because it’s fun, brother mine. And because you blush like a maiden every time someone says ‘arse.’”

“I do not!”

“You’re red right now!” she pointed gleefully.

Estel muttered something about herbal compresses and covered his face with his sleeve.

Glorfindel clapped him on the back. “You’re doing fine, Estel. You’ll survive us. Eventually. Might need a healing tonic for your pride, though.”

Estel sighed so heavily it was a miracle the earth didn’t shake. “I’m the only mortal in a valley of perfect, pointy-eared philosophers—and my sister learned to swear before she learned to sew.”

Rauth spun her wooden sword like a drum major’s baton. “Sewing’s for when you get your ass kicked. Swearing’s for when you’re winning.”

“You two are the exact reason I’ll never be invited to a Lothlórien feast,” Estel grumbled.

“Oh please,” Glorfindel snorted. “If you’re lucky, they’ll mistake you for a mute statue and plop you next to the cheese tray.”

Rauth wheezed with laughter. “And if not, they’ll just ask you how puberty feels. Again.”

Estel looked like he wished a hole would swallow him whole. “They did that once. That one elleth kept asking if my voice hurt.”

“Did you say yes?” Glorfindel teased.

“I said it cracked sometimes!”

“That’s a yes in my book.”

“I hate you both.”

“Love you too, little hope,” Rauth said, voice dripping with mock sweetness as she tackled him mid-spar.

Glorfindel, leaning lazily against the shade of an arch, didn’t look up from where he was sharpening an already-too-sharp blade. “If you two are done sounding like squabbling geese, maybe we can—”

“Lord Glorfindel!”

The voice rang from beyond the hedge, prim and painfully proper.

“Shit,” Rauth hissed, grabbing Estel by the wrist. “Bushes.”

“What?! Why—”

“Bushes!”

They dove sideways, limbs flailing, right into a clump of prickly green shrubs just as Lindir stepped through the archway.

Glorfindel, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch. “Ah, Lindir. How lovely. I was… just… training.”

He gestured vaguely to the empty yard.

Lindir blinked. “Training alone?”

“Yes.” Glorfindel’s voice was solemn. “Me and my inner demons.”

A sharp sneeze erupted from the bushes. “ACHHOO—ow, twig in my eye!”

Lindir’s brow arched.

Glorfindel cleared his throat. “And squirrels. Very aggressive squirrels today.”

Estel popped out of the bush first, leaves in his hair. “Sorry. We were, uh, observing.”

Rauth emerged next, arms scratched, one braid sticking up like a chicken feather. “Very closely. From nature.”

Lindir ignored the nonsense with the patience of someone who’d seen far worse. He pulled out two small coin pouches from his robe and handed them forward. “Lord Elrond sent these. You are to purchase suitable attire for tonight’s gathering. Your brothers and sister arrive shortly. The guests from Lothlórien will be present. You are expected to look… not like this.”

Rauth’s eyes lit up the moment she saw the pouches. Without hesitation, she lunged, snatching both from Lindir’s hand like a raccoon stealing snacks.

“Hey!” Estel protested, stumbling after her as she sprinted off. “That’s mine too!”

“Catch me and you can have it back!” Rauth shrieked with delight, already halfway across the yard.

"Move, move, move!" Rauth bellowed as she barreled past a pair of startled musicians, clutching both coin pouches to her chest. Her boots kicked up dust as she darted toward the cosmetics stall like it was the gates of Valinor itself.

Behind her, Estel jogged uselessly, panting. “Rauth, wait! We’re supposed to buy… formal clothes! Not—whatever that is!”

At the makeup stall, Rauth planted both hands on the table, eyes glowing at the array of powders, tints, and tiny polished mirrors. “I need something for freckles. Something that glows. Something elfy.”

The elleth behind the stall blinked. “You already are an elf?”

“Nope,” Rauth said cheerfully. “Just the disappointing human twin with a forehead that shines and freckles that refuse to stay poetic.”

She squinted into the mirror, poking at her cheek. “See this one? Looks like a bird poop if you stare too long.”

Glorfindel reached them, catching just enough to groan. “Rauth…”

“What?” she snapped. “You think those Lothlórien ladies won’t be judging me? With their waterfall hair and ‘I-only-drink-dew’ skin? I need foundation that’s basically magic.”

“You are a warrior,” he deadpanned. “And a lunatic. And you have battle scars. Be proud.”

“I am proud,” she said, not looking up. “But I also want to look so good the Marchwarden of Lothlórien chokes on his own braid.”

Estel poked his head in beside her. “You’re fine the way you are.”

She shoved a bottle of lip stain at him. “You’re buying me this.”

“What?! Why me?”

“Because you’re the healer, and this has herbs in it.”

“It’s rosewater, that’s not medicine!”

“Shut up and give her the damn coin,” Glorfindel muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.“I should’ve read more of those sappy books,” he muttered. “The ones where the wild, sword-wielding girl rolls her eyes at ballgowns until she meets a prince and changes overnight. At least then I’d have been prepared for the reverse.”

Glorfindel muttered, mostly to himself. “No. Of course not. She’ll charge a battalion at dawn and still cry if her braid ribbon doesn't match her sash.”

In her room, Rauth sat with her knees drawn up on the cushioned stool, glaring into the mirror like it was a dueling opponent. Glorfindel stood behind her, half-occupied with the brush in his hand, more occupied with the past curling through his thoughts.

“You know,” he said, voice low as he worked through a stubborn knot in her braid, “you’ve got her hair.”

Rauth blinked. “Whose?”

“Gilraen’s,” he said simply. “The same weight to it. Same little wave right by the ear.” He caught a stray curl with his fingers, gently twisted it.

Rauth turned slightly, watching his face in the mirror. “You knew her?”

Glorfindel murmured. “Once. Just once. And once was enough.”

She didn’t press.

Glorfindel’s fingers stilled for a moment in her hair. Then, without a word, he set the brush aside and turned toward the carved box on her vanity. From it, he lifted something wrapped in silk — soft and sea-colored.

He unwrapped it carefully.

A golden circlet caught the firelight, warm and unexpected. Its delicate leaves curled like flames, the center holding a polished citrine the color of sunlit mead. Nothing about it matched the silver Elrond wore, or the cool elven regalia typical of the house.

Rauth blinked. “That’s… not silver.”

“Of course not.” Glorfindel held it gently above her brow. “You’re not made for silver.”

She swallowed. “You just had that lying around?”

“I forged it with the smiths last winter. Was going to wait until you were fifty to give it to you.” He smirked. “But you’re difficult. So I’m adjusting.”

Before she could reply, the door slammed open behind them.

“I DID IT!”

Estel burst in, arms above his head like he’d just conquered the gates of Mordor. He skidded to a stop on the marble floor, half-breathless and wildly proud. “I perfected the makeup preservation blend! And it has soothing properties! It won’t smudge — even if you cry, or spar, or—” he lowered his voice, “—punch someone.”

Glorfindel turned, brows raised. “Please tell me you didn’t test it on yourself again.”

Estel beamed. “Only a little. Just the cheekbones.”

He was in full formal robes now, soft charcoal-grey and silver-trimmed — and he wore a circlet too, silver and understated, resting slightly crooked on his head. He was glowing with the effort of it all, cheeks flushed, chest puffed.

Rauth burst out laughing. “You put setting spray on your own face just to make sure my mascara didn’t melt?”

“How would you like to open the door?” Glorfindel asked.

Estel’s silver circlet had already slipped halfway down his forehead, his expression tight with dread.

“Nice and classic,” Rauth grinned.

She’d picked the tallest pair of heels she owned — the kind that made her legs look just a little longer, a little more elvish. With the confidence of a warrior and none of the grace of one, she kicked the door open.

It wasn’t a light tap. She’d tested every door in Imladris in boots before — but never heels. The wood gave a shuddering groan, a small dent imprinted into the surface, and several startled yelps followed.

Inside, the Hall of Fire gleamed with warmth and candlelight. Elrond was already seated at the head of the table, robes impeccable. The chair at his right — Glorfindel’s usual place — remained empty.

But the chair on his left was taken.

Her seat.

A tall ellon with long black hair nearly identical to Elrond’s sat there, blinking in confusion. Next to him, another ellon leaned back, wearing a smirk and a touch too much smugness for someone so obviously in the wrong seat.

“You’re in the wrong seat,” Rauth said flatly.

“I—I—I am sorry—” the ellon stammered.

“Well?” She tapped her heel. “Move.”

“Milady, I—uh—I…”

“Blah, blah, blah. MOVE.” Rauth gave him a firm shove. The ellon toppled into his brother with a loud oof.

“Worthless piece of shit,” she muttered, plopping herself down.

“Rauthmirelle,” Elrond said sharply. “Mind your language.”

“Yes, Adar,” she replied sweetly, stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork.

Estel leaned in, hissing, “You’re not supposed to eat yet—we have guests.”

“Yeah, yeah. Guests.” She rolled her eyes and set down the bread she’d just grabbed.

Elrond cleared his throat. “Now that Rauthmirelle has joined us, I’d like to introduce our honored guests from Lothlórien. These are my sons, Elrohir and Elladan.”

“Oh, the gaping fish,” Glorfindel murmured behind them with a grin.

“I’m not—I wasn’t—!” Elrohir flailed for composure, his face turning red.

“And this is Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien,” Elrond continued, ignoring the chaos. Elrohir gave him a grateful look, clearly hoping the conversation would move elsewhere.

“He has a very square face,” Rauth whispered.

“Oh yes,” Glorfindel agreed under his breath. “Hold a ruler to it and it’ll accuse you of being crooked.”

Elrond sighed. “Finally, this is Arwen, my daughter. The Evenstar of our people.”

Arwen was radiant — with the same dark hair and star-bright eyes as Elrond, but with a presence all her own. The moment she stepped into view, Rauth’s sharp gaze was already assessing her.

“I love that fishtail neckline,” Rauth said. “Is that from the new vintage collection in Lothlórien?”

Arwen smiled with practiced elegance. “No — Adar had it tailored for me in the Grey Havens. Their seamstress is the only one who gets this cut just right.”

“Ah. Figures,” Rauth said. “If I ever make it there, I’ll scavenge her entire wardrobe. You even matched your nail color. Though I’d say grey-blue would suit your skin tone better.”

“Exactly!” Arwen lit up. “I searched everywhere for my grey-blue polish this morning and couldn’tfind it, so I had to settle for nude-blue instead. Infuriating.”

Rauth nodded gravely. “A tragedy of national proportions.”

The two fell easily into conversation — gowns, accessories, and their collective distaste for brothers. Arwen was surprisingly fun. Sharp, well-dressed, and sly with sarcasm. In another life, Rauth might’ve thought of her as a rival.

Instead, she was pretty sure she’d just met her new favorite sister.

“Is he always like that?” Rauth whispered, jerking her chin toward Elrohir, who had just dropped his fork again.

Arwen chewed thoughtfully. “He’s usually shy. But tonight... especially nervous.”

Rauth grinned. “Even at home?”

Arwen gave a small, amused nod. “Today’s exceptional.”

“Can’t relate.” Rauth glanced sideways at Estel. “Mine’s always this nerdy. Every single day.”

Estel looked up. “An honor to meet you, milady. I am Estel.” Then he returned to diligently scooping food into his mouth like a scholarly badger.

“An honor to meet you as well,” Arwen replied graciously. “You may call me Arwen.”

Glorfindel leaned over, smirking. “So, little hope — what’re you working on these days? Still elbows deep in herbs and healing goo?”

Estel blinked. “Uh—”

“He’s been training with a sword,” Elrond offered smoothly. “And Rauthmirelle has been considering future courtly responsibilities. Arwen, perhaps you could advise her on—”

“No thanks,” Rauth muttered, cutting him off.

“Estel,” she added suddenly, staring. “What’s wrong with your face?”

It was... swollen.

Alarmingly so.

“Wait—what?” Estel touched his cheek.

Then Glorfindel’s voice rang out: “Rauth—what the hell is wrong with your face?”

Her fingers flew to her own skin.

And judging by the horror in Estel’s eyes—

They were both doomed.

It turned out Estel’s precious invention—the so-called “perfect setting spray”—was the culprit. The little genius had, for some reason, added crushed nuts to the mixture. Now both twins had learned a new word.

Allergic.

Elrond had dug it out of a thick tome in the human anatomy section of the library. It wasn’t an elvish problem, apparently.

“So it’s a human thing,” Rauth groaned, her cheeks still puffy even after downing what felt like an entire river of detox tea. “Why, in all of Middle-earth, did I have to be human? I’d rather be an orc. Or even worse—an Ellon.”

“Even an orc?” Estel croaked. His voice was nearly gone; his entire neck looked like it had been stung by a hive of bees. The only blessing Rauth found in the mess was that at least she could still talk.

“Shut up or I’ll feed you poisoned walnuts in your sleep,” she snapped, smacking the back of his head.

Elrond sighed heavily. “This is not a joke, Rauthmirelle. In large doses, exposure to nuts could be lethal. You two are fortunate this was caught early. We removed nut-based recipes from our kitchen years ago when Greenwood ended trade agreements. Erestor has kept that ban in place since.”

“Greenwood? You mean that gloomy spider-infested forest people hate?” Rauth tilted her head. “I heard everyone calls it Mirkwood now.”

“There are rare healing herbs in the soil there,” Estel piped up, trying to sound scholarly despite his toadlike condition. “Species not found in the valley.”

Rauth squinted at him. “Oh, I can see it now—our little healer hope skipping through the woods with a cute basket on his arm, humming a tune, when BAM! Spider from hell—”

“That’s quite enough, Rauthmirelle,” Elrond said, firmly this time. “You both need to remember your allergy and keep it in mind even beyond Rivendell.”

“Yeah, not like we’re going anywhere.” Rauth made a face.

“In fact,” Elrond said calmly, “you are.”

“WHAT?!” both twins shouted.

Elrond straightened, voice formal now. “I have spoken with your grandmother, Lady Galadriel. She has graciously invited you, Rauthmirelle, to continue your training in Lothlórien as a court lady. Arwen tells me you’ve shown great interest in courtly life.”

“I haven’t shown anything of the sort!” Rauth bolted upright. “You can’t just ship me off to Lothlórien—”

Elrond turned to Estel before she could finish. “As for you, my son. Now that Elladan and Elrohir have returned, they will take on the role of captains of our warriors. Given Glorfindel’s current absence from military duties—” (Glorfindel snorted nearby) “—they will oversee your training in the art of swordsmanship.”

Estel’s mouth dropped open. Or tried to, considering how swollen his face still was.

“I’ve been told Glorfindel’s training was… intense,” Elrond added. “And Lindir informs me your progress with him has been less than steady. A more structured, communal method may serve you better.”

Rauth leapt up. “You’re sending me to Lothlórien and Estel to some group training pit—what is this, exile by stealth?!”

Elrond raised a hand. “Rauthmirelle. This has been a collective decision. As your father, I—”

“Collective?” Estel blinked.

“Yes, Estel,” Elrond said with dignity. “A decision made between myself and Lindir.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Rauth blinked once, twice—

And exploded in laughter. “OH MY GODS, WE HAVE A NEW MOTHER!”

“What?!” Estel turned to her, wide-eyed.

“LINDIR’S OUR NEW MOM, STUPID!”

Elrond’s ear turned pink.

Haldir lounged beneath a tree in the upper gardens, a rare moment of peace stretched between duties. As Marchwarden of Lothlórien, he seldom had the luxury to do absolutely nothing. The sun was warm. A glass of red wine glowed in his hand.

“Lord Haldir,” a voice called.

He nearly jumped, sloshing wine onto his tunic. Turning, he caught sight of the mortal twin — the girl — Rauthmirelle, standing with her brother and grinning expectantly. He sighed, already wary.

He stood and gave a formal bow. “A pleasure, milady. Milord. Though I beg you not to call me ‘lord’ — I’m but a marchwarden, not royalty. Now, what is it?”

“Well,” Rauth said sweetly, “’tis a beautiful day. And we’d be ever so honored to escort you on a tour of the edge gardens. A view no visitor should miss — though most do.”

He frowned. “What edge—?”

Too late. The twins each took an arm and began dragging him away from his peaceful corner.

“I’m beginning to suspect a trick,” he muttered.

“Nonsense,” Rauth said brightly. “The charm of Imladris is in its clever illusions. You think you’re walking across a lawn, but in fact—” she gestured grandly, “you’re on the edge of a bloody waterfall.”

Haldir blinked down.

A sheer drop greeted him. The falls thundered below like an abyss.

“Milady, you cannot be—”

“Would you mind if we took a quick swim?” she asked, too sweetly.

“I must decline—”

“Excellent!” Rauth beamed, grabbed his wrist—

And jumped.

“NO—!”

The marchwarden’s scream was cut short by the roar of wind and water.

They hit the icy pool with a slap that stole the breath from his lungs. Panic exploded in his chest — no air, no ground, just cold and pressure—

Then someone yanked him up by the hair.

“Quick, Estel, tie him up,” Rauth barked.

“What—!”

Something fastened around his legs. He gasped as he was hauled onto a wet rock, limbs aching, robes clinging.

She sat cross-legged in front of him, dripping but cheerful. A dagger twirled lazily in her fingers.

“Do you know the head healer of Lothlórien?”

He stiffened. “No—”

The dagger tapped his neck.

“I’m not going to rob them,” she said calmly. “But I will rob you if you don’t answer honestly.”

“I—I do,” he croaked.

“See? That wasn’t hard.” She pulled a folded letter from her belt. “Now. Sign this.”

To the Esteemed Lady Galadriel, Lady of Light, and the Wise Lords of Lothlórien,

I, Haldir of the Golden Wood, Marchwarden in loyal service to the realm of Lórien, send greetings and this humble recommendation.

It is my honor to call attention to Estel, son of Gilraen, fostered under the care of Lord Elrond of Imladris. Though mortal by blood, the boy possesses a gentleness of spirit and a keen mind most rare among the Secondborn. His aptitude in the healing arts, particularly in the study of herb-lore and restorative craft, is most promising.

During his upbringing beneath the towers of Imladris, he has shown a deep and sincere devotion to healing, alongside an unusual resilience to adversity — a trait I suspect he shares with those of Númenórean descent. His manners are quiet and sincere, his curiosity without pride, and his hands already show skill far beyond his years.

Therefore, I humbly recommend that Estel be offered an invitation to study further in the Golden Wood under the guidance of the Warden-Healers of Lothlórien, should the Lady permit such a grace. It is my belief that his gifts, if nurtured, may one day bring healing not only to the wounded, but to the fate of Men.

May the blessings of the stars ever guide your judgment.

In service,

_________________________

He squinted. “You forged my handwriting.”

“I have methods.”

“What is this madness?!”

“You either sign it,” she said, handing him a charcoal stick, “or stay here until the spiders or orcs find you. Your choice.”

“You child of orcs!” he snapped.

She blinked. “Now that’s rude. Arathorn was a war hero. Have you seen my brother? You think that face came from an orc?”

Estel, silent at the edge, blushed furiously.

“You’ve done nothing to deserve his legacy!” Haldir shouted, straining against the rope.

“That’s why we’re trying to do something,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This letter gets us an audience in Lothlórien. We don’t need you to lie. Just open the bloody gate.”

Eventually — after much shouting, cursing, and reassurances that this was not in fact a blackmail plot — the marchwarden scrawled his signature.

They unbound him. Rauth handed him a handkerchief. “Cheers, Lord Marchwarden.”

“Where were you all day?” Glorfindel asked when Rauth finally slipped into her chamber late in the evening.

The Balrog slayer sat at her desk, one leg swinging on the mirror.

“Got my nails done and shopped a new gown, vintage edition mermaid tail neck cut in the morning. Hair polish, brow waxing and a facial spa in the afternoon. Bar flirting and kissing Ellons in the evening until one of them dragged me off into the bath. How does that sound, Adar?” Rauth said dryly, freeing her wet braids and kicking off the soaked boats.

“Very convincing. The last part does explain why you look like a cat who had drowned in the waterfall.” Glorfindel snorted, tossing a towel to his daughter.

Rauth draped it over her shoulder: “You’re right about the waterfall part at least.”

“And what’s that?” Glorfindel reached over and picked out an item from her pocket. “Looks like dark straw. Smell like horse shit to me.”

“It’s a wig.”

Chapter Text

Rauth draped a soft lady’s cloak over Estel’s shoulders with a playful smirk. “There. Fit for a queen of herbs and poultices.”

Estel grimaced, tugging awkwardly at the embroidered hem. “It’s itchy.”

“You’re just not used to elegance,” Rauth teased, fluffing the collar. “But don’t worry, Lady Rauthmirelle — grace comes with practice.”

Estel shot her a mock glare. “You promised you’d stop calling me that.”

“I lied,” she said with a grin, looping her arm around his for a moment before stepping back. “You’re lucky I didn’t braid your hair and stick flowers in it.”

“You tried.” He chuckled, wiping at his cheeks, voice softening. “Thanks for this chance. Healing’s always been my dream.”

“Then go show them how it’s done,” Rauth said, her tone warm but teasing. “And if anyone gives you trouble, tell them your twin sister will come smash their faces in.”

Estel laughed, eyes still a little glassy. Then he cleared his throat and dug into his satchel. “Okay, serious note now: watch out for oakroot poison — if you get a rash, use crushed silverleaf with honey. And if you trip or get bruised, arandor salve is your best friend. Avoid the swampy areas at night, the fungus there is nasty, and keep your water purified. Oh, and—”

Rauth raised a hand, grinning. “Save it, Lady Estel. I got this.”

Before he could protest, Glorfindel stepped forward, his tall frame wrapped in a flowing cloak, eyes warm and steady as he placed a gentle hand on Rauth’s shoulder.

“You’ve grown strong, Rauthmirelle,” he said softly, his voice thick with pride and something like a father’s love. “The guard selection will test you like never before.”

Rauth lifted her chin, feeling the weight of his gaze — both comforting and challenging.

“Good luck,” Glorfindel whispered, his fingers brushing her cheek briefly before pulling back.

Estel stepped up beside her, a shy but sincere smile on his face. “Good luck too. And if you get into any trouble, just remember what I said.”

Rauth laughed, the sound bright in the misty morning air. “You both worry too much.”

Glorfindel stepped forward and pulled Rauth into a tight hug. His voice was low, thick with unspoken grief and pride. “Your mother would be very proud of you.”

Rauth looked up at him, the vulnerability she rarely showed shimmering in her eyes. “I hope so, Adar.”

One knee in damp grass, tongue pressed between her teeth as she yanked the stupid wig into place for the third time.

It was itchy. It was sweaty. It smelled vaguely like pine resin and burned candle wax.

She adjusted her borrowed cloak, checked her reflection in a dented shield someone had discarded by the fence, and let a smug little smile creep onto her face.

Let the show begin.

The other candidates were already there, either stretching their legs or doing push-ups on the ground. Judging by the look of them, Rauth was not surprised when she found herself being the average height even in elven male population since Estel and her were of the same.

“Is that the mortal boy who was adopted years ago?” One of them whispered.

“Yeah, I wasn’t aware Imaradis allow mortals to try out as well.” Another laughed.

“Okay candidates, now get into line, now.” In the center of the training field stood two familiar figures, Elladen and Elrohir, which now explains why Rauth had not seen the two of them since the disasterous dinner. “Now, you will run five laps around the training field, whoever cannot keep up with our pace is out.”

One lap in, she passed two Ellons who were already sneezing. Embarrassing, their mothers must have signed them up for some girly yoga exercise camp.

“Seren, Elrien, dismissed!” Elrohir called. At least, he is not that gap-fish that Rauth first met.

Second lap, more fell behind. Perhaps even those ellyth in the nail salon could run faster than they can.

By the third lap, she didn’t even flinch when her foot clipped the edge of a ditch while another handful gagged. Losers are losers, she snorted.

“Split into groups!” Elladen ordered at the remaining. “Pick up your swords and stand into position, keep your distance between pairs! I don’t want accidental wounds in the candidate selection day!”

And totally not surprisingly, she was paired with the largest of them all. Size only gets in the way of speed, that’s what Adar always says.

Yeah, yeah, then why did you grow so muscular? Rauth had scoffed at her.

Well, that’s why your Adar had adjusted to both muscle and speed, the Balrog Slayer had grinned and charged.

“Exchange your names before you start.” Elrohir told them.

The Ellon spat out: “Zeiran.”

“Estel,” She rolled her eyes.

“Mortal boy think his got something to prove,” Zeiran said as if he was some stage actor. “This won’t take long before I send you back to your herbs.”

Rauth flashed him a smirk: “You’re right, I’ll give you five seconds.”

And lunged.

That wasn’t just any simple lung like ellyth fighting over who gets the last special edition ball gown, but one which Glorfindel has trained her for countless hours until all movements blend into one that was so fast that outsiders might mistaken it for one simple leap.

Drop low, swept his legs clean from under him while one hand reaching for his elbow to twist it backward.

Blade came to rest against his throat.

“Yield.” She grinned, like she was offering tea.

Zairen’s face crumpled: “I yield.”

She stepped back, barely catching herself to rummage for the little mirror she kept in her pocket all the time to check her hairstyle, which would certainly be weird for an Ellon.

“Estel, you remain.” Elladen eye’s sparkled.

“Congratulations.” Elrohir patted her on the back, “Adar wasn’t wrong when he told us our brother was training with Glorfindel.” Rauth almost laughed, gap-fish does have a way with compliments.

“Zairen,” Elladen paused, “You remain as well.”

Elrohir nugged him: “No, he lost, by the rules he must be---”

“We agreed whoever left standing is worth remaining.”

“Fine,” Elrohir said with forced lightness. “But make sure he’s not paired with Estel again. Wouldn’t want a repeat humiliation.”

Zeiran scrambled to his feet, red-faced and furious.

“You can’t keep interfering,” Elladan was saying. Like he was lecturing a puppy who chewed his boots.

Elrohir just tilted his head like a curious bird, arms hanging loose like he didn’t care. “I didn’t interfere.”

Oh please. You tried to kick Zeiran out the second he lost.

“You tried to dismiss Zeiran,” Elladan snapped.

“I wanted to,” Elrohir said, voice dripping with something that might’ve been smugness if he cared. “He got crushed by a—what?—five-and-a-half-foot mortal kid with zero grace . Clearly not fit for this circus.”

Rauth snorted in her head. Yep, “mortal kid with zero grace” and a secret weapon—the sacred pocket mirror. Take that, Zeiran.

Elladan was glaring now. “You only wanted him gone because he insulted Estel.”

Elrohir gave a dry, humorless grin. “Well… didn’t he?”

If Elladan could have exploded, he would have. “That doesn’t matter. We agreed: if they’re still standing after the bout, they stay. No favorites. No exceptions.”

“No exceptions?” Elrohir said, voice thick with disbelief. “Like how you threw Estel to the biggest brute out here? That didn’t look like fairness. That looked like a damn test.”

Oof. Shots fired.

It turns out, Zeiran was a brilliant Ellon.

Well, a brilliant Ellon to mimick.

Every single day, Rauth made sure to stand behind him, mimicking his every move. The right time to cough, the right time to place her hand on the sword, the right sound of laughter.

Other than that, he was your average Ellon who scoffs: “Mortals” every time she walk passed.

Other than that, the Rivendell guard team is the just your average training session, much less intense than what Glorfindel’s lessons.

“Today, we learn the high-kick stance.” Elladen told everyone when they were still in the barracks. “I expect your armors to be strapped tight.”

“Do you need help in strapping your armour, Estel?” Elrohir had walked around the group to ask.

“No.” Rauth shook her head. She was now even used to Elrohir treating her like a special case, but at least it was much better to know the gaping fish can actually talk.

“Then, run. Run, around the field, three laps!” Elladen ordered.

The moment sunlight casted on her face, she noticed something unusual of the training field.

Ellyth.

At least twenty ellyth had their delicate chairs placed around the ground, each holding an intriguing umbrella.

Figures, Rauth thought, those ellyth don’t need umbrellas, only human like she need those.

“Arwen, move your group of friends to somewhere further, you’re disturbing our lap running.” Elladen yelled.

Oh, Arwen. She stole a glance at her, the ellyth who was the first to stand up and move her chair. Light velvet chiffon, Rauth observed, it would never look this good on her, or wait, how was she suppose to know she doesn’t pay a visit to the fabric store?

“Pray try to convince your brother to let us sit closer to the grounds, lady Arwen.” She heard one of the ellyth beg Arwen.

“Tis our joy to see such sight, a rare sight of Ellons.” Another added.

Rare sight? She snorted, there’s nothing to see anyway. Rauth had no idea why the Rivendell patrol team prefer its guards to strap full armour all the time even under the scorching heat.

“I wish we have audience seat set for ellyth every day.” One of them murmured, loud enough for the ladies to hear and giggle aloud.

The Ellon’s nodded their agreement, Rauth quickly copying them.

“Ellons, they’re all the same.” She heard Arwen sigh.

“Quiet, I have news to announce.” Elladen clapped his hands together.

The shuffle of feet soon stopped as the guards stopped to listen to their captain, which he glanced sideways at the group of ladies.

“The king of Mirkwood had invited the ladies of Rivendell to the Woodland realm for Starlight fesitival, for it was a great honor to be a guest. Lord Elrond has meant to hold an archery contest here as it would certainly benefit the those who would be willing to inprevise their skill.”

Oh no, archery, it’s like what brocoli is for elflings, Rauth inwardly groaned.

“You have three shots. Each on the other side of the training field.” Elrohir explained.

Fine, whatever, I don’t even want to go to the woodland realm anyway, Rauth thought,  at least I have my personal makeup desk here and going to that spider-filled place will only make me look like a weirdo if some Ellon discover their fellow guard is using eyeliner.

Her first shot landed clean on the edge of the target. So did the following two shots.

And the thud on the target beside hers told her all she need to know that Zeiran had hit all in the bullseye.

Elrohir cleared his throat like he was about to announce a royal execution.

“As the highest scorer,” he proclaimed, “Zeiran will represent Rivendell at the Woodland Realm’s Starlight Festival.”

Of course he would. If smug could shoot arrows, Zeiran would’ve hit five targets with one shot just by flexing. Rauth—currently disguised as Estel—gave him a withering side-eye behind her borrowed too-big collar.

The crowd clapped politely. Zeiran bowed like he was accepting an award for "Most Likely to Die a Virgin With Honor."

Rauth clapped once. Mostly to keep up appearances. And to stop herself from flipping him off.

Then came the pause.

The kind of pause that made her stomach twist—not with nerves, but with dread. She knew that pause. That was a plot twist pause.

“…And Estel,” Elrohir added.

Rauth nearly bit through her tongue.

What.

The actual.

Shit.

She blinked slowly. Her brain screamed. Her face—Estel’s face—pretended to be surprised.

Me?! she mimed internally, adding a stunned little gasp and a deer-in-the-torchlight shuffle forward.

“You’re joking,” she said. Then remembered she was Estel, and Estel would never say that. She coughed. “I—I mean… really?”

Elrohir gave a solemn nod. “Lord Elrond has requested your presence on behalf of Imladris.”

Of course he has. Because why wouldn’t her adoptive father volunteer her for a tree-hugging, spider-ridden, silk-swathed torture retreat in a forest full of judgmental elves with more hair oil than brain cells?

“Wonderful,” she said flatly. Then remembered again. She cleared her throat. “I—uh—what an honor.”

Rauth bit down on the apple tart she stole from the kitchen. Yeah, just one apple tart. If she was an elf, she would have gotten a double cream sandal plus extra jam in it. But no, she’s human and has to cope with weight gain.

To: Lord Glorfindel of the House of Golden Regret

From: Your Favorite Child (no, the other one)

Location: Somewhere between an identity crisis and a pine tree

Dear Adar,

So. Minor update.

I’m going to Mirkwood.

Yes, that Mirkwood. The one with spiders the size of oxen, ellyth who judge you by the shine of your boots, and a court so stiff it makes Erestor look like a party hat. You know how I feel about bugs, and also about diplomacy, and also about pretending to be my twin brother while trying not to commit a felony in another realm. But here we are.

Anyway. I “won” a spot in the Starlight Festival delegation. Not as myself, of course. As Estel. Because apparently the universe enjoys watching me suffer and cross-dress under pressure. Elrohir announced it with all the joy of a man delivering a funeral invitation, and I accepted with the poise of someone trying not to vomit in front of the entire barracks.

Zeiran is also going. Joy of joys.

So far I’ve managed not to blow my cover, though it’s getting harder. Someone tried to ask me about beard grooming routines and I panicked and said “brushing counter-clockwise with moonlight-infused goat oil,” so if that rumor spreads, I apologize in advance.

Also. Estel’s robes do not fit me. I look like a stick  wearing curtains.  His sense of fashion is really non-existent.

Adar, be honest with me—am I a complete disaster? Or just a medium one with dramatic flair?

Because I could really use your advice right now. Or a detailed escape plan. Or both. Preferably written in lemon ink on edible parchment so I can eat it if someone tries to read my mail.

Please write back. With wisdom. And maybe a bribe-worthy trinket I can offer the Woodland Elves in case I offend someone’s hairstyle.

P.S. If Estel starts sneezing randomly or grows a pimple on his face while I’m gone, tell him it’s my fault and he’s welcome.

P.P.S. I stole your second-favorite dagger for safety. You can have it back when I return. Probably.

Yours in chaos and eyeliner,

Rauth (a.k.a. Estel with boobs)

Folding the letter twice in a careless manner, she stood up from the heap of straw she’d been lying on and headed for the mailbox.

When she was younger, she had truly envied the job of a postman — imagining it must be a fantastic thing, running between realms, handing out letters, being someone very important. That fantasy died the moment she realized her foundation might melt under the sun. From then on, it became clear the postal service was not her ideal career path. Not that Elrond had ever supported that dream anyway.

“Hey, Estel!” Elrohir’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“Oh hi— I mean,” Rauth rolled her eyes before turning around. “Hey, Captain.”

The Ellon smiled. “You don’t have to call me ‘Captain,’ Estel. We’re family.”

“Yes, Cap— Elrohir,” she corrected herself, trying.

Silence fell between them. Awkward, shuffling silence.

“If you’ll excuse me... I was just about to send a letter to—” Rauth gestured vaguely.

“Ah, a letter!” Elrohir’s eyes brightened. “Actually, Estel, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Okay, sh—” Rauth stopped herself. “I mean, sure, go ahead.”

Again, the Ellon stared at his feet. Then:

“Have you heard from Lothlórien lately?” he blurted.

Of all the questions in Arda, why did the gap-fish have to choose this?

“Oh, yes,” Rauth said quickly. “I’ve heard it’s a wonderful forest — luminous golden leaves, sweet wine. The books also mention the Lady’s beauty and power, and how her ring can detect evil.”

Luckily, she had skimmed a few books about the Golden Wood. That was about all she knew — and it would have to do.

“Thank you, Estel,” Elrohir said softly.

“If you’ll excuse me now—” Rauth began to turn again.

“How fares Lady Rauthmirelle?” he asked, face going red.

She stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”

Elrohir cleared his throat. “I mean... have you heard from Lady Rauthmirelle, Estel?”

Oh. He meant her. Her.

Rauth coughed. “Yes, my—my sister fares well. She found it quite interesting to learn Lothlórien-style etiquette and has been adjusting well to court life. Lord Glorfindel has been assisting him— I mean, her — in the Woodland Realm.”

The Ellon nodded, flustered. “Thank you, Estel. Please send my sincere greetings to Lady Rauthmirelle. I... would have signed up to escort her to Lothlórien myself, if I’d been available.”

“Sure,” Rauth said with a shrug — then quickly composed herself. Estel wouldn’t shrug like that.

Thank the Valar she’d arranged for Glorfindel to babysit Estel — if he had been the one going to Lothlórien, the terrible actor would’ve blown the disguise in a day.

She was already halfway across the field when Elrohir called again.

“Estel.”

“Yes, Cap— Elrohir?” she said, exasperated, turning back.

The Ellon looked anywhere but her eyes. “I mean no offense, but... may I ask what the relationship is between Lady Rauthmirelle and Lord Glorfindel?”

“He is my ad— I mean, Lord Glorfindel has been teaching Lady Rauthmirelle some self-defense over the past few years,” she answered as smoothly as she could.

“Self-defense?” Elrohir blinked. “A lady who knows how to defend herself?”

“Yes. Just the basics, to protect herself,” Rauth replied evenly. She wasn’t ignorant of how most Ellons reacted to the idea of a female wielding any sort of weapon, and she was determined to protect the lady’s so-called reputation — even if the lady was technically her.

“I would never risk a lady’s life by teaching her weapon arts,” Elrohir declared with a shake of his head.

Rauth raised a brow.

Now the Ellon’s face was fully red. “Estel, I offer my apologies for the assumption.”

“What assumption?” Rauth asked, genuinely confused.

Elrohir stared down at the ground, mumbling, “That I assumed Lord Glorfindel was... courting Lady Rauthmirelle.”

It took every ounce of her willpower not to laugh aloud.

Chapter Text

The Butt of the Team.

That’s where Rauth stood — at the back of the carriage.

You could call it a common phrase of the time, though the more sensible would say it was made up by the human girl herself. Out of sheer annoyance, of course.

She had never been far from home, and certainly not on foot — she hadn’t realized how dreadful road trips could be. Especially when all she got to see was the backside of the enormous carriage she was assigned to guard.

Screw whoever thought joining the patrol team was a good idea.

Actually, screw herself.

She had no illusions about it — plenty would call her spoiled, and they wouldn’t be wrong. Glorfindel had never made her do chores, not even clean her own daggers. Weapon training? Sure. But making her own bed? Not once. The man had the gall to remind her to wear hand cream and sunscreen daily.

And then there was Elrond and Lindir, who apparently made it their life’s work to offer her the best of everything. Moisturizing makeup kits, embroidered silk gowns, delicate desserts dusted with powdered rose petals, even a yearly pass to the best nail salon in Imladris.

So yes — while it was no surprise that the carriage carrying the Lothlórien ladies (and Arwen) was fancier than hers, it still sparked a familiar pang of jealousy.

I’m asking Elrond for all of that when I get home, she thought bitterly.

At least there was good drama to distract her.

Zeiran, ever the peacock, was at it again — flexing his muscles and flipping his dark red hair in front of the ellyth.

Ew.

She didn’t think him attractive in the slightest, yet those ellyth were practically melting over him. Any ellon with passable cheekbones and some rehearsed devotion would have them giggling like drunk grapes.

Three of them were already leaning over the carriage rails, swooning as Zeiran droned on — not about love poems, no — but sword maintenance.

“Oh, fascinating,” one gasped. “You polish it yourself?”

Dumb question.

“Every morning,” Zeiran answered smoothly, brushing a crimson strand behind one pointed ear. “Muscle memory is the foundation of true swordsmanship.”

Valar, who doesn’t polish their sword? Is that even worth mentioning?

“Why don’t all ellons have red hair like yours?” another sighed.

Sure, tomorrow you’ll see a brunette and wish they all had brown hair too.

Zeiran grinned. “You’ll find more redheads in Mirkwood. My homeland’s full of them.”

Ah, of course. He’s from that cursed forest.

“But none with hair as perfect as yours,” an elleth added, face bright red.

Honky hair, Rauth thought with a silent gag.

“I do have a brother in Mirkwood,” Zeiran added with a flourish. “A former guard of Rivendell. Betrayed by his own patrol.”

“Betrayed?” a few gasped.

“Yes. He was nobly tending to the elflings when he was ambushed by his own team — several broken ribs, kicked into a pond by a wild, untamed horse.”

Rauth rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. That noble elf’s name is Thandor?”

Every head turned to her.

Zeiran narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my brother’s name, boy?”

Really? Use your pig head. Who kicked your brother into a pond and sparked the entire patrol’s panic attack in the first place?

Instead, she cleared her throat and summoned the most Estel-like voice she could manage.

“I was there. Among the elflings. And I’m quite sure your brother didn’t just injure a few ribs. His ego took the worst of it. Am I right?” She flashed a glance at the ellyth.

“I’ve heard of that event, even back in Lothlórien,” Arwen spoke up. “Adar wrote to me briefly about it.”

Rauth smirked. “I’m sure he also told you how engaging Lindir’s field trips were.”

Arwen laughed. “Indeed. I heard all future trips were canceled because of that incident.”

The ellyth giggled along. Zeiran shot Rauth a glare like daggers.

Eventually, they arrived at the day’s campsite. It was no palace — just canvas, grass, and bedrolls — but Rauth managed not to roll her eyes as the guards escorted the ladies down from the carriage.

“Ladies to the right, ellons to the left!” Elladan called.

Rauth, on instinct, turned to the right.

“Yo, what’re you doing?” a fellow guard barked.

Before she could reply, a wave of laughter rang out:

“Estel thinks he’s a lady!”

Rauth shot them a glare. “I’m trying to find a spot near the middle of camp. Not in the lady’s circle.”

She dropped her bedroll — unfortunately, right near Arwen, who was rummaging through her pack with growing distress.

“Oh no. I forgot my liquid blush.”

“Take a bit of your lipstick, melt it, mix in face cream. Works the same,” Rauth said automatically, eyeing the contents of the makeup kit.

“Really? I never thought of that.” Arwen looked up, amazed.

No. No. This cannot be happening.

Rauth cleared her throat, deepening her voice. “Yeah… uh, my sister was really into makeup. Forced me through lesson after lesson.”

Arwen sighed wistfully. “I wish I had such good brothers.” She shot a loving-yet-exasperated look toward Elladan and Elrohir.

“I already have one,” Rauth muttered. Then, louder: “Well, surely your brothers have their… own uniqueness.”

“They do,” Arwen sighed again.

“Here. Let me do your blush.” Rauth said, drawing her dagger and slicing a piece of lipstick into a small bowl of face cream. She placed it near the fire.

It would’ve been so much easier if she could just borrow the kit openly — as a girl. She liked Arwen. The shared memories felt warm.

“You know,” Arwen said with a soft smile, “no ellon has ever done that for me.”

Rauth froze.

“You’re the first.”

Oh no. What have I done.

“Um… thank you,” she mumbled. “Milady.”

Arwen smiled gently. “Please — call me Arwen.”

“…And you can call me Estel.”

The rest of the journey(sadly uneventful) dragged on with dull conversation and rattling wheels. Zeiran kept parading alongside the carriage like he was auditioning for the role of “Most Eligible Warrior of the Realm,” while the ellyth clung to every word like overripe fruit about to drop.

By sunset, even the air felt heavier.

The road narrowed. Trees gathered close. Sunlight fled.

And the laughter died with it.

The trees thickened around them like ancient sentries, looming and silent. Daylight was barely a whisper beneath the moss-draped canopy, and the dirt road had long since dissolved into twisted roots and claw-like crumbles.

So this is Mirkwood, Rauth thought grimly. The dark forest.

Elladan had ordered more guards to surround the carriage, but with little success. The horses remained skittish, flinching at every whisper of sound.

Yeah, yeah. How about you stick that sword in your gut and spare us all the mad talk, Rauth thought.

“We’re lost,” one of the guards muttered.

Oh, shut up and stop stating the obvious.

“No need to be discouraged…” Elrohir began, tugging the reins.

Then the forest stilled.

A faint clicking — soft at first, then louder.

Dozens of black-legged spiders, each the size of a hound, burst from the trees, eyes glowing red in the dim light.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The problem with forest battles? Too many damn trees. And apparently… too many spiders.

She barely had time to grab the reins before a deeper, louder clicking crawled up her spine.

Behind the carriage —

Something skittered out of the undergrowth.

Not just a spider. A nightmare. A mutant tank with legs. Twice the size of the others, with eyes like cursed coals.

It made straight for the horses.

If it got them — the carriage would flip.

If the carriage flipped — the maidens would be crushed.

If the maidens were crushed —

Everyone would die screaming.

“No, no, no!”

“Shoot it?!” someone yelled.

“No!” Rauth shouted. “You’ll hit the horses!”

She didn’t think.

She ran.

Bolted across the clearing, ducked under a fallen branch, vaulted over a guard wrapped in web.

“Elrohir screamed behind her: “Estel! Estel, DON’T!”

Too late.

She leapt.

A brief second of weightlessness — glorious, terrifying — then impact. She landed hard on the monster’s back, sword plunging into its crunching carapace.

“Valar, you’re sturdy,” she grunted. “You’re no crunchy cereal… you’ve gone full molten granola!”

The thing bucked beneath her. She scrambled for purchase.

“Hold still, you overgrown dinner table!”

It shrieked.

Webs caught in her wig. One of its legs narrowly missed impaling her ribs.

She stabbed again. And again.

“DIE!” she screamed. “You silk-puking horror show!”

Then — crack.

The spider reared one last time… hissed —

And collapsed beneath her.

Panting, she lay flat on its twitching corpse, sword sticky with black ichor.

Voices were shouting. Maidens were crying.

Then — another wave of spiders burst from the shadows.

Before panic could take root, a clear, commanding voice rang out:

“AIM for the eyes — burn the webs!”

From the trees, a dozen figures emerged, swift and silent as arrows loosed mid-flight. Rauth barely lifted her head when everything stopped —

Because someone stepped forward.

Not just anyone.

Out of the corner of her eye came a figure—an Ellon, tall and cloaked in forest green, a longbow slung effortlessly across his back like a second spine. His armor caught the fading light of the day—full leather with silver stitching.

Can an Ellon be beautiful?

She decided then and there:

Yes.

This one absolutely is.

Dangerously so.

His expressive eyes — icy blue flecked with silver — locked onto hers.

A face carved straight from purest mithril. Silver-blonde braided hair framed high, proud cheekbones and a strong, square jaw that seemed to demand attention.

And he was looking straight at her.

“I wasn’t aware Rivendell had added ‘collapsed idiot’ to its roster of courtly titles.” He stepped back with smooth grace, his full lips thinning into a sharp line.

His deep, throaty voice slid over the clearing like velvet before the insult sank in.

Heat crept up Rauth’s neck. “Excuse me?”

He ignored her. “Elladan. Elrohir.”

The twins bowed.

Elrohir knelt beside her. “Are you okay, Estel?”

“I’m—”

“He’s fine,” the Ellon snapped. “Whiny tea-party duchess.”

Rauth bristled. “Well, if your observations are so razor sharp, why don’t you go look for the source of the spiders instead of insulting the person who just saved your cargo?”

Nearby, someone gasped — and quickly clamped their mouth shut when Mr. Hardass turned a glacial glare their way.

Fire sparked through her veins. “Too bad about the tea parties. You could use some sugar to sweeten that foul disposition of yours.”

A sneer curled on his lips. “You’d better pray my mood sweetens before I see you in training, mortal. Because your ass is mine.”

With the grace of an angry jungle cat, he stalked off, leaving a trail of tension in his wake.

A cold squeeze settled around her ribs.

Elrohir offered a sad smile. “That was… inadvisable. But still—are you sure you’re okay, Estel?”

“…Yeah,” Rauth muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m fine.”

She was fine. Really. Just stabbed a nightmare spider to death, screamed at a pretty-faced woodland prick in front of half the realm, and ruined her wig in the process. No big deal. Nothing unfixable. Except maybe her pride.

The throne room opened like the heart of the forest — all ancient roots and carved stone, woven branches glimmering with hidden veins of silver.

At the far end sat a throne grown directly from the tree itself, vast and shadowed. Upon it sat the King of Mirkwood.

He was tall, unnaturally still, draped in dark robes that shimmered like midnight oil. His silver crown gleamed under the canopy of enchanted leaves above his throne, and his eyes — distant, and ancient — swept over the Imladris procession like he was evaluating the quality of meat in a market.

Rauth stood behind Elladan and Elrohir, her posture tight, fingers twitching slightly at her side.

The king’s eyes found her — and stopped.

She swallowed.

Please don’t smell the lie. Please don’t see it.

He tilted his head slightly. A movement so subtle, it might have been imagined — except Rauth felt it like a blade drawn just beneath her chin. His gaze narrowed. Not with cruelty. With calculation.

Don’t move. You’re Estel. You’re your brother. You’re fine.

Finally, his gaze moved on.

Only to land beside his throne.

Rauth’s stomach sank.

Of course he was there.

The Ellon from the forest. Cloaked in forest green, armor flawless, bow still across his back like an extension of his spine. Hair silver-gold and braided sharply. His face was unreadable — carved and cold — but she felt the weight of his stare the same way one feels a blade still sheathed but ready.

The steward announced them. Long speech, many titles. “...Honored guests from Imladris, friends of the Woodland Realm...”

Her gaze caught a figure just past the throne.

An elleth. In full armor. Leather breastplate. Twin daggers at her hips. Auburn hair pulled back, eyes sharp and focused. She stood silent among the guards.

Wait. They let elleth fight here?

What kind of realm lets girls wear armor openly while she had to steal her brother’s identity just to train?

Then King Thranduil stood, and the room chilled.

“You arrive under uneasy skies,” he said slowly. “And yet you bring… sound.”

His voice was smoother than cold wine, yet sharp. His eyes flicked again to Rauth — just for a heartbeat.

“I thought it was a new Rivendell tactic. Flailing as a form of combat.”Mr.Ice-cube said with the expressiveness of a statue judging you from a far.

Rauth didn’t even look at him. “I thought standing around doing nothing was a Mirkwood tradition. I must’ve misread the welcome manual. Well, not all of us have the luxury of hiding in trees and watching other people actually do something useful,” she said sweetly, plastering on a smile that could cut glass.

Elladan closed his eyes. “Estel, please…”

Mr. Hard-ass turned his head just slightly.

Slowly.

Expression blank.

“You call that useful?”

His voice was so low it barely echoed — but everyone heard it.

She took a step forward. “I call stopping a spider the size of a barn from flipping the royal carriage extremely useful. What would you have done? Serenaded it?”

His eyes sharpened. One breath, then—

“I would have done it cleanly.”

Oh, that’s what gets a rise out of him? Cleanliness?

“Well, forgive me,” she said, voice rising now, “for not politely bowing before stabbing it in the gut. Perhaps you can design tuxedos for guard uniforms.”

One Mirkwood guard actually backed up a step.

The Ellon’s tone dropped another degree colder. “You mistake recklessness for courage.”

“I do have a flair for the dramatic,” she said sweetly. “Unlike you, who apparently thinks blinking is an act of rebellion.”

That did it.

His jaw ticked.

“I do not perform,” he said. “I----”

“Enough.”

The king’s voice cracked like thunder across stone.

The Ellon stepped back without another word.

Rauth inclined her head, mock-polite. “Your Highness,” she muttered toward the throne, though her eyes lingered on the green-cloaked statue of snobbery beside it.

King Thranduil said nothing.

But the faintest glimmer — not amusement, not quite — pulled at one corner of his mouth.

“I believe,” he said softly, “some of our guests would benefit from rest… and a cold bath.”

By the time Rauth dragged the last of Arwen’s perfumed luggage up the guest wing staircase, her back ached, her sleeves were soaked with sweat, and her patience had been declared legally dead.

“Thank you, Estel,” Arwen said sweetly, twirling around her lavish room with its silken drapes and ivory mirrors. Her voice practically sparkled. “You’re always so dependable.”

Rauth grunted as she set down a rose-patterned trunk. “Dependable, yes. Underappreciated, sweaty, and one back spasm away from retirement—also yes.”

Arwen giggled, fluttering closer. “You always say the funniest things.” She reached out and lightly brushed a stray leaf from Rauth’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered just a second too long. “But really. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

Rauth stood there, frozen for a beat. “I don’t know. Perhaps hire two servants instead of one unpaid twin brother?”

Arwen just laughed again. “Don’t forget to return the trunk key to the steward.”

“Of course not,” Rauth muttered, heading toward the door. “Anything else? Tea service? Foot massage? Or perhaps a harp serenade while I collapse?”

“I mean,” Arwen said thoughtfully, her eyes sparkling with something more than amusement, “you do have lovely hands for a harp.”

Rauth blinked. “...Thank you?”

King Thranduil had clearly poured half the realm’s budget into this guest wing. Balconies. Fireplaces. Silk sheets. Velvet settees. And actual warm towels.

As she passed one open door, she caught a glimpse of maidens sipping tea beside perfumed candles. They were giggling, too absorbed in conversation to notice her.

“Prince Legolas is such a charmer,” one sighed dreamily.

“Did you see the way he jumped from the tree and shot the spider midair?” another swooned. “He stopped my heart!”

Then why aren’t you dead, Rauth thought grimly.

“I will never marry anyone unless he’s the one,” an elleth whispered with conviction.

“Just the thought of his voice—” the next began, but Rauth had already stormed off.

Probably flouncing around right now with a golden goblet in one hand and some poor ellyth’s waist in the other. These types always were the same—wealthy, perfect jawline, the emotional depth of a puddle. They flirt. They leave. They wear embroidered leaf pins and call it charm.

He probably didn’t even train. Princes didn’t sweat, they made others do it for them.

She snorted.

The barracks were two floors down, across the training yard, and smelled like leather, boots, and unwashed ambition. Most of the Rivendell ellons had already unpacked, their doors marked in pairs—names carved in elegant Elvish, inked neatly.

She scanned the final door.

Her heart sank.

Elladan of Imladris & Estel of Imladris

“Valar, no,” Rauth whispered.

The door creaked open.

Inside, the room was simple. Two beds, a shared wardrobe, a small writing desk. Clean. Sparse. And, unfortunately, occupied.

Elladan turned from his satchel and nodded. “Oh, Estel. I was wondering when you’d show up.”

But Rauth froze.

There were two other ellons inside. One lounged against the wall, the other—sitting on her bed. Her bed.

Oh no. She needed sanitizers. Salt. Maybe an exorcism.

Both were red-haired, though one broader, taller. Zeiran, the smug flirt. And Thandor—the same idiot she once kicked into a pond for pulling her braid.

“Look who finally dragged in,” Zeiran drawled.

Rauth ignored them, dropped to her knees, and began unpacking.

Clink.

A tin rolled out of her satchel, spinning across the wooden floor.

No. No, no, no.

“What’s this?” Thandor’s head snapped toward it.

She lunged. “Don’t—!”

Too late.

The lid popped off.

His eyes lit up like a boy who’d just found a frog in the kitchen.

“Well, well,” Thandor said, lifting the tin for all to see. “Who would've thought brother of the menace keeps such delicate treasures.”

Inside: a cracked compact mirror. A pot of blush. Lip tint, smeared.

“No!” Rauth gasped, scrambling forward.

Thandor didn’t hesitate. With a smirk, he tilted the tin toward the floor and let the contents scatter like broken pride.

Crack. Shatter.

Her blush bled across the floor like blood on snow.

“Out!” Elladan barked, standing up so fast his chair skidded. “Out. Now.”

Judging by the door’s sharp slam, they obeyed.

“Estel—” Elladan turned to her, regret thick in his voice.

She was already on her feet, kicking her satchel away from the bed with a heavy thud.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer.

But she didn’t answer. She yanked the covers over her head—musty, soldier-smelling covers—and curled up on the mattress like a bruise. If she was home, adar would have taken care of all of that, and beat the ellons till their skin show the same state as Mordor.

The cracked compact glinted on the floor.

And in the quiet, she let one tear slide down her cheek. Just one.

Because boys don’t cry.

And neither do warriors.

Chapter Text

The next morning, she woke up when a loud bell rattled through the corridor as people began to swarm into the dining hall.

She sat up blearily, pushing back the sheets and rubbing her face — and then froze.

Elladan stood near the window, his posture awkward, something small wrapped in cloth in his hands.

“Morning,” he said. Careful.

She gave him a long stare. “You’re up early.”

“I’m not used to Mirkwood sun rises.” he replied. Then held out the bundle. “This is for you.”

She didn’t move.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” he added, voice quieter. “But I asked the steward last night. I figured maybe... it could replace what they broke.”

Reluctantly, she took it. Inside was a mirror — smaller than her old one, plain, but polished and new.

“Zeiran and Thandor won’t come near our room again,” he continued. “I should’ve stopped them sooner. I shouldn’t have let them in at all. I know what that stuff meant to you, Est—”

A pause.

“I know what they took wasn’t just things.”

She looked down at the mirror. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “It’s from my sister, she said I might need those.” Rauth lied, internally giggling.

“Thanks,” she muttered, then added, deadpan, “but if you ever let them back in, I’m shaving off Zeiran’s eyebrows and making Thandor eat them.”

A small huff of a laugh escaped him. “Fair.”

Dining halls aren’t that significant considering she used to dine on the balcony of Rivendell all the time. And gloomy walls are nothing compared to the waterfalls and flowers.

“Over here, Estel!” Elrohir waved at her.

Rauth was about to sit when she spotted another sitting directly beside him, which unsurprisingly was Elladan.

“I took your plate serving, hope you don’t mind me not taking the nuts,” Elrohir said, pulling out a chair next to him — thankfully, she did not have to sit with Elladan.

“Thanks, I’m allergic to them anyway.” She gave him a smile. None for the other twin, haha. Though she is no longer really angry at him, she did like to keep up with that act.

Mirkwood dishes tasted just fine, though Rauth would say they added way too little salt for her taste.

“Why’s there ham for breakfast?” she asked, poking at the slice of meat.

“Ah, Mirkwood salted pork, their specialty.” Elrohir glanced at her plate. “You should try it, it shall give you some energy for the training today.”

“Archery training? I wonder who our instructor will be.” Rauth wondered.

Elladan opened his mouth to reply when a flicker of silhouette made him slam it shut.

“What?” she mouthed, looking around until she spotted a female figure with red hair and warrior’s outfit coming their way. Oh, that elleth from the throne room.

“That’s Tauriel. Elladan here has had a crush on her for years,” Elrohir explained.

“Did he ever tell her?” Rauth muttered.

“Nope, but soon——”

“Shut up, Elrohir.” Elladan whispered.

“You know, she would have made a move on you years ago if she really is into you.”

Elladan made a strangled sound of pure despair.

The elleth reached their table, addressing the twins: “Elladan, Elrohir.”

“Tauriel.” Elladan said, immediately staring down at his plate.

“This is Estel, our brother,” Elrohir introduced. “Estel, this is Tauriel, top warrior.”

“Hi, oh I like your eyeshadow, where did you get that vivid green?” Rauth, now much closer to the elleth, stared interestedly at her eyes.

“Thank you! It’s from the Greenwood market, I’ve known the stall owner since I was an elfling.” Tauriel beamed, batting her eyelashes.

“Really? I would love to go sometime, I mean, to get some for my sister.” Rauth cleared her throat. “My sister has been lecturing me on makeup products and asked me to bring some for her.”

Tauriel’s eyes lit up. “You have a sister?”

“Yes, he does. Her sister is very beautiful.” Elrohir replied, now it was his turn to blush.

“Well, I would love for Estel to tell me more about his sister.” Tauriel said. “Would you like to sit with me at the table over there?”

Rauth froze. “Yeah, I would love to.”

The elleth looked at her expectantly.

“Now? You mean?”

Elrohir patted her on the back. God, please don’t touch her chest wrapping. “Estel here is strictly taught manners, and is not really used to the crudeness of the woodland.”

Tauriel laughed, warm and melodic. “Then I’ll try not to corrupt him too badly.”

“I appreciate that,” Rauth said.

Elladan stared murder into his salted pork.

Tauriel leaned in a little. “So—Estel. I would love to hear about your sister sometime. You say she’s beautiful?”

Rauth blinked. “Oh. I—I guess? She’s okay. If you like the brooding type who hoards lip balm and stabs people with hairpins.”

Tauriel laughed again. “Please tell me more about her at my table if you please.”

Rauth stood. “I’ll be right back,” she muttered to Elrohir, then followed.

SPLASH.

Cold.

Milk. Cold, dripping milk poured straight onto her shoulders and chest, soaking into her tunic, running down to her belt.

Everything froze.

Behind her, two familiar voices burst out laughing.

“Oops,” Thandor said with exaggerated innocence. “Didn’t see you there, Estel.”

“Yeah,” Zeiran added. “Next time, try standing somewhere less pathetic.”

Rauth didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Because she felt it — the dampness soaking into her chest wraps. The shift in weight. The cling of fabric where it shouldn’t cling.

If anyone looked too close—

Her breath caught. Not from shock. From cold, yes. But more than that—rage.

Tauriel’s face had gone pale. “Thandor. Zeiran.”

The twins turned, smirking at her like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

“What?” Zeiran shrugged. “It’s just milk. A little joke.”

“Not funny,” Tauriel said, stepping toward them.

But Thandor didn’t budge. “Come on, sister. You’re not seriously flirting with this Imladris brat, are you? Heard he sleeps with a mirror under his pillow.”

Rauth’s hands clenched at her sides.

After making a quick trip to the dorm room to change the milk-soaked tunic, Rauth pulled herself together and headed to the training field, where Elladen told her the first archery session would be held.
The rest of Rivendell’s patrol team and a number of Mirkwood guards were already gathered outside one of the lawns. Elrohir shot her a concerned glance.

Then came the voice. That voice.

“So glad you could finally join us, mortal.”

Her blood turned to ice.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Him."So glad you could join us, mortal."

"I’m—"

Blue eyes. That face.

“You’re what? Testing my patience?”

“Well, why is your patience even worth testing, elf? That goes without saying.” Rauth snapped.

The flash of pity in Elrohir’s eye warned her she wasn’t going to like what came next.

“Who am I? I’m your weapon instructor, captain of the guards. And you can call me captain. Captain Legolas.”

Oh shit.

THE Legolas.

The Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm, heir to King Thranduil’s throne. Master archer whose skill was said to rival the very wind, able to fell a stag from a hundred paces without disturbing a leaf.

The Rivendell maidens’ fantasy, a shimmering beacon of elven grace and allure. The ballroom heartthrob, whose silver-blond hair caught candlelight like spun moonbeams, whose emerald eyes had launched a thousand secret sighs behind fluttered fans.

No one mentioned the part where he was about as warm as an orc with a toothache.

Rauth cleared her throat, ignoring the muffled laughter from the guards around them.

“I apologize for being late. It won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t.” Mr. Hard-ass stalked over. “Because next time you’re late, you’ll be mucking out the dungeons for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

No one made a sound, but Rauth didn’t miss the gleeful smirk on Zeiran and Thandor’s ugly faces. No, she meant that only those two are ugly, Tauriel was not, thank you.

Mr. Hard-ass gazed down at her from his height as if he could force her to retreat. “Well?” he demanded.

You arrogant fool of—

“Yes, you’ve made yourself clear.” Rauth swallowed the snark rising to her tongue.

“Captain.”

Mr. Hard-ass growled.

“Yes, captain.” She gritted out.

Pivoting, he stalked to the front of the group and crossed his arms.

“Today, you’re going to show me exactly how talented you are at archery. Grab your bows and be ready in ten seconds. Starts now.”

Everyone scrambled to obey. Wasting no time, Rauth snatched one from the weapon shelf and fell into line with the rest.

“Ready. Aim.” The prick ordered.

She fumbled with the bow and barely managed to hook the arrow before the others had already embedded theirs in the target.

Then silence.

Calm. Adar is not here to help you, though he wouldn’t laugh—because he was terrible at archery as well.

Finally hooking the arrow, she let it fly through the air.

And missed the target entirely.

Over the next few hours, Mr. Hard-ass continued to watch them shoot. Rauth was sure she’d never get better, because she could barely see the target without squinting. Damn human eyes.

“Halt.” Mr. Hard-ass clapped his hands once. “We will start working on your balance and aim tomorrow.”

Then he turned to Rauth, icy blue eyes piercing hers.

“You. If you don’t improve your aim by the end of this week, prepare to get yourself fired, mortal. Dismissed.”

Fine, this was a problem, because she knew her aim wasn’t going to improve itself anytime soon. Perhaps it would if she magically got reborn as an elf.

But archery wasn’t her biggest problem right now.

Rauth poked her head into the bathing chambers of the barracks.

Good—empty.

Finally, she could kick off that annoying wig—

“Estel, Elladen is looking for you everywhere.” Elrohir walked in, slinging a towel over his wet hair. It wasn’t like she was going to tell anyone how she’d hidden in the bushes just outside the door until she was sure no one else was around.

Wait—he was nearly naked.

“Ahh— I’ll go right now.” She replied quickly, averting her gaze and bolting out.

“Wait, he doesn’t mean—” He called after her.

“He meant what?” Rauth half-turned, still not facing him because of his lack of clothing.

Elrohir grinned. “You don’t have to sacrifice your bath to talk to Elladen, he can wait.”

Rauth gave him a strangled smile. “Yeah, but I have to finish my letter to— to my sister first, can’t keep her waiting.”

That seemed to shut him up as a blush bloomed on his face.

One and a half hours later, after everyone finally left the bathing chambers, and after Rauth had taken her long-wanted bath—which included shampoo and deep cleanse, hair mask, rinse and cool blast, shave, face scrub, gel cream, sun-repair serum, and moisture lock—though it was only a tiny fraction of the routine she usually went through...

“Where have you been?” Elladen asked. He was already in bed, only one candle lit on the small desk.

“Bathing, of course.” Rauth replied.

“For four hours?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, I ran into a few errands on the way there. So that made my bathing time about ten minutes.” She lied, sinking onto the mattress of her bed. Ten minutes—yeah, multiply by four was the time she took just then, and multiply by twelve was the time she usually took back home.

She was about to blow out the candle when Elladen said quietly, “Can I make a deal with you?”

“Um, sure.”

“Elrohir probably told you I have a crush on Tauriel, and since she asked you to eat at her table, can you convince her to let me court her?”

“What?” Rauth nearly fell on her face.

“It’s a perfect opportunity. I can see that you’re really liked by maidens, that all of them wish to befriend you, Estel. But, please, I’ve loved her since we were both elflings.” Elladen begged.

“Let me get this straight—your plan is to use me as a Cyrano to your hopeless romantic disaster?” She waved a hand.

His ears turned a shade of pink. “When you say it like that, it sounds—”

“Delusional?” Rauth offered helpfully. “Cringe-worthy? Like a doomed plotline in one of Lindir’s melodramas?”

“You talk me up to Tauriel,” Elladen muttered. “Try to tell her how charming I look and my fighting skill. That I’m loyal and handsome.”

“I’m going to need a thesaurus to turn that into believable material,” Rauth cut in.

He pressed on. “In exchange—I help you with archery so you don’t get fired.”

She hesitated, pretending to weigh the deal like it involved treaties and grain taxes. “Hmm… matchmaking services and personal archery torture. Tempting.”

“It’s a win-win,” he said, hopeful. “You get better with a bow. I get one step closer to not dying single and get the girl.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Elladan found a clearing not far from the actual training field, but still distant enough from the targets. He yawned so wide his jaw nearly cracked as Rauth began to prepare her bow.

No ellon would ever yawn like that if he knew there was a lady around, she thought. If she ever revealed her identity, she was sure he’d regret half the things he’d done and said in front of her.

“You look suspicious,” he said immediately.

“Thanks, I moisturized.”

Elladan blinked. “What?”

“Never mind. Let’s shoot some sticks.”

He tossed her a practice bow, and they got into position. The grass was still damp with early morning dew, and Rauth’s boots kept squeaking every time she shifted her stance. Absolutely masculine.

“Alright,” Elladan said, stepping behind her. “Just breathe. Pull steady. You’re holding it like it’s a dead squirrel.”

“I have held a dead squirrel,” Rauth replied. “It had more dignity than this bow.”

He laughed. “That’s horrifying.”

She let the arrow fly. It whizzed past the target and buried itself in the dirt like it had something to be ashamed of.

Elladan winced. “Oof.”

“I panicked,” Rauth muttered. “It’s hard to aim when your upper body is being duct-taped into compression.”

“…What?”

“Compression. Of expectations. Society. You know.”

Elladan gave her a side-eye, but didn’t press.

They kept practicing. She hit a hay bale once and pretended it was on purpose. He was patient—in a brotherly, slightly judgmental way.

And when they sat for a break, Rauth flopped dramatically onto the grass like a wounded hero in a badly written play.

“I’m dying,” she groaned, one hand to her chest. “Tell my nonexistent husb— I mean, wife, I loved her. And tell my br— sister to love her future husband.”

“Does your sister have a suitor?” Elladan asked, flopping down beside her.

“Oh yes, she does,” Rauth said darkly. “She has the entire Lothlórien trailing after her. No, she does not.”

The ellon chuckled. “You got me there. I thought my brother would’ve been wholly disappointed.”

“Why disappointed?”

Elladan opened his mouth to reply—

When another voice cut through the clearing like cold steel.

“What is this.”

They both scrambled to their feet, Rauth furiously brushing dirt off her tunic and smoothing it down.

Mr. Hard-ass stood at the edge of the glade.

Not just stood—loomed.

Prince of Mirkwood. Clad in green and silver. The breeze caught in his cloak like moonlight caught in his hair. His eyes were shards of blue ice, his jaw set in something just shy of disdain.

And Rauth—gods help her—felt her pulse leap.

“We’re—” Rauth began.

“That wasn’t a question,” he said flatly.

Elladan straightened. “We were just… training.”

“I see that,” Legolas said. His tone could freeze fire. His eyes—colder still—flicked toward Rauth with something unreadable. “Did I give permission for private instruction?”

“Nope, but Estel here clearly needs someone to guide him in archery. Some extra help,” Elladan said.

“It’s favoritism,” Legolas replied coolly.

“I didn’t ask for shortcuts,” Rauth snapped—then immediately regretted it.

His gaze landed on her like frostbite.

Her heart beat hot and furious beneath the compression wraps she suddenly loathed. She curled her fingers tighter around the bow, as if letting go might mean hurling it at his perfect, arrogant face.

Elladan stepped forward with a calming breath. “Legolas—”

The prince turned, the cape at his shoulders catching the wind like a blade of moonlight.

“You. Mortal.”

Rauth swallowed. “Yes?”

“Next time I find you hiding in shadows, looking for secret ways to pass—your punishment will not be gentle. Understood?”

He vanished between the trees like a curse unsaid.

Rauth stared at the space where he’d been long after he’d gone. The world seemed colder now. Even the birds had stopped singing.

Elladan let out a long, slow breath. “Well. That went well.”

“Don’t,” she muttered. “Don’t you dare.”

“…I was going to say we’re definitely going to die in the dungeon.”

“Good. I hope there’s no archery in prison.”

They soon reached the barracks corridor when Rauth asked, “Why didn’t you argue with him?”

“What?” Elladan stopped.

“I mean, you two are of the same rank, unlike me—a lowly mortal,” she said. “You don’t have to listen to his words like they’re the Valar themselves.”

The ellon gave her a disbelieving look. “Are you kidding? That is Legolas Greenleaf.”

“So?” she replied lazily, though she knew full well what the name meant. Knew it too well.

“Estel, he’s the best archer in all of Middle-earth! He’s the crown prince of the largest elven kingdom in Arda. Every ellon dreams of being trained by him—it’s probably the highest honor available short of having the One Ring as a paperweight!”

Rauth rolled her eyes. “No, he’s not.”

Elladan gawked. “What?”

“Not every ellon wants to be a guard,” she said coolly, hiding her smirk. Her mind flickered to Estel—real Estel—swinging his training sword like a deranged chicken and nearly toppling off a rock. Adar had tried to reassure her once, insisting nothing bad would happen, but honestly, her brother’s clumsiness made her want to wrap him in padding.

Elladan groaned. “Fine. He’s the best warrior currently available to train others. Happy?”

“Ad—” she caught herself. “Glorfindel still trains.”

“Nope, he doesn’t,” came Elrohir’s voice behind them. His hair looked like it had just survived a lightning strike. “Glorfindel stopped training candidates years ago.”

“Yeah, he nearly stopped training the guard entirely when you were one,” Elladan added. “Remember that time you fell off a balcony during dinner?”

“I was a toddler.”

“Still,” Elrohir grinned. “A legendary moment. Glorfindel started pulling back then, though he didn’t fully resign until after we returned from patrol.”

They reached the dining hall. The clatter of trays and half-hearted chatter filled the room as ellons chose their seats. Rauth’s tray was a strange mix: more roasted meat than necessary (why was Mirkwood’s diet 90% animal?), some unfamiliar root vegetables, and a suspiciously shiny mushroom salad.

“Well?” Elladan nudged her elbow. “You promised.”

Stop touching my chest wrap, she mentally shouted for the fifth time that morning.

Elrohir, right behind him, added, “Try not to mess it up.”

“Helpful,” Rauth muttered. She grabbed her tray before she could lose her nerve.

Tauriel was seated alone, posture straight and composed, a plate of food untouched before her. Sunlight caught in her auburn braid, casting glints of copper and fire, and even in stillness, her expression remained alert—like she was always listening for something beyond what could be heard.

“May I join you?” Rauth asked, feigning a casualness she didn’t feel.

Tauriel’s eyes met hers, sharp and cool. Then she nodded. “Of course.”

Rauth sat, trying not to fidget. The compression wraps under her tunic had started to itch, and every motion felt too sharp, too visible. She cleared her throat. “I brought—uh—an apple,” she said, pulling it from her tray and nudging it across the table like a poorly thought-out offering. “Thought you might want something… fruity.”

Tauriel’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Thank you.”

Silence hovered between them, the kind that felt poised on a blade’s edge. Rauth stabbed at her trout too hard and flinched as oil flicked onto her tunic. Perfect.

“Do you usually eat alone?” she asked, finally.

“Not always,” Tauriel replied. “But I prefer quiet meals. Fewer politics.”

“Fair. Can’t choke on your food if no one’s whispering about who’s courting who.”

Tauriel didn’t smile, but her gaze warmed. Just a fraction.

“There’s a kind of peace in silence,” she said. “You seem to understand that.”

“Silence and I are old friends,” Rauth said. “Mostly because I run out of clever things to say and start chewing dramatically.”

That earned a huff of laughter.

Tauriel took a sip of water. “I heard you helped the Rivendell fend off a spider in the forest.”

“Oh.” Rauth coughed. “I did stab something. Could’ve been a rock. Honestly, Elladan did most of the... stabbing. He’s quite brave, really.”

Tauriel nodded slowly. “Yes. He is.”

“But also very loyal,” Rauth added quickly. “Honest. Thoughtful. Charming. Great posture. Strong sense of direction. Probably good with kids. Definitely pets.”

Tauriel tilted her head. “Are you trying to list his virtues?”

“What? No. I mean—maybe.” Rauth’s voice wobbled. “Just saying. He’s a very... admirable ellon. Do you ever think about him? In that way?”

Tauriel set her fork down with slow precision. “I think he is kind,” she said, voice even. “And respectful. But I do not know him well. Not truly.”

Rauth shifted. Her collar felt too warm. The weight of her chest bindings too tight. “Would you... want to?”

But before Tauriel could answer, a shadow fell across their table like a blade drawn in silk.

“Estel.”

Rauth froze.

Arwen stood beside them, sunlight kissing the pearls in her hair. Dressed in Rivendell silks and impossible grace, she smiled like moonlight—poised, elegant, and glittering with a warning beneath every syllable.

“Lady Arwen,” Tauriel greeted first, her tone level but her gaze sharpening like a drawn bow.

Arwen’s smile didn’t falter. “Tauriel.”

Then she turned to Rauth, every inch of her sweetness intentional. “I’ve been looking for you, Estel. I wondered if you’d join me for tea this afternoon.”

Rauth’s mouth went dry. “Tea? Uh—today?”

“Mm.” Arwen’s lashes lowered. “Only a few guests. A quiet gathering in the rose garden. I thought it would be... lovely. And I do miss your company.”

Tauriel’s jaw tightened. There was something brewing behind her calm—something storm-colored.

“I believe Estel has archery training today,” Tauriel said. “It would be a shame to delay his progress.”

Rauth nearly sagged with relief. “Yes! Training. Very important. I love... arrows.”

Arwen tilted her head gently. “Oh, surely a brief absence wouldn’t ruin his chances. Unless the Mirkwood captain is so unforgiving he can’t bear to lose a recruit for an afternoon.”

That landed like a dagger—quiet and precise. And Rauth felt it. Not just the implication, but the tug it stirred in her gut. Legolas. Captain Legolas. Always watching her like she was some mistake waiting to happen. A danger. A disruption.

Why did it matter what he’d think?

Tauriel didn’t flinch. “Captain Legolas runs a disciplined schedule. But I believe he can spare one guard for an hour.”

“Oh good,” Arwen said softly. Then, to Rauth: “You’ll come, won’t you? I’ve already set aside the seat beside me.”

“I—” Rauth faltered. Her mind scrambled. If Legolas sees her missing, if he asks where she went—

“He’d be delighted,” Tauriel said firmly, her voice like polished steel. “He mentioned how fond he is of roses.”

“I did?” Rauth asked blankly.

Tauriel’s gaze narrowed. “You did.”

Arwen’s smile turned even sweeter. “How charming,” she said. “I suppose I’ll see you there, Estel.”

The rose garden of Mirkwood was ugly.

So ugly.

The spiral roses looked like they’d wilted mid-twirl, green leaves clinging on like an afterthought. Some blooms sagged as if already regretting their existence, and the moss between the stone paths was determined to eat anyone’s shoes alive.

For the first time in her life, Rauth had to admit that Lindir was a necessary evil—his absurd fussing might’ve saved this sorry patch of nature.

Still, it was a change. A relief, even.

No squeaky boots. No grunting Ellons. No arrows flying past her ear.

Just perfume-sprayed air, gauzy sleeves, and half a dozen maidens with polished nails and practiced smiles. Rauth exhaled into the chaos like slipping into warm water—until she remembered she couldn’t float.

“Estel,” one of them cooed, offering a candied petal from a tiny dish. “Would you like one? They're made with dewdrops and rose honey.”

“Delicious,” Rauth said, chewing. Still not as good as those from home, the ones Erestor made.

“I heard,” said another, leaning in conspiratorially, “that you’re being trained by Prince Legolas himself. Is that true?”

Rauth blinked. “Unfortunately.”

They all giggled.

“Do you know what color he prefers?” one whispered, her gown a shimmering ice blue. “I’m designing my gown for the Starlight Feast and I simply must match his taste.” Are they actually asking me for that information?

Another sighed wistfully. “I heard he likes silver. No, wait—forest green. Or was it moonlight?”

“His favorite flower?”

“Does he wear rings?”

“Has he ever... flirted with anyone?”

Rauth took a long sip of rose tea to buy time.

She hated herself for knowing exactly what Legolas wore most—shades of leaf and metal and shadow, bracers engraved in old elvish, no rings, and definitely not the type to have a favorite flower. Unless you counted poison ivy.

“I don’t think he has time to like things,” she said flatly. “He mostly likes weapon training.”

Another ripple of laughter. One of them even swooned dramatically onto the bench. Didn’t knew weapon training was such a sexy hobby.

Arwen sat across from her, perfectly still, watching. Her hair was a gleaming curtain of ink over her shoulders. Hmm, where can I get that kind of silky conditioner or perhaps I could use my sister’s name to ask her about the shampoo ingredient, Rauth thought, thinking disgustly at her own wig covered hair.

“You seem distracted, Estel,” she said finally, her voice soft enough to make Rauth’s spine straighten.

“No, I am. I mean—” Rauth cleared her throat. “It’s nice. Not being yelled at.”

“You look better among silk than steel.” Arwen’s gaze dropped to the edge of Rauth’s tunic, where it wrinkled awkwardly around the chest bindings. “You should join us more often.”

Don’t read into that. She can’t.

Rauth shifted, catching her reflection in the teacup’s surface. Blurred. Masculine. Barely a ghost of the girl she used to be. Her hand itched for liner. For gloss.

“You have great taste,” she said instead, nodding toward a maiden’s makeup. “Is that a rose-gold shimmer on your cheek?”

“Oh, you noticed!” The elleth lit up. “It’s imported from Eregion. Very rare.”

In truth, Rauth was very much enjoying herself. She studied another’s nails—glossed obsidian with a single star gem on each ring finger. And another’s ribbon-laced bodice.She drank it all in like water. Details. Color. Fabric. All the things she once used to command.

Wait, you’re a man, shoulder’s back, legs spread wider, try to rake your fingers through that wig like all those ellons do.

“Estel, may I talk to you alone?” Arwen asked suddenly, smoothening her hair.

“Um, sure.” Rauth stood up, stretching her leg in the way she remembered from what Elladen did.

She led them to another rosy garden that was of course equally ugly.

“How was the meal with Tauriel earlier?” The elleth asked.

“Oh, it went okay,” Rauth replied, suddenly unsure of what will happen next.

Her smile didn’t falter, but it sharpened. "I admit I’m curious… How did you two meet?"

“In the dinning hall, Elladen and Elrohir introduced me to her actually.” She said ackwardly.

“I see,” The elleth continued, “You and her seem...close. You seemed very at ease with her earlier. She doesn’t strike me as someone who opens up easily.”

Rauth blinked, then forced a swallow. “She’s kind. Not bad company over breakfast, certainly better than two dozen sweaty ellons, I mean, buddies.”

Arwen smiled almost faded, but pecked up at the last moment. “That’s rare praise from you, Estel.”

Another pause. her smile didn’t waver, but her tone grew quieter. “Did you enjoy your time with her?”

Rauth froze.

“She’s... okay.” She chose her wording carefully, “Kind of reminds me of my sister.”

Arwen turned slightly, brushing an imaginary petal from her sleeve. “Only your sister?”

Rauth laughed—too quickly. “Well, I don’t have a brother.” I do, and his in Lothlorien.

Arwen’s smile held a quiet insistence. “I do hope you’ll join me again soon, Estel. It’s been too long since we’ve had proper company at these gatherings.”

Rauth nodded, keeping her voice light but resolute. “Thank you, Lady Arwen. It’s very kind of you. But I must prepare for archery training — it’s important to me.”

Arwen’s brow lifted, but before she could press further, Rauth gave a small, respectful bow. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

With that, she slipped past the circle of maidens and glided through the rose garden, her steps quick but careful, making her way toward the distant sounds of the training field.

Rauth was many things.

Resourceful. Resilient. Extremely allergic to mornings.

But above all, she was desperate not to get fired.

Which explained why she was currently creeping across the edge of the training field like a mildly rabid raccoon in boots. The sun hadn't even peeked over the horizon yet, birds were still asleep, and every sane elf in Mirkwood was probably off dreaming about silk tunics and salted pork.

She was not supposed to be here.

But if she could just—sneak a few practice rounds, hit the target once or twice—maybe Mr. Ice-Cube wouldn't threaten to toss her into the dungeons again.

Unfortunately, her stealth ended abruptly when something yanked her by the ear.

“Oi, look what we have here,” Zeiran sing-songed, grabbing her by the ear.

“A mortal burgler.” Thandor added, pinching her other lobe like a gleeful grandmother.

“Let go of my ear, you moldy breadsticks,” Rauth hissed.

But they were already hauling her across the damp lawn, dragging her like a feral stray straight into the unforgiving light of—

Oh no.

There he was.

Mr. Ice-Cube.

Crown Prince of Disdain and Sharp Cheekbones.

He was standing near the targets, arms folded, expression like frozen steel. His blond hair shimmered faintly under the pre-dawn sky. The shadows couldn’t hide the storm brewing behind those frosty blue eyes.

“Captain,” Zeiran announced, all fake obedience. “Caught this one trying to trespass. Again.”

“She was sneaking, sir,” Thandor added. “Lurking like a little thief.”

Rauth yanked herself free. “I wasn’t sneaking, I was trying—”

“To cheat,” Mr.Ice-cube snapped. His voice cracked through the air like thunder. “To skulk in early and pretend that aimless desperation is progress?”

“I wasn’t—!”

“Yes, you are, you burgler!”Thandor yelled.

“No, you fool of an----”

““Silence.”

Rauth’s mouth snapped shut. The word struck like a whip.

His eyes locked on hers, glacial and furious.

“I have watched you stumble through the training field. Tell me, mortal, what were you doing, so important that you miss training?” He demanded.

She stayed silent. No, she is not going to bring out Arwen. That poor elleth is going to devasted if she found her reputation ruined.

“Well?” The ellon snarled, crossing his arm.

Rauth swallowed, trying to steady herself. “I—was trying to improve. Practice alone.”

Mr.Hard-ass's eyes sharpened like icy blades. He said nothing more, but the chilling silence spoke volumes.

He pointed a rigid finger toward her.

“Punishment. Dawn. Three hours before breakfast. Be there.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Zeiran muttered, voice low but sharp, “I was hoping for something… messier.”

Thandor chuckled darkly, “Three hours before breakfast? What a mercy from the crown prince of frost.”

“Laugh again, same punishment.” Mr.Hardass barked, then turned, “That goes for everyone!”

The sky was still bruised with dawn when Rauth arrived. She hadn’t eaten, her legs ached from yesterday’s torment, and her hands trembled slightly as she fought with her boots.

Mr.Ice-burg was already there.

He stood motionless like a statue carved from glacier ice—arms locked rigid behind his back, hair tied with meticulous precision, a full quiver slung over one shoulder. It was the kind of presence that could freeze a forest in mid-breath.

He said nothing.

Rauth opened her mouth, then shut it. Opened it again, sharper this time. “Morning, Captain.”

His pale eyes flicked toward her, cold and unreadable. Then, without warning, he tossed a weighted vest at her. It struck her chest with brutal force, nearly knocking her off balance.

“What the—?” she gasped.

“You wear it,” Mr.Hard-ass said flatly. “Until I say otherwise, mortal.”

“It weighs more than I do.”

“Then carry it.”

Rauth leveled him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Do you wake every morning thinking, ‘How can I break someone’s soul before breakfast?’”

“Put. It. On.”

She groaned, securing the suffocating weight. Her knees buckled instantly.

Without a word, he led her to the first trial—a jagged path of uneven logs crossing a waist-deep, ice-cold stream.

“Jump.”

“Jump? With this boulder strapped to me?”

His gaze was frost incarnate. “You want to shoot like an elf? Then you’ll train like one.”

“Insane.”

“Jump.”

By the time the sun rose fully, Rauth was soaked, bruised, and snarling with barely contained fury.

“Again.”

Mr.Ice-cube stood at the stream’s edge, expression blank as if watching a dying tree.

“No,” she wheezed, hands on her knees. “Unless you plan to drag me out yourself.”

He stared, unblinking.

“Again.”

Her glare burned. “You know what? I’m starting to think your favorite hobby is torturing mortals before dawn.”

“Correct.”

She cursed in every language she knew—and one she made up on the spot—before leaping and falling face-first into the freezing water.

“Your jump form is atrocious,” Mr.Hard-ass said dryly. “You land like a clumsy ox.”

“Oh, pardon me. Next time I’ll leap like a graceful woodland deer, maybe with glitter and fairy dust.”

No flicker of emotion.

“Try again.”

Grudgingly, Rauth hauled herself out, teeth clenched tight, spite fueling every fiber.

Next was the rope pull.

“Why don’t you pull this one, Your Royal Frostbite?” she growled, muscles screaming.

“I’ve already done it twice.”

“Show off.”

“You asked.”

“I also prayed to the Valar for mercy. Guess what? They sent you instead.”

“You waste breath.”

“And yet somehow I still have enough to mock you. Impressive.”

He motioned toward the target field.

“No way. My arms are jelly. I’m hallucinating your cheekbones. Not a good sign.”

“Bow. Now.”

“I’m reporting you to the abuse department.”

“You’re mortal. No such thing.”

“Oh, I have one. It’s in my head and yelling at me.”

“Focus.”

“Focused on surviving this nightmare. Barely.”

“Draw.”

She pulled the bowstring back with a hiss of pain.

“Anchor.”

“My anchor’s to death, Captain.”

“Release.”

The arrow veered wildly left.

She dropped the bow. “By every tree in this cursed forest, I’m going to stuff your precious quiver down your tunic.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“You would,” she snapped, sweat stinging her eyes. “You’re the kind of elf who irons his socks.”

He passed her like a ghost—calm, deadly, impossibly distant.

“Again.”

“No. This is mutiny. I’m forming a union.”

Without flinching, he tossed another weighted pack at her.

She pushed through another brutal round, biting back screams, knees shaking, barely holding it together. She stumbled, snapped, cursed, nearly hurled her bow at his head.

She couldn’t hit a single target.

“Better.”

“I’ll haunt you,” she panted. “When I die from this, I’ll come back as a chatty ghost and ruin every formal dinner you ever have.”

“Then make your shot cleaner,” he said quietly. “So your ghost is less insufferable.”

She aimed again. Vision narrowed. Breath thin.

Her knees buckled—

Then—

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

Rauth woke up to warmth.

Not the sharp heat of training, or the blistering ache of pulled muscles — though that was definitely still there — but a different warmth. A softness pressed at her back. A scent of pine and clean linen. A pillow that wasn’t made of straw.

Silky sheets that embraced her body. She imagine Adar to walk in a second later, wake her up by threatening to dump all her make up products away if she continue to stay in bed and then sulkingly help her pick out the gown of the day.

Speaking of gowns, she looked down.

For a moment, she didn’t remember why she hurt so much. Or why her chest felt so light. Or why her hair—

She sat up sharply.

Then immediately groaned as pain flared through her body like wildfire.

The blankets slid off her shoulders. She blinked down.

Nightgown.

Clean. Loose. Soft. Not hers.

A nice round neck cut with light green night gown. huh, she don’t remember having that in her closest. Perhaps Adar bought that for her? No, the only fashion he was interested in was weapon design.

She scrambled for the edge of the bed and nearly toppled off. A mirror across the room caught her reflection — pale skin, tousled dark hair falling to her shoulders, her hair, not Estel’s wig.

A nice round neck cut with light green night gown. huh, she don’t remember having that in her closest. Perhaps Adar bought that for her? No, the only fashion he was interested in was weapon design.

“Ouch!” Valar, her body aches, it aches so much.

But how?

Oh no.

Her disguise had been removed.

Chest wrapping? Gone.

Tunic? Gone.

Wig? Gone.

Daggers? Gone.

She turned in a rush of stiff limbs and panic.

Squeeze my eyes hard enough perhaps I will be transported back to the training field, it’s just a dream.

One two three.

No, it’s not.

“Oh my god, what is happening.” Regardless of the pain, Rauth leaped up.

It’s a nice room, that was her first thought. It was neither too large nor too small, but spacious enough for a bed the same size as one she has back home. At the corner of the room, there was a small desk. It was not one of those polished ones served for guests, but a shabby one.

Words, childish slurs inked into its wood.

“I won’t go to the stupid ball, Ada.”

And just below that:

“I hate the flute, make it go away.”

She blinked. These weren’t decorative etchings. This desk had history — real, sulking, stubborn child history. Someone had grown up here.

There were more markings near the edge. Her fingers brushed across them.

“Five bullseyes in a row.”

“Tauriel still cries when she trips.”

Rauth snorted despite herself.

Who was this dramatic little gremlin?

She stepped back, eyes darting around the room again. There were other clues. A single wooden carving of a hawk perched on the shelf — unfinished, its beak still rough. A few old training arrows leaned against the corner of the wardrobe. One had snapped in half and been wrapped back together with gold thread, like someone refused to throw it out.

She opened the wardrobe. Nothing inside but an old green cloak. It smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something faintly sharp beneath it — winter air, maybe.

And then... the bath chamber caught her eye.

The door beside the wardrobe had been left slightly ajar. Steam curled out from the crack. Rauth crept over and eased it open.

There, a bath had been drawn.

Still warm. Still steaming.

Her wig lay neatly brushed beside the basin, alongside a set of folded clothes — her tunic, her bindings, even the small pouch she kept her lip balm and lavender oil in. She hadn’t even realized it was missing.

Her fingers touched the items one by one. None had been tampered with. None damaged.

Her entire disguise — laid out, waiting for her.

The tub was carved from polished stone, deep enough for her to soak up to her shoulders. Steam curled from the water like it had only just been poured.

But it wasn’t the tub that made her stop.

It was the table beside it.

Laid out in pristine order, row by row, like an offering to the gods of femininity — were her things.

Not just random luxury items. Her favorites.

The lip scrub from Lindon with dried rose petals mixed in. The body polish that smelled faintly of mint and crushed almonds. Her favorite shampoo — the one with chamomile, the one she used to hoard under her bed back home like treasure. A tiny ceramic jar of hair mask, still sealed. Her rose serum. Her lavender foot balm. Even that ridiculous cinnamon lip gloss she kept "for emergencies" and never admitted to liking.

She touched one of the jars, then another.

None were used.

They were new. Purchased again, somehow — not just stolen from her bag or duplicated by coincidence.

Rauth’s throat tightened.

Who had done this?

Who had known?

Okay, tunic check, chest wrapping check, wig check.

Rauth poked her head out of the room into the corridor, hoping no one would notice her.

One feet out, scoot over, shut the door quietly, and ——

Face-plant into a wall.

The wall smelled like fresh leaves and spring. Nice wall perfume, she thought, is that a new luxurious thing for Mirkwood ladies? If yes, she’s importing that to Rivendell and get the walls in her room smell this good as well.

She looked up, and up----

Right into Mr.Hardass’s ass face.

“What is this?” He barked.

Rauth blinked innocently. “Walking. Last I checked, Mirkwood corridors weren’t restricted zones.”

“You emerged,” he said tightly, “from a chamber you had no leave to enter.”

“I woke up there,” she hissed. “Would you rather I stayed unconscious in the dirt? Of course you would, and you would probably not hesitate to kick my dead body as well.”

“I am the prince, mortal.” Mr.Ice-cube scowled down at her.

Rauth glared right back: “Oh, little princeling can do whatever he wants, blah blah blah. Now would you scoot over ‘cause you’re in my way.”

“I believe it’s the mortal whose clumsily in my way.” He growled.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you show me how graceful you can be when it comes to walking? And why don’t you show me how to close a door as well? And how to tie my shoe?” Rauth crossed her arms.

His eyes narrowed. “You were meant to remain under the healer’s care as I ordered.”

“Well, someone failed to chain me to the cot, so here we are.” She tried to step past him.

He moved like a shadow—silent and swift—and blocked her path again.

“You do not belong in that wing,” he said. “And you certainly had no right to rummage through the contents of that room.”

“I didn’t rummage,” Rauth growled. “I woke up barely alive. Forgive me for trying to find my pants! Or shall I ask for one of your pants instead? ”

“How dare you——“ Mr.Hard-ass said unbelievingly.

“That’s enough.”

If bumping into Mr.Hard-ass is a clash, then this is full explosion.

King Thranduil loomed around the corner, a circlet on his head, and staring sternly between them.

“If I was not mistaken, you should be on your way to the market to see our new supply of lake town fish being imported safely.” The king said to his son.

Mr.Hard-ass nodded, though his gaze lingered hard on Rauth before turning away.

“Come.” King Thranduil told her. She followed him through the maze of corridors in the palace until they reached the very top of the staircase in front of an unguarded door.

Okay, so his here to tell me to wait here and guard his door perhaps, Rauth thought.

“Come inside.” He said.

“Yes, unless you’d prefer to eavesdrop through the keyhole like a squirrel.”

“Oh,” she muttered, stepping in behind him. “How very unguarded and welcoming.”

The chamber was, of course, elegant. Wood-paneled walls carved with stories of old, bookshelves curving like tree boughs, and a long desk fashioned from some ancient silver-veined oak. Papers and scrolls lay in artful disarray. A single decanter of wine gleamed beside a goblet already half-full.

The King gestured lazily toward the chair across from him. “Sit.”

She hesitated, then dropped into the chair with what she hoped was noble defiance. “Am I being exiled or executed?”

The king poured another glass—for himself—and chuckled. “If I offered you wine, I suspect I’d be beheaded by your adar.”

Rauth blinked. “Lord Elrond wouldn’t risk a diplomatic war over a glass of—”

“I wasn’t talking about Elrond.”

He met her eyes over the rim of his goblet, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

“I meant Glorfindel.”

Rauth choked on air.

“You—wait—what?”

He sipped, not bothering to hide his mirth. “He would burn down half of Mirkwood for less. I doubt even Elrond could stop him.”

King Thranduil poured himself another slow glass of wine, the movement graceful despite the layered rings on his fingers. His sharp eyes flicked over Rauth like he was reading the preface of a book he already knew by heart. 

“You can stop sitting like a soldier with a broom up your spine,” he said casually, leaning back in his carved chair. “There’s no one else in this room. No guards. No curious advisors. No crown prince.”

Rauth stiffened further, if that was even possible. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, child.” Thranduil gave a faint chuckle, warm but lined with ancient amusement. “You can fool my son, but not me. I’ve had centuries of court masks. Yours is quite good, I’ll give you that — the walk, the voice, the scowl. But I was not born yesterday.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, leaning back with narrowed eyes, she said, “So you knew.”

“Of course I knew,” Thranduil said mildly. “From the moment you stepped into my throne room.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted to see how long you’d last before tripping over your own boots.” He waved a hand. “And I found it amusing.”

Rauth scowled. “Glad I could provide royal entertainment.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Thranduil said dryly. “Glorfindel is like a brother to me. A very loud, dramatic, mildly terrifying brother. I recognized the way you talk. You’ve had his training—and his temper.”

She stared at him, breath tight in her chest. “So what now?”

“Now,” he said, sipping his wine, “you relax. You breathe. You stop acting like I’m going to send you to the dungeons for daring to wear trousers.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re not angry?”

“Angry?” Thranduil laughed, full and unexpected. “Valar, no. You think this is scandalous? Let me tell you something about your Adar.”

Rauth raised an eyebrow. “What did he do this time? Steal your crown? Flirt with your horse?”

Thranduil gave her a withering look. “He helped name my son.”

That made her pause. “You mean... Legolas? Mr.Hard-ass.”

“Yes,” Thranduil muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The same Legolas you keep calling Mr. Hard-ass.”

“Well, it suits him,” Rauth replied flatly.

Thranduil muttered something under his breath, then sighed. “When my son was very young—barely able to walk, babbling more than speaking—Glorfindel visited.”

Rauth grinned already. “Say no more. Chaos confirmed.”

“He insisted on ‘helping’ with Legolas’s first training bow. What followed was a disaster. Glorfindel tripped over his own robes, knocked over the cradle, managed to tie the child’s ankles together with bowstring—don’t ask me how—and sent an entire rack of wooden training swords tumbling down like dominoes.”

“Oh my god,” Rauth said, covering her mouth.

Thranduil’s expression was deadpan misery. “It was the first time my son ever cried in Elvish curse words.”

She choked on a laugh.

“But the worst,” he continued, “was that baby Legolas, for days afterward, kept introducing himself to guests as ‘Legless’ because Glorfindel, in a desperate attempt to calm him, kept saying ‘No legs hurt! See? You’re still legless—er—Legolas!’”

Thranduil looked like he wanted to crawl under the desk. “He confused the child. It stuck for years. I couldn’t go to a council meeting without someone making a pun.”

Rauth howled with laughter, clutching her ribs. “Legolas the Legless?!”

“I had official scrolls edited,” Thranduil muttered. “Burned the cradle. Nearly exiled Glorfindel.”

“I hate your son,” Rauth said gleefully, wiping tears from her eyes, “but this is the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I am trusting you,” Thranduil said grimly, “as someone who’s experienced their own share of unfortunate nicknames.”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone,” Rauth smirked.

King Thranduil reached into a drawer with all the unhurried ease of someone retrieving a bottle of poison or a biscuit — Rauth couldn’t tell which.

“I have something for you,” he said, drawing out two sealed envelopes. One bore the elegant silver wax crest of Rivendell. The other had been rather aggressively stamped — Adar’s, clearly.

He held them out between two fingers. “Your mail, Lady—well. ‘Estel.’”

Rauth blinked. “Mail?”

“They couldn’t risk sending it directly to you,” Thranduil said mildly, “in case your little game of disguise was—how shall I say—compromised.”

Her hand shot out, snatching both letters faster than an orc at a meat stall.

“Your father wrote me first,” Thranduil continued, pouring himself more wine. “Instructed that any correspondence would come through me and be delivered to you by hand. Very dramatic. I expected Glorfindel to leap out of the envelope.”

She flipped to Estel’s.

“I knew it,” she muttered under her breath, staring at the ridiculously long list scrawled in blotchy ink.

Thranduil chuckled. “Ah yes. That list. It came with your brother’s letter. Detailed notes. Itemized. I’m fairly certain he added illustrations.”

Rauth groaned, pressing the paper to her forehead. “Did he at least not write about the pink sugar body scrub?”

“He highlighted the pink sugar body scrub,” Thranduil said gravely. “I believe he put three exclamation marks beside it. My steward thought it was a battle supply.”

Thranduil smirked. “I simply passed the list to my household. Everything should be in your room already.”

Rauth frowned, lifting her head. “Wait, my room?”

He sipped his wine. “You seemed to find it comfortable. I don’t believe in denying comfort to those who need it. That room is open to you anytime. If you prefer to rest or bathe there, simply say the word. A bath can be drawn for you daily.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice?”

“I’m not.” He raised a brow. “I’m efficient. You’re a guest. And I’m not heartless, despite what some woodland gossip might say.”

She squinted. “I’m pretty sure I heard someone call you ‘King Broodlight.’”

“Only because ‘Your Royal Thorniness’ was taken.” He smiled.

Once Rauth was inside the dorm room, she was overjoyed to find Elladen elsewhere, as this gave her plenty of space to read the letters.

My Dearest iell,

I trust you’re surviving your time in Mirkwood without setting anything on fire — emotionally or literally. If you haven’t yet caused a scandal, I’m disappointed in you. But also slightly relieved. Mostly disappointed. Maybe a lot. You are, after all, your adar’s daughter.

Now, onto more important matters.

I heard you’ve met King Thranduil. Let me guess: tall, stern, and dressed like an overgrown icicle? You’d never think it, but that glimmering statue of a king used to be my partner in crime.

Oh yes.

Back in the old days — before his crown got permanently stuck to his head — Thranduil and I had a rather legendary record of pranks across three realms. I remember one glorious summer in Imladris when we switched out Elrond’s ceremonial robes for a bridal gown stitched with tiny bells. He didn’t notice until he was halfway through a diplomatic speech and the bells jingled every time he moved. 

I’ve never seen a Lord of Rivendell look so betrayed.

And guess what? It was Thranduil who slipped the gown into his wardrobe.

He played the part of the bored, elegant prince, but once you got a few goblets of Dorwinion in him, he was pure mayhem.

Point is, the King of Mirkwood may look like he’s carved from starlight and sarcasm, but beneath all that velvet is a deeply mischievous heart. You don’t need to be afraid of him — though I dorecommend hiding your ink bottles.

If you’re lucky, he might even prank someone with you. Just don’t get caught. Or if you do — blame his son, the legless one.

Now, news from this side of the forest: Estel is doing quite well in Lothlórien. He spends most of his time trying to impress the head healer there with his knowledge and pretending not to trip over his own toes. It’s very endearing. Or it would be, if I wasn’t busy enjoying a well-earned vacation.

Yes, you read that right — I, your adar, am on vacation. In the Golden Wood, no less. I’ve taken to firing arrows into the undergrowth just to watch the Marchwarden and his scouts fan out like angry bees. You’ve never seen so much hair swishing and jaw clenching. It’s a hobby now. I may never leave.

And speaking of Lothlórien, yes, the maidens here are quite beautiful. Before you roll your eyes — I know that look — let me say this: none of them hold a candle to you. You’d outshine them all without even trying. And that’s not just fatherly bias speaking. Well, maybe a little. But it’s still true.

Of course, if I were a proper adar, I’d tell you to behave and keep your focus and not flirt with anyone beneath a title. But you know me — I will never teach my daughter to be good at acting like a stiff-robed stick. Now, i will be delighted if you bring us an ellon when you finish your duties. Evil laugh.

And sweetheart, I know you roll your eyes when I say this — but I miss you. I miss your laugh echoing down the halls, your muddy boots(or I should say heels) by the door, even the way you somehow always “borrow” my good daggers and forget to return it.

With dangerous affection,

Your adar

1. If you ever want to see a painting of Thranduil at age fifty attempting to seduce a tree because I told him it was secretly a dryad princess — I have it.

Dearest Rauth,

(or should I say, “Estel”)

I hope this letter finds you alive, relatively uninjured, and not currently being chased through the Mirkwood halls for insubordination or “sass.” I trust you’ve found a way to remain just below scandal-level.

I miss you — more than I expected, and more than I like admitting aloud. The house feels wrong without your voice bouncing off the walls, your hairbrush left in three different rooms, and the quiet thrill of wondering what mild catastrophe you’ll cause before breakfast.

Lothlórien, for its part, is... breathtaking. The air here tastes like memory and moss, and sometimes I forget to speak at all. I’ve begun healing training in earnest. My mentor, Caerthiel, is exacting and unflinching — the kind of person who’d wrap a wound with one hand and scold your soul with the other. She once made me chew raw elfroot because “your tongue should learn suffering if your patients must.” I think she was joking. I hope.

Surprisingly — or not, if you believe Glorfindel — I’ve formed a sort of understanding with Haldir. Beneath the marble exterior lies a sarcasm so dry it may be flammable. He tends to deliver his commentary in near-whispers that catch me completely off guard during lectures. I suspect he might like me, though he’d probably deny it until the end of Arda.

Glorfindel has been his usual contradictory self: generous in ways that make you suspicious. He brought me moonberry pastries the other night, I must say, Lothlorein dishes are very similar to Rivendell once but much more sugary and fruit-based. Then, just when I relaxed, he set fire to the corner of my pillow “to test my emergency response time.” I think he finds joy in emotional whiplash. I’m oddly grateful for it.

He talks about you constantly. Nearly every evening, there's a story — sometimes outrageous, sometimes quiet.

Which brings me to this: he’s told me all about his youth with King Thranduil — how they used to stir chaos across the realms like a pair of golden storms. I don’t know what surprises me more: that King Thranduil once partook in pranks... or that Glorfindel ever stopped. Apparently, he hasn't.

Also — and I hope this doesn’t embarrass you too much — I asked Glorfindel for a list of the self-care things you usually keep with you. The ones you use when you’re tired, or overwhelmed, or quiet in a way I worry about. He didn’t even blink before rattling them all off. I memorized everything. If I find any of them here, I’ll send them your way.

You’ve always taken care of me, in your own fierce way. Let me do a little of that from afar, will you?

I hope you’re eating something other than the meat of Mirkwood diet. I hope you’re letting your shoulders down, even just once a day. I hope you’ve let someone make you laugh.

Please write back when you can. Or send a pinecone with your scrawl. Or a bit of ribbon. Anything. I’d like to know that you’re still out there — being brave, and reckless, and you.

With all my affection and the kind of love that doesn’t fade,

Your twin — the steadier one, for now —

Estel

Rauth barely finished Estel’s letter when a knock came at the door.

She sat up straighter like an ellon. “Come in?”

It was Tauriel.

“Oh. Hi, I mean—hey.” She blinked. Okay… what’s she doing here?

“Hi, Estel,” Tauriel said, stepping into the room with that brisk, straight-to-the-point air only Mirkwood guards seemed to master. “I was looking for you in the healing ward.”

“Oh, I just came back to rest for a bit.” Rauth rubbed her palm on her tunic, suddenly very aware of how small the dorm room felt. “Is something wrong?”

Tauriel shut the door behind her, gave it a quick glance—as if double-checking no one had followed her—and turned around. “No. Everything’s… annoying, actually. That’s why I’m here.”

She didn’t wait to be invited further. She marched a step closer.

“I’ve been going mad thinking about this,” she said, voice clipped, controlled in that way someone was trying not to shout something private. “And I’m not subtle. I don’t do the long-staring-across-the-hallway thing. So I’ll just say it.”

Rauth sat frozen in her chair.

“I like you.”

“I know you think I like Elladen,” she went on. “And maybe I did. For five minutes. But I didn’t feel this.” Her jaw tensed. “It’s you. I like the way you talk. You don’t grovel. You’re steady, even when you’re sharp. You’re real.”

“I…” Rauth cleared her throat. “Tauriel, I don’t think—”

“I know this is messy,” Tauriel cut in. “And I’m not the delicate kind. I’m not going to hover around pretending I don’t feel what I feel. So if I’m wrong, just say it. Say you feel nothing and I’ll walk out.”

She stepped forward. “But if you do—if even a part of you feels this too—then don’t run from it.”

“Tauriel,” Rauth said, pulse wild. “I’m not who you think—”

But Tauriel was already leaning in.

The door slammed open.

Elladan stood on the threshold like a storm.

His gaze flicked from Tauriel’s hand on Rauth’s shoulder to the barely-broken distance between their faces. His jaw clenched so tight his cheek twitched.

Tauriel jerked back as if burned. “Elladan—”

Elladan’s expression cracked into fury, then disbelief, then something livid.

Tauriel stepped back like she’d been caught stealing a crown.

“…Shit,” Rauth whispered.

His gaze flicked from Tauriel’s hand on Rauth’s shoulder to the whisper of space between their faces. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek.

Tauriel recoiled like she’d been slapped. “Elladan—”

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared, fury crackling in the silence.

She bolted, skirts whispering against the stone floor as she rushed past him and vanished down the hall.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click.

The silence left behind was anything but soft.

Rauth stood frozen, chest tight. “Elladan—”

“You lied,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—she kissed me!”

“And you just stood there and let her?”

“I froze, alright?” Rauth’s hands flew up in frustration.

“I told you,” Elladan snapped, advancing a step, his face twisted with betrayal. “I told you how I felt. I trusted you—I chose you to help me.”

“I didn’t plan this—she surprised me!”

“And yet you didn’t push her away. You stood there and let it happen like some gods-damned—” He cut himself off, chest heaving.

“She doesn’t even know—” Rauth bit her tongue too late.

Elladan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “She doesn’t know what, Estel?”

Rauth’s pulse hammered. “Nothing. It’s… nothing. Just—she’s confused.”

“She looked pretty damn certain to me.” His voice shook now, not just with anger, but something sharper, something cracked. “You were supposed to be my brother. Not my rival.”

“I’m not!” Rauth shouted. “I never wanted this!”

“Didn’t matter what you wanted,” Elladan said, voice icy. “She chose you.”

He turned on his heel, yanked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him so hard the frame shuddered and the hinges screamed in protest.

Rauth sank onto the edge of the bed.

Miserable.

The letters still lay open on her desk. Estel’s words blurred as her throat tightened.

She was alone again. And this time, it really was her fault.

Chapter Text

Her roomie was still outside by the time dawn broke through the blanket Rauth had been covering her face with.

Her limbs were sore, her mind a blur of Elladan’s slammed door and Tauriel’s retreating figure. She hadn’t slept—not really. Not with that scene playing on repeat.

And to make matters worse, she’d woken up to find blood on her inner thigh.

“Perfect,” she’d muttered in the dim light of her dorm, reaching for her pack with a resigned sigh. She pulled out the few tampons she’d smuggled from Imladris, wrapped in cloth, and slipped them into her pocket. The rest she buried deeper, hidden under layers of tunics and leather straps. She moved stiffly now, aware of the unfamiliar weight tucked in her waistband and the dull ache low in her belly. Elrond had told her that she is considered lucky to only have a dull ache, as some maidens could barely get up in the morning because of their belly pain.

Lucky. Right.

She barely had the strength to braid her hair under her Estel wig before dragging herself to training.

The morning drills had been relentless, Mr. Hard-ass even colder than usual.

His silver-blonde hair was tied back tightly, face a mask of cool discipline. His gaze swept across the recruits like a sword, pausing on each ellon with a thin slice of judgment.

“This week,” he said, voice cold and clear, “your training sessions will double. The Examination of Combat Readiness is in five days. You are not ready.”

Murmurs rippled through the line.

He took a step forward, voice dropping.

“And for those of you who think the chance before the Starlight Feast is the perfect time to flirt your way into a partner—let me disabuse you of that fantasy.”

Someone near the back snorted. A poor mistake.

Legolas's gaze snapped to the sound.“If I see one more recruit winking, whispering, or stumbling because their attention is on someone else’s hair and not the enemy’s blade, I will fail you. And the king will not hesitate to dismiss the inadequate.”

A heavy silence followed. Rauth could feel her pulse behind her eyes.

Then his gaze found her, just for a second.

She didn’t flinch.

“Pair off,” he barked. “We begin with endurance runs. No one leaves until I say so.”

As the recruits scrambled, groaning and adjusting straps, Rauth reached for her belt, tightening it with a quiet hiss.

Where was he? Elladan always jogged beside her during morning runs.

Well, after what happened yesterday, she doubt he would ever talk to her again.

Rauth’s lungs burned as she pushed herself through the thick Mirkwood trails, dodging roots and ducking low-hanging branches. Her thighs ached. Her stomach twisted sharply with every jarring step.

Rauth barely had time to wipe the sweat from her brow before Zeiran and Thandor swaggered over. Zeiran was twirling something between his fingers.

“Oi,” he called, loud enough to catch attention from the surrounding recruits. “Anyone drop this little… mystery item?”

Rauth froze.

A white cylinder. Cotton. Twine dangling from one end.

A tampon.

Her heart stopped.

Thandor leaned in, smirking cruelly. “Looks like someone brought personal supplies to battle. What’s the matter, expecting an orc to help you plug it up?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd—sharp and mean.

“No one gonna admit?” Zeiran asked mockingly, holding it up like it was poison. “Someone’s got a very sensitive emergency going on.”

He walked up and down the line of recruits like a predator smelling blood.

“Come on,” Thandor said. “Own up. Or are you too embarrassed, princess?”

Then Zeiran’s gaze locked on Rauth.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Her fingers were curled so tightly around the her belt her knuckles white.

But she had made a mistake. Her tunic pocket was slightly puffed—barely—but enough.

Zeiran stepped forward suddenly. “What’ve you got in there, Estel?”

“Nothing,” Rauth said quickly. Too quickly.

Thandor was already moving. Before she could step back, he lunged and shoved a hand into her side pocket.

“No!” she gasped, slapping his hand away, but he was faster.

Out came two more tampons, wrapped in cloth.

A chorus of shocked, delighted laughter followed. Ellyn turned. A few raised their brows. One or two looked disgusted. Most looked entertained.

“Ha! More!” Zeiran crowed, holding one aloft like it was a prize.

“I knew you were hiding something,” Thandor said, stepping closer, voice low and mocking. “What, are you bleeding out your arse, Estel?”

Rauth’s whole body felt like it had caught fire. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her vision blurred. Rage, shame, panic.

Then—

“Enough,” came a voice like ice.

Everything stopped.

Even the laughter.

Legolas stood at the edge of the field, sunlight glinting off his hair and his circlet slightly askew from the wind. His expression was carved from cold stone—unreadable, but dangerous.

Silence.

Zeiran froze mid-taunt, the cloth-wrapped tampon still dangling between two fingers.

“Drop it,” Legolas said, calm, quiet—and deadly.

The ellon swallowed. For a heartbeat, he hesitated—then, stiffly, he stepped forward and placed the tampon into Legolas’s waiting palm.

The prince didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance at the object.

He simply closed his hand around it.

Then, with a smooth and deliberate motion, he slipped it into his tunic pocket.

Gasps echoed softly around them.

“Both of your will repeat today’s drill until sunset, alone.” Mr.Hard-ass said.

Thandor blanched. “Prince—”

“Do you wish to be dismissed from the grounds?” Legolas interrupted impatiently.

That shut him up.

“Good.” Legolas turned, his cape whispering against the grass. “Back in line.”

The sun had dipped low, staining the sky with bruised pinks and angry golds. The training field was emptying, save for the scattered arrows and scuffed earth bearing the day’s weight. Rauth knelt, her back aching, as she collected the last of the practice bows into her arms. She didn’t know which idiot designed the timetable but why does she has to do the cleaning job on her period.

Elladan was already heading to the weapon ward with the first armful.

Rauth had hoped to avoid him. She took the long way around the training ring, circling past the stables just to give herself a few more minutes to breathe, to steady the storm still churning in her chest.

“Mortal.”

A cool voice, distant but clear.

She turned.

Mr.Hard-ass stood beneath the archway, hands behind his back, gaze unreadable.

“Wait for me in the weapon ward. I have something of yours.”

Then he turned and walked off without waiting for her reply.

Her stomach twisted.

She entered the ward alone, arms full of bows, and began arranging them on the wall racks in silence. The weapon ward echoed with low creaks of wood and the faint scent of metal and pine. Rauth moved quickly, trying to finish sorting the bows before anyone else came in. Please don’t lemme bump into Elladen, no Elladen, no Elladen.

Footsteps.

Elladan stood framed in the doorway.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at her for a long, long moment.

Then:

“I just couldn’t imagine someone so close to you… would betray you like that.”

Rauth froze. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off, quietly.

“You were the one person I thought I could count on. You knew how I felt about her.”

“Elladan, I—”

“No. Let me speak.”

He stepped in, slow and deliberate. “You asked for my help. You asked me to talk to her, to watch your back during training, to cover for you when you disappeared for hours. I did it all without question. Because I thought we were…” His voice caught. “Friends. Or something near enough.”

“We were friends.”

He laughed once. “Then why did I find out from watching the two of you kiss?”

She paled.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said. “I told myself maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she thought you were me, or… stars, I don’t know. But then today—those things fell out of your pack. ”

A figure lurked in the shadow yet Rauth was too busy explaining herself to look.

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand plenty.”

His voice rose, filled with heartbreak as he dabbed a finger at her. “You used me to get close to her. You used my name. My kindness. And you never once thought maybe I felt something, did you?”

Rauth looked down. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it, Estel?” he snapped. “Because you’re not who you say you are. You’re hiding something. I feel it. ”

“No, I’m not hiding----” She tried.

“I SAW YOU KISSING TAURIEL, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY!” 

The figure in the shadow walked away.

“I don’t even like her! I did not lie to you, Elladen!” Rauth yelled back, finally losing her patience.

“I did not lie, Elladen. I’m not even Estel.” 

The ellon huffed: “What do you mean you’re not Estel.”

She gave a huge sigh. So here it is, huge reveal time. One by one, she removed the clips used to secure her wig, and a long waist-length hair pooled down.

Elladen gasped: “It’s not possible....”

“Yes it it, I am Rauthmirelle.” 

Elladan’s breath hitched, as if her words had struck him like a blade. His eyes widened, taking in the cascade of dark hair that pooled over her shoulders, the softness of her face now unmasked by the illusion of Estel.

“No…” he whispered, voice cracking. “You can’t be. All this time—”

“I am,” Rauth said softly, holding his gaze. Her throat felt tight, but she forced herself to meet the storm in his eyes. “I never wanted to lie to you, Elladan.”

He staggered back a step as if distance could make sense of the chaos flooding him. “You… you fought beside me. Trained with me. Ate at my table. Slept in the same room. And all the while… you were her.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Rauth said, her voice fraying like old thread. “Do you think they would have let me train if they knew I was a woman?”

“Rauth…” Elladan dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “You should have told me. By the stars, you could have told me! Did you think I would laugh at you? Betray you? I trusted you more than anyone here.”

She raised a brow, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’re acting like I killed your horse while I have been murdered over and over again by my own body all day.”

Something shifted in Elladan’s expression. The anger drained, leaving behind raw regret. He stepped closer, his voice low and rough. “I spoke cruelly to you,” he admitted. “I was wrong about you, Rauthmirelle. Forgive me… milady.”

For a heartbeat, she saw not the

 ellon but the friend who had once trusted her without question.

The ellon opened and closed his mouth, as if caught between shock and disbelief, then blurted, “Wait— is it your… monthly bleeding today?”

Rauth stared at him. “What did you just say?”

“You know,” Elladan said, flustered but pressing on, “the time when maidens bleed every month. That’s why you were… more irritable than usual, and why those things—” he gestured vaguely, “—fell out of your pack.”

Rauth blinked at him like he’d just recited an incantation. “You actually know about that?”

Elladan gave her a flat look. “What, did you think ellons just assume you all explode into blood clouds for mysterious reasons?”

“Well, yes,” Rauth deadpanned. “My own brother, the real Estel would faint at the word ‘blood’ unless it came from a battlefield wound. You’re— annoyingly informed.”

“Adar made sure we learned the basics of healing,” Elladan explained, his tone sliding into that irritatingly calm Rivendell wisdom. “Elrohir and I were forced to memorize every herbal remedy and every ‘female malady’ as he called it. And we grew up with Arwen. Do you think she’d let us remain ignorant?”

Rauth blinked, a laugh threatening to slip out. “So you’re telling me you and your twin got formal education in the art of ‘maiden bleeding 101’?”

Elladan gave her a look that was part annoyed, part amused. “Yes. And we were quizzed on it. Elrohir still sulks about getting the birch bark remedy wrong.” His expression softened, the stern lines of his face easing as he glanced at her pale features. “You should not have to endure this without relief,” he said in that calm, deliberate tone of his. “I can prepare a remedy for you—tea, perhaps, with willow bark and chamomile. It will ease the pain in your belly and help with the ache in your limbs.”

She raised a brow, a hint of a grin forming. “Oh, so now I’m a wound?”

“Yes,” Elladan said without missing a beat, already moving toward the door. “And you will drink it. Even if I have to hold the cup to your lips myself, milady.” The ellon had just turned toward the door when both of them froze. A crisp click, click, click echoed down the hallway—heels on stone.

Rauth’s stomach plummeted.

“Oh, no,” Elladan muttered, paling slightly. “That’s Arwen.”

“What?” Rauth hissed, already scrambling for the wig pins like they were weapons.

“Hide,” Elladan hissed. “Behind the shelf—hurry!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Rauth muttered, nearly decapitating herself as she dove behind a tall rack of practice swords. The wig slid dangerously, hairpins dangling like traitorous little daggers. She crammed her real hair under the wig with all the grace of a beheaded orc, muttering, Of course this happens now. Of course. Kill me. Just let the author of my story put me to my deathbed and I promise to behave like a proper zombie.

Elladan straightened his tunic and smoothed his face into something princely just as the door opened.

“Elladan?” Arwen’s voice was gentle, melodic—like the kind of voice that belonged to a lady who arranged flowers for fun and had never sweated in her entire life. She stepped inside, every inch of her radiating Rivendell’s polished perfection. “Prince Legolas told me you and Estel were here.”

Elladan bowed slightly. “Sister.” Urgh, if Estel ever bow to her like this, she’d be sure to cut him in half.

“I wished to find Estel,” Arwen said, her voice quiet but careful, as though confessing a sin. “Alone, if possible.”

Alone? Oh, brilliant. She’s about to propose marriage right here next to the practice bows. Perfect. Someone bury me alive, Rauth thought, her hands fumbling to shove the last stubborn braid under the wig.

“Estel?” Arwen continued, glancing around. “Prince Legolas seemed rather… unhappy when I spoke of him. I thought perhaps I could speak with him. He is…” She hesitated, cheeks pinkening. “…quite unlike any ellon I have met.”

Oh no. Rauth clamped a hand over her mouth.

Elladan looked like he might actually enjoy her suffering. “He is around,” he said, deliberately vague.

Rauth cursed silently, knowing hiding was only making this worse. With a resigned sigh, she grabbed an armful of bows.

“Lady Arwen,” she said with all the stiffness of a soldier who just stepped on a bear trap. “Didn’t see you there. I was… stacking bows. As one does. In a very masculine way.”

Arwen’s entire face lit up as though Rauth had handed her a bouquet of starlight. “Estel!” she said softly, her voice warmer now. “I am so glad to see you.”

Why? WHY? I am literally sweating, I have bow splinters in my arms, and my fake hair smells like damp leather. What is wrong with you, lady?

Arwen looked down for a moment, as if summoning courage, then clasped her hands together. “I… I wondered if you might… teach me. Some self-defense, perhaps?”

Rauth blinked. “Self-defense?”

“Yes,” Arwen said, voice barely above a whisper. “You seem very skilled. I would… feel safer, if I could wield a weapon properly.”

Rauth’s brain, already frazzled from bleeding and public tampon humiliation, short-circuited. “You… want me to teach you?”

Arwen nodded, her gaze darting shyly to the floor. “If you do not mind. I… I asked Elladan and Elrohir once, but…” she glanced quickly at her brother, “…I did not wish to bother them. Or perhaps I simply… preferred not to.”

Oh. Rauth’s thoughts went flat as a battlefield corpse. She’s got it bad. I am about two seconds away from fake-coughing myself to death.

Elladan cleared his throat, his amusement poorly disguised. “That is surprising, sister. You had no interest in weapons when we offered centuries ago.”

Arwen shifted, eyes still low, her cheeks faintly pink. “…Perhaps I am more inspired now.”

Kill me. No, really. Someone grab a bowstring and strangle me. This is the worst timeline.

“Uh…” Rauth swallowed. “…sure. I can… teach you how not to stab yourself. Probably.”

Elladen was mid-battle with a tent cloth borrowed from the storage ward when Rauth walked in after she had bathed and changed her tempons. It looked like he was trying to either strangle the fabric or stage a bizarre Rivendell ritual as he stood on their shared small table.

“...Do I even want to ask?” Rauth said, tossing her bucket of fresh linens onto her bed.

“I’m creating privacy,” Elladan replied, tying the corner of the cloth to a ceiling beam with the stubbornness of someone wrestling a troll. “You’re a lady, apparently, and I thought you might appreciate not changing behind a weapon rack.”

“Oh, please.” Rauth raised a brow. “If I’m a lady, then you’re a gentleman—wait, no, Lord Perfect Manners of Rivendell. Shall I curtsy?”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Elladan shot back with a smirk. “Besides, you’ll need all the dignity you can muster for tomorrow. You know, when you try to teach Arwen how to wield a sword without falling on your face.”

Rauth blinked. “Excuse me?”

Elladan grinned wider. “It’s going to be a disaster. She’s going to trip over her own skirts, and you’ll trip trying to help her. Someone’s going to walk in and Arwen will scream so loud that the entire kingdom would hear her.”
“Speaking of girls…” Rauth’s smile turned sly. “How’s Tauriel these days? Still into her these days?”

Elladan blinked. “What?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Rauth said, leaning on the table and grabbed his ankle, forcing the ellon to jump down on his own. “You think I didn’t notice the way you stand extra straight when she walks by? Or how you nearly swallowed your tongue when she complimented your aim last week?”

Elladan turned faintly pink. “That’s—nonsense. Tauriel is—”

“A warrior maiden with amazing aim and great hair,” Rauth supplied. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her you’ve been practicing archery poses in the mirror.”

Elladan’s mouth opened, closed, and then he threw a cutted piece of tent cloth at her. “Shut it, Rauthmirelle.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Rauth said with a mock sigh. “The great Elladan of Rivendell, hopelessly smitten.”

“Hopelessly—?” Elladan straightened, glaring. “I am not smitten. Unlike some people who apparently kiss every elleth in Mirkwood—”

“Hey!” Rauth protested, flinging the cloth back. “That was one accidental almost-kiss with Tauriel and you know it. Beside, I already have my eye on someone whose a male!” 

Before the ellon could retort, the door slammed open.

“Elladan?” Elrohir stood in the doorway, staring at the tent cloth dividing the room. “...What in the name of the Valar is this?”

“It’s… a game,” Elladan said quickly.

“A spooky night setup,” Rauth added, deadpan. “We’re… uh, testing horror themes. For everyone.”

Elrohir blinked. “Spooky night?”

“Yes,” Elladan said, nodding far too eagerly. “There will be stories. Shadows. Very frightening.”

Elrohir’s eyes lit up. Without hesitation, he strode out the door, voice carrying loudly down the corridor:

“Hey! Everyone! Spooky night at Elladan and Estel’s room! Ghost stories and scares!”

Growing up as a mortal, Rauth had learned that human, unlike elves, cannot remember every single detail of a days event, which used to be an excellent excuse when it comes to Elrond’s etiquette lessons and Lindir’s alphabet lessons. If she didn’t do homework or forgot to recite a poetry, she’ll simply say, she forgot.

And today was one of those days she would use that excuse if anyone asked.

It started normal, with Mr.Hard-ass’s training. For some reason, he was in an exceptionally bad mood that day judging by the way he order everyone to run laps until even Elladen could barely breath and singled Rauth out to do a few more laps. Don’t mind him, his always like that.

At least she perserved some strength for the following private training of Arwen.

The elleth was there by time Rauth had found a corner for them to train. Arwen stood in the middle of the training field like a deer pretending it wasn’t in a clearing. Braids pristine, sleeves delicately rolled, eyes wide with that I-read-about-sparring-once-and-felt-brave look.

Rauth squinted at her.

This is going to be a bloodbath. Hers, probably.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” Rauth said evenly, demonstrating. “Keep your knees slightly bent.”

Arwen copied her... sort of. More like she folded into a swan-shaped curtsy, which would’ve impressed court ladies but not even scare a practice dummy.

Rauth blinked slowly. “You’re not bowing to the sword. You’re preparing to be attacked.”

“Oh,” Arwen said, eyes flicking up to meet hers—again.

That made eight times in three minutes.

Rauth made a mental note. Student lacks basic awareness of footing, balance, and subtlety. Is, however, very committed to eye contact. Possibly thinks I am a painting.

“Try again,” she said aloud.

They repeated the same motion. Then again. And again. Arwen never got it right. She also never stopped staring.

Rauth internally sighed. This is less of a lesson and more of a slow-motion seduction from someone with no plan and worse instincts.

Still, she remained patient. That’s what Adar had taught her. Never humiliate someone trying to learn—at least not while they’re holding a weapon. Of course, adar meant to strangers, to Estel, she never failed to scare him to death.

She moved behind Arwen and adjusted her stance with light, practiced touches. Arwen tensed. Visibly. Her ears turned pink.

*Oh, gods. She’s blushing. At foot placement.

Out loud, Rauth said, “You’ll lose your balance like this. Try to feel the weight shift from your heel to your toes.”

Arwen nodded a little too hard. “Yes. Yes, I feel it.”

“You’re falling forward.”

“I feel that too.”

Rauth stepped back. Progress: negative.

They moved on to basic blocks. Or tried. Arwen flinched every time Rauth lifted her arm, like she might accidentally touch heaven and combust.

“So,” Arwen said after another failed parry, “Do you spar often?”

“No,” Rauth deadpanned. “I train exclusively with ornamental hedges and disgruntled geese.” Yeah, I do, and today I just sparred very vigorously with your incompetence.

Arwen giggled. Actually giggled.

She regretted the comment instantly, but Arwen just gave a breathy laugh and looked up at her. Again.

That made eleven.

She’s not learning to fight. She’s trying to memorize my face in case I die.

Rauth stepped closer and adjusted Arwen’s grip, ignoring how warm the elf’s hands were. “Better. Now try the motion slowly.”

They went through it again. This time Arwen tripped over absolutely nothing.

Rauth blinked. Physics has given up.

“Sorry,” Arwen whispered, and Rauth wasn’t sure if she was apologizing for the stumble or the part where her hand brushed Rauth’s wrist unnecessarily long.

Rauth gave her a nod, straightened, and said in her calmest tone, “Let’s take a break. You’re rather tired.” So am I.

They sat under the training arbor. Arwen looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She fidgeted. A lot.

This is fine. Everything’s fine. She’s just looking at me like I hung the stars. Probably normal. Definitely not a problem.

Finally Arwen blurted, “Will you escort me?”

Rauth blinked. “Where?”

Arwen’s lips parted. Her eyes went wide. Her entire face began to crumple in slow motion, like a tower falling on itself.

Rauth panicked. Internally.

What did I say? What just happened? What even is happening? Oh god, is Elrohir gonna murder me if he heard his sister cry because of training? Adar and Estel will probably be mad if someone made me cry.

Arwen gave her a look that screamed “you idiot.”

“No,” she said miserably. “I’m to be escorted. And I was going to go with Legolas but—he’s cold. And he doesn’t like me. And I don’t like him. And I can’t breathe in those awful dinners. And they’ll all be looking at me like I’m some... brocade puppet!”

“...So,” Rauth said slowly, “you’re asking me to go instead?”

Arwen looked up with tears in her eyes, so small and earnest despite being older and shinier and more royal than Rauth would ever be.

“I trust you,” she said. “Please. Just… come with me. Just this once.”

“Okay... I guess.”

Chapter Text

Rauth could never imagine what horrible sense of fashion ellons have as Elladen handed her what could only be described as a drape forest nightmare one hours before the dinner party begins. As the twin sons of Elrond, Elrohir and Elladen are both going, which kind of gave her some comfort.

“This is revolting,” she said flatly.

The ceremonial tunic her roomie had dug out from his mothball- stinky trunk was somehow both scratchy and slimy. The material shimmered like moss-covered fish skin, and the color—sickly greenish-gold—made her look vaguely ill.

Ellons are disgusting, their clothes are disgusting, everything is disgusting.

Elladen held up the tunic: “This is sewed by a high lady of Lothlorien, very specifically made for festivals wear.”

“You sure she don’t have some palmer sweat gland disease?” She eyed it suspiciously.

“No!” He groaned, “Elves do not get those weird disease!” 

“Then she must have vendetta.” Rauth mumbled, pulling it over her head. She had long given up on modesty in front of Elladen because both of them, the former had a brother, the latter had a sister, were very familiar with exposed skin that neither were too surprised. Not that Rauth wasn’t wearing a shirt under the tunic anyway.

She belted the tunic, the excess fabric folding like wet drapes. She looked down. The neckline was far too wide, dipping low enough to reveal a rather un-prince-like collarbone.

“I look like a feral child impersonating nobility,” Rauth said blankly. “A poorly disguised stable boy who rolled down a hill.”

Elladan clicked his tongue, vanishing into her part of room. “We’ll fix it. We just need structure.”

“Structure is dead,” Rauth muttered. “We’ve killed it with towels and hope.”

He returned with exactly that—two rolled-up hand towels.

“I’m not stuffing those under my shirt,” she said.

“You want them to think you’ve got battle-earned muscle or a birdcage for a chest?”

He proceeded to wedge one into her left shoulder, then began folding the second.

“I should be wearing a gown, those type ladies wear. I told adar that I refuse to train for my shoulder becuase I would like to keep my collar bone well-toned.” Rauth muttered. “Eww, Elladen, did you just took the towels from your basket or mine. This smells.”

“I believe its your basket I took from.” The ellon continued to work on stuffing the towles and eveing them until they looked as if she naturally had eight-packs and throw dumbells as if they’re little dolls.

Rauth narrowed her eye: “Liar, you forgot we played a game of football last night and it was your laundry basket we used as the ball, and my part of the room we used as the goal?”

A knock at the door.

“Don’t come in!” Elladan yelled, just as Elrohir—naturally—swung it open.

“Oh Estel, you’re also going to the dinner party? Nice tunic.” He commented. The other ellon had a similar robe upon him, though Rauth must say these kind of clothes looks much better on males than on female.

“Yeah, Arwen asked me to escort her.” She replied, “Ah, Elladen, what----”

Elladan shoved the last towel firmly into place on her back and tied the belt tighter, cinching her torso so aggressively she let out a small wheeze.

“Now you have posture,” he said brightly.

“I have internal bleeding.”

Elrohir raised a brow. “Why do I get the feeling you two know something I do not?”

“Urgh, nothing,” Rauth stumbled, “Nothing at all, just all the excitement that I’ll be escorting your sister, I guess.”

“Definetely excitement.” Elladen muttered, earning a smack on his head.

“Well, I’m sure my sister would be delighted to see her date dressed up.” The other ellon grinned.

Elladan ignored him and began pulling out accessories. “You’ll need gloves. And to walk in at the right pace. Just in case Lindir hasn’t taught you that, which is for sure, you’ll take Arwen’s arm—”

“Why is this even a thing?” she snapped. “She asked me to come with her to a dinner, not to marry her in front of everyone.”

Her roomie slowly grinned, full of wicked delight. “Rauth. Arwen asked you to escort her. To the noble dinner. That’s not a casual walk-in. That’s... basically a claim. She just publicly announced you’re her favorite.”

“Of course, I didn’t just drop by to admire the fishskin tunic. I come bearing a noble task.” Elrohir leaned casually against the doorframe.

“No,” Rauth said immediately. “Whatever it is, I’m not doing it.”

“Too late,” Elrohir said cheerfully. He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out two drawstring bags. “We have a mission. High stakes. Great reward. Possibly slight criminality involved.”

Elladan narrowed his eyes. “What kind of mission?”

Rauth already looked suspicious. “If it involves another prank on Lindir, I’m not in. He still thinks I stole his harp, which I swear its my sister who ripped out all the strings and I was too busy watching.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Elrohir waved it off. “This is more important. It’s about the tent cloth.”

“What now?” Elladan said blankly.

The ellon gestured to the huge piece of cloth hanging in the middle of the room, splitting the room in half. “Things got around the barrack that you two are trying to organize a spooky night, and that many has been urging me to plan the exact date so I picked today. And its our mission to get food from the dinner table today.”

What the actual hell? Stealing food from a table full of nobles and with Arwen watching?

“Urgh, how do we actually do that? I mean you could steal food from human, but from elves?” Rauth tried.

“Please,” Elrohir said. “You think I’m going to pass up the opportunity to raid the feast table while everyone’s too busy watching you and my sister play polite couple?”

Oh, he meant he want me to distract Arwen by flirting with her. She does know how to flirt with ellons but with ellyth? Valar knows what they’re thinking.

Elladan looked down at the bags, then at his twin, then back at Rauth.

“We’re really doing this,” he muttered. “We’re going to steal food from a royal dinner.”

“I knew this tunic had an evil purpose,” Rauth said. “I knew it.”

Tucking the bags safely on her undershirt, she followed Elladen out as they both claimed to go to the washroom for some last minute change to their hair.

“Hey, you didn’t told Elrohir about me right?” Rauth started as soon as the barrack was out of sight.

“Yeah, I think you might now want me to. So I didn’t.” Elladen replied, leading the way to Arwen’s room.

“Well, I don’t like where you’re leading me now, so stop.” She mumbled.

The ellon grinned: “It’s not my fault you signed up to escort----”

“I did not sign up!”

“Fine! I’m about to save you from being the worst escort ever.” Elladen made a surrender gesture. He stopped in front of the door which Rauth dreaded since the first day of her stay as she carried Arwen’s luggage all the way up to the top of the staircase, and said in the most serious tone he could master: “Watch and learn.”

Why does that sound like something out of those old textbooks? Read and draw, watch and learn, listen and write, whatever shit Lindir had in mind for alphabet lessons.

He straightened his shoulders, lifted his hand, and rapped three polite knocks in the air.

Then he softened his tone and spoke clearly:

“Lady Arwen, may I inquire if you are well enough for company?”

Rauth blinked at him. “You sound like you’re proposing a duel.”

“That’s how you do it,” Elladan insisted. “You announce yourself, check for consent, and then speak with—”

The door opened.

Arwen stood in the doorway, ethereal and devastating as always, wrapped in a robe of soft periwinkle silk, her hair still damp from bathing. Her beauty was quiet and piercing, like the first moonrise after a storm.

She looked between them, then gave a small, knowing smile. “Well, this is a surprise.”

Rauth froze. Elladan vanished.

Literally turned and fled down the hallway like he’d just delivered someone to their own execution.

Coward.

Rauth turned back to Arwen, her mouth dry. “Uh. Sorry. He—he said I should do the gentleman knocking thing.”

Arwen raised one brow, clearly amused. Urgh, why can’t I get a perfect tweezer and style my brow like that?

“Um, would you like to go down, to the dinning hall?” She broke the awkward silence with a slight cough.

The elleth beamed: “Of course.” And looked at her expectantly.

One second, two seconds, three seconds.

Okay, what did Adar do about escorting me to the Hall of Fire? Yes, let her take my arm.

“Here you are, milady.” Rauth offered ackwardly as if her arm was a dish and Arwen took it gracefully.

By some miracle, Rauth managed to escort her all the way to the great hall without tripping over Elladan’s too-long cloak. The guards at the entrance stepped aside and gave a small ceremonial bow.

“Lady Arwen, escorted by Estel of Imladris.”

Then the doors opened.

The doors opened with a grand sweep.

Inside, the hall shimmered with candlelight and golden banners. Elven nobility lined both sides of the massive table — warriors, lords, ambassadors — all dressed in their finest silks and ceremonial tunics.

And at the far end, already seated with eerie punctuality, were Elladan and Elrohir.

And the King.

And—of course—Mr. Hard-ass himself.

Legolas.

He was staring directly at her with the intense scrutiny of someone who had been told they’d be dining across from a goose in a crown. Rauth swore she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw.

She froze mid-step, half-forgetting how to walk like a normal elf. Then, remembering Elladan’s painfully thorough lecture on “escorting a maiden,” she pivoted, offered Arwen her arm with an overly formal bow, and led her down the hall like they were walking into a wedding procession.

They passed noblewomen who whispered into jeweled fans, warriors who glanced at her boots (still slightly muddy), and a few confused guards who looked like they might ask if she was lost.

When they reached the table, Rauth scanned for an open spot. At home, she just sit where she wanted to and would openly tell the person who is sitting on her seat to scram.

Elladan, already seated and increasingly panicked, began frantically motioning at her with wide eyes and aggressive gestures.

First, he mimed pointing at the king, then held both palms out flat. Wait.

Then he jabbed a finger at her, then toward his own chair, then circled it. Don’t pick a seat.

Then he sliced one hand through the air like he was cutting a tree. Do not sit.

Rauth misunderstood every single cue.

Curtsey to the king, no, she should bow.

She did not let go of Arwen’s hand as she lead them circling the nearest chair once.

“Estel...” The elleth whispered.

“Sit, my dearest moonbeam,” Rauth said, sweeping a ridiculous bow. “May your root vegetables be well-roasted and free of worm.”

Arwen was too dazed to argue.

Elladan knocked over his goblet in horror.

King Thranduil rose slowly, robes glimmering like woven winter, and surveyed the room with the bemused air of someone watching a fox trot into a lion’s den. “It appears,” he said, voice smooth as honeyed wine, “our guest is unfamiliar with the etiquette of Mirkwood.”

Polite titters circled the room.

Rauth straightened, chest puffed out like a proud, stupid pigeon.

Legolas, across from the King, looked like he was suppressing the urge to launch his venomous knife into her eyeball.

“Since the young knight seems so eager,” he said, “he may join me at my table tonight.”

A pause.

Gasps. The King’s table?

Rauth blinked. “Me?”

Legolas looked like he might actually perish. “Father—”

Thranduil raised a hand. “Across from my son, of course. So that our guests might see how diplomacy is done... from both sides.”

“Your Majesty,” Rauth offered, wobbling back upright. “Permission to sit anywhere but near the glaring woodland iceberg?”

Oh no, I gotta watch my mouth.

A murmur rose. Arwen stiffened. Legolas, the iceberg in question, raised a brow so imperiously it could’ve sliced bread.

Thranduil tilted his head, amusement dancing in his ageless eyes. “Shall I send word to your adar? He still owes me a bottle of moon-aged miruvor. Perhaps I’ll demand your presence as penance.”

Rauth, stunned, allowed the guards to escort her toward the King’s left — the seat directly across from Mr. Hard-ass himself, who now looked like someone had forced him into an arranged marriage with a troll.

She gave him a cheerful nod and sat as properly as she could, trying not to trip over her borrowed cloak.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, “this isn’t terrifying at all.”

King Thranduil raised his goblet.

“Let the feast begin.”

The first course was served on plates that probably cost more than Rauth’s entire disguise budget. Steamed greens arranged like forest scrolls. Glazed roots in spirals. Some mysterious golden foam.

And across the table, Prince Stab-Me-With-Your-Eyes was still glaring.

Rauth stabbed a carrot medallion, lifted it to her mouth—and met his eyes again.

Another glare.

Another carrot.

More glaring.

It became a synchronized duel of vegetable spite.

She popped the carrot into her mouth with exaggerated slowness and raised her brows. Legolas’s knife cut precisely through his greens without a twitch of muscle. Except the one in his temple.

Next course. A delicate soup.

Spoons lifted. Eyes locked.

Again.

She slurped. Loudly. Then smiled, deliberately licking the edge of the spoon like it was poisoned.

Legolas’s nostrils flared.

She leaned forward, chin in hand. “Are you always this charming at dinners, or is it just when you’re seated across from someone prettier than you?”

The table stilled.

Legolas didn’t blink. “You mirrors for truth.”

“Oh, I don’t need mirrors,” Rauth said breezily, reaching for her goblet. “Not when I have your face reminding me what unresolved trauma and utter ugliness looks like. I guess there really is a necessity for orcs to exist as they seem to share significant similarity with you.”

King Thranduil gave a low chuckle, already sipping his wine.

Legolas’s voice was soft as ice. “I see you’ve traded subtlety for sound. Did your tongue sharpen itself in a tavern?”

“It sharpened itself on idiots who think brooding makes them interesting,” Rauth replied, not missing a beat. “You should try smiling sometime. Or blinking. Or basic human emotion.”

“I’m not human,” he said evenly.

“Ah, yes. That explains the emotional constipation.”

Thranduil let out a real laugh now, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Elven lords beside him looked torn between horror and entertainment.

Legolas finally picked up his fork. “You speak like someone who thinks being unpredictable makes you deep.”

She tilted her head. “And you listen like someone who’s been personally victimized by wit.”

“You mistake noise for substance.”

“You mistake silence for superiority. Or shall I say you always deem yourself as so important that you can’t even turn you nose higher in the air?”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed. “At least I don’t mistake myself for important.”

“At least I don’t mistake myself for untouchable,” Rauth said, smiling sweetly. “Tell me, is that your signature glare or were you born with a stick up your spine?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then he murmured, “Careful. Keep speaking and you might finally impress someone.”

She beamed. “I already have. Your father’s positively delighted.”

Thranduil, sipping again: “She’s not wrong.”

Legolas didn’t flinch. “My father also finds amusement in squirrels chasing their tails.”

“And I find amusement in people who take themselves too seriously. So here we are—mutual entertainment.” She sipped her wine, then added, as if it were a footnote: “It’s truly amazing you’ve gotten this far in life with that personality. Did you inherit the emotional repression or is it a Mirkwood rite of passage? I think you also seem to lack common knowledge despite curse words and courteous words, shall I rephrase it: ‘is it a you-thing, or a Mirkwood-thing’?”

His lips thinned into a tight line. “Not everyone is allowed to speak without consequence.”

Rauth raised a brow. “And yet you sit there like a tragic poem no one wants to reread. Or a utterly disgusting dish that has excrement in it. ”

They were both standing now, though neither had consciously decided to.

But before Mr.Hard-ass could snap a response.  

A scream tore through the gilded air.

Rauth blinked mid-sentence—she had just unleashed another barbed, exquisitely worded insult toward the elven prince seated across from her—and turned along with every other noble head.

At the far end of the table, Arwen stood trembling, golden soup dripping in steady rivulets from her silver-blue gown. Her jaw clenched, fists shaking at her sides.

Behind her, hand still slightly raised and unmistakably soup-less, stood Tauriel.

Gasps erupted across the great hall like startled birds taking flight.

“You threw soup on me!” Arwen shrieked, voice cracking like breaking glass. The controlled, polite daughter of Elrond had snapped.

Tauriel scoffed. “I nudged the table, you walking pedestal! Maybe don’t hover like a swan if you can’t handle a ripple!”

“You liar!” Arwen cried. “You waited—you saw me reaching!”

“Because you were about to brag about your waltz entrance again!”

“I was not! You’re just jealous I was with—”

Before anyone could move, Arwen reached down with trembling hands, scooped a palmful of broth from her bodice, and flung it at Tauriel.

“You brute! How dare you—how dare you act like this in front of—”

Tauriel reeled back, soup splashing across her chest, but she came up snarling. “Oh, please! You dripped more drama into that entrance than actual elegance!”

“I tried to be kind to you—”

“Oh, shove your kindness up your heirloom braid.”

Arwen gasped. “You—you common tavern wench! This isn’t Mirkwood—”

“And you aren’t half as regal as you think!”

Another bowl went flying—Rauth didn’t know whose—crashing into the empty chair beside Arwen. Stew sloshed over the cushion like battlefield carnage.

Shrieks. Elvish shrieks. From both maidens now.

“You insulted my house!” Arwen snapped, tears streaking down her cheeks. “You’re just mad I got to walk in with—”

Tauriel's cries were rising again, sharper now, full of heartbreak and fury.

"I'll escort you," Legolas offered, gently pulling her away from the chaos, eyes flicking toward the nearest corridor. "You need to change out of these clothes before you catch—"

But Thranduil’s voice rang out like a blade drawn in court.

“You will do no such thing.”

The entire table stilled again.

Legolas stiffened, glancing back, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “She is injured—”

“She is fine,” Thranduil interrupted. His voice was smooth, but his gaze sharp as glass.

Then, louder:

“Zairen, escort the Mirkwood guard to her chambers. She is dismissed from the feast.”

Tauriel stiffened. “My king—”

“You may speak when you have calmed.”

Tauriel’s breath hitched. She turned away from Legolas, throat bobbing, and allowed Zairen to take her arm. Her pride fought every step.

Legolas opened his mouth—but Thranduil had already turned.

“Legolas.”

A command.

Legolas faltered, staring after Tauriel, but then he turned and walked back to his seat without another word.

Thranduil gestured vaguely toward the remaining mess. “Sit.”

Meanwhile, at the other end of the hall, Rauth was still kneeling beside Arwen, murmuring gentle nonsense and dabbing soup off her shoulder like a soldier handling a battlefield injury.

“You should return to your rooms,” Rauth said softly. “This dress is ruined, and you look as though you’re about to faint, cousin.”

“Only if you come with me,” Arwen whispered, voice tremulous, hand still wrapped tight around Rauth’s.

And for a moment, Rauth hesitated. Okay, one thing, if anyone dare throw soup on her, which she was sure she’ll be the one to start the fight, would suffer death so painful their bone won’t even be found. Second, Arwen kind of reminds her of Estel, the same helpless doe eyes, and same teary look when they got the lower hand at arguments.

Rauth stood, pulling Arwen gently up with her.

“I’ll take her,” she said to no one in particular. “To her rooms.”

Before anyone else could reply, Thranduil raised a single hand.

“You will not go alone.”

Rauth’s body tensed.

Thranduil’s eyes cut like moonlight through smoke, lingering on Rauth just long enough that something ancient and knowing flickered behind them.

Then, turning—

“Elladan. Elrohir. Escort your sister.”

The twins froze, hands halfway into their satchels of stolen fruit.

“Ah,” Elrohir said. “Of course.”

“Anything for dear Arwen,” Elladan added smoothly.

They both stood and brushed off their tunics like model elven princes, stepping around the spilled soup and scattered bread.

Thranduil spoke again, soft but cold as falling snow:

“And I suggest, next time, you refrain from looting the feast table mid-crisis. If you found yourself hungry, there is still plenty in the kitchen.”

It was no doubt when people say environment changes people, for when Rauth came back from escorting the teary maiden, their room looked like a war camp that was raided by goblins.

Cushions were flung across the settee, a boot sat drowned in the washbasin, and the once-formal sitting chairs were positioned around a stacked fortress of dinner trays and linen-wrapped pastries like it was a battlefield command post. A scroll had been nailed—nailed—into the wall with a butter knife.

Elladan looked up from where he was artfully arranging honeyed figs on a borrowed silver platter, utterly unbothered. “You’re back,” he said cheerfully, as if they hadn’t turned her royal guest suite into a smuggler’s tavern.

“We managed to find bigger treasure in the kitchen, as the king directed.” Elorhir saluted.

Rauth pressed a hand over her face.

Elladan came closer, leaned in, and murmured near her ear with rare gentleness, “Your things are safe. We stashed them deep in the wardrobe, bottom left corner. Even if someone rummages, they won’t find your bindings.”

Relief warmed her chest. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

The knock came just as Elladan was smearing fig paste onto a stolen scone with the focused determination of a war general.

Elrohir grinned like he’d been waiting for it all night. “Showtime.”

He skipped to the door, flung it open—

And immediately had to press his body flat against it as a crowd of ellons nearly spilled inside. The corridor outside was packed wall-to-wall with Rivendell recruits, all whispering and grinning and shoving each other like children at a harvest festival. Some wore bed sheets like ghosts, some had charcoal smudged across their faces, and one very dedicated lunatic had strapped dinner plates to his arms like makeshift armor.

“Calm, calm!” Elrohir hissed, flailing his arms. “Keep your voices down!”

Elladan stood atop the overturned laundry chest, fingers raised like a conductor. “Silence!” he ordered, grinning like a lunatic. “The lights are about to go.”

And right on cue—fwoomp—a low hush rolled through the corridor as the glowing lanterns overhead flickered… then sputtered out.

A breathless second passed.

And then another.

In the dark, Rauth’s eyes were drawn to the door’s keyhole—where, faintly, the flickering glow of a moving lantern slid across the floor.

She dropped to a crouch, heart clenching. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

The room fell still.

Through the keyhole, Rauth saw the hem of a Mirkwood guard’s cloak pass by, the lantern swinging in his hand. He moved with that slow, deliberate grace unique to Thranduil’s soldiers, every step like a challenge. The kind of elf who could probably hear a rat blink. He paused, right in front of their door.

No one breathed.

The clink of the guard’s lantern hook rang out like a blade being drawn.

Please don’t knock, Rauth begged silently. Please—

The footsteps resumed, fading into the corridor. The glow dimmed.

And then he was gone.

Elrohir let out a shaky breath and grinned wickedly. “That,” he whispered, “was thrilling.”

Elladan struck a match.

A single candle flared to life.

And in that tiny pool of golden light, the room exploded into motion.

Plates were passed from hand to hand like precious artifacts. Trays laden with cheese, honey, roast apples, and purloined pastries were divvied out with reverent greed. Cushions became seats and forts, cloaks were used as tents, and someone immediately began telling a ghost story in a low, eerie voice about a warg who haunts the training grounds.

Elrohir returned to Rauth’s side with two mugs of warm cider. “To the night of spooks and secrets,” he said, clinking hers gently.

She took it. “This is madness,” she muttered again.

After the cider was passed and the food laid out like ritual offerings—sweet pies already attracting flies, meat steaming like it had a pulse—Elladan clapped twice, loud and sharp.

“Right,” he grinned, hopping onto the laundry chest like a possessed jester. “Ellons! Pick your victims—or should I say, sacrifices.”

Snickers. Groans. Nervous glances. Recruits were herded behind a curtain strung up hastily with belt loops and twine. The sheet was damp—why was it damp?—and swayed in a breeze no one felt.

The remaining ellons circled around the single candle in the middle, cross-legged, cider clutched like lifelines. Smoke from the wick spiraled upward, sickly-sweet, tinged with the scent of hot iron.

Elrohir stepped into the half-light, the candle casting flickers across his cheekbones and leaving the rest of his face in darkness.

“They say…” he began, voice hollow as a grave. “In the wilds between tree roots and starlight, there crawls something not born, but spat out. Not ghost. Not beast. But something wet and crawling. Something left behind.”

Someone made a choking sound.

“It has no eyes. No mouth. No form of its own. It slithers inside a skin, flays it open like a shirt, and climbs in. It presses against the ribs like fingers. Wears the jaw like a mask. It is called… Strider.”

The candle flickered violently. The curtain behind Elrohir twitched. A silhouette pressed against it, bent backward, limbs limp. Someone gasped.

“They say it came once to Imladris in winter,” Elrohir murmured. “Took the form of a horsekeeper. They found him days later in the stables, face-down in the straw, hollow. Just a shell. Skin loose, like shed bark.”

Shadows shifted behind the curtain again. A figure moved—head lolling, arms dangling. But something was wrong. Its neck was too long. It dragged one foot like it wasn’t attached.

Elrohir’s voice dropped lower, tighter, like he was afraid it might hear.

“It’s not the footsteps you should fear. It’s the sound of skin stretching. Of your name being whispered by a voice wearing your lungs like gloves.”

The curtain swelled as a figure pushed against it—elongated fingers splayed wide.

“Once,” Elrohir said, “a recruit disappeared. No one noticed—because Strider had taken his place. Slept in his bunk. Ate from his plate. But then… the smell came.”

A new scent hung in the air now: copper, mildew, something rotten.

“They found his real body folded inside the mattress stuffing. Folded. His bones were… soft by then.”

Someone retched into their mug.

Behind the curtain, another shape writhed. The sheet turned a sick yellow in the candlelight. A wet noise, like slurping and tearing silk, echoed softly. Then—

“…iSsS thIsS sEaT tAkEn?”

The voice came from beside them, not behind the curtain.

A candle burst. Wax splattered. Someone screamed.

Then chaos.

“GHOST!”

“THE SKIN-THING!”

“IT’S IN THE ROOM—!”

Feathers exploded into the air as someone flung a pillow blindly. A mug shattered. A bowl of stew hit the ceiling, flinging meat and oily fat in every direction.

Ellons are truly disgusting.

But soon, wine was being passed.

Dark red, golden sweet, and glittering faintly in the firelight, it passed from hand to hand in fine crystal pitchers that looked embarrassingly delicate for what the ellons were doing with them.

Elrohir had taken it upon himself to become a most generous server. Too generous.

“Mithril vintage,” he declared, sloshing a deep pour into Rauth’s mug. “Aged three centuries.”

“It smells like plums and… burnt leaves,” Rauth murmured, staring at the bubbling surface of her mug like it might rear up and laugh at her.

Elladan’s voice cut in, low and urgent. “Elrohir, stop pouring for him—he’s going to keel over.”

“Oh, come off it,” Elrohir said with a grin, already refilling Rauth’s cup. “He’s keeping up splendidly!”

Rauth tried to blink away the floating candles that seemed to multiply around the room. She smiled vaguely—her lips felt a bit slow doing it.

She was already three mugs in.

Elven was strong, though she don’t know what human ale taste like either.

Her head felt like it was swimming through a warm fog, her limbs pleasantly distant, like she was wearing gloves made of clouds. Her ears were hot. Everything was… funny. Pretty. Echoing.

“Thish is—this is fine,” she said, raising her cup in a lopsided toast to no one in particular.

She missed her mouth.

The others were drunk too—but in the way Rivendell elves got drunk: graciously, musically, like a roomful of poets who'd just fallen in love with the same moon. They leaned against each other in elegant slumps, spoke in verses and riddles, and laughed like they were harmonizing with the stars. If she were at home, she was sure adar would pick her up from this place and give everyone a good spanking except her, and then tell her to never try something so dangerous without bring him a whole bucket of wine first.

The door slammed open with a bang.

In the archway, stood Tauriel and Mr.Hard-ass.

The former had changed out of the soup covered clothes and is looking interestedly at the scene while the latter----

His gaze swept the room in a single glance, sharp and unforgiving. The ellons sat up straighter. A few quickly hid their mugs. Elladan cursed under his breath. Elrohir slid a pillow over the wine stain on the floor with exaggerated grace.

“My lord,” someone mumbled. No one else dared speak.

Legolas stepped forward. The firelight did nothing to warm his expression.

“What is this?”

Rauth leaned back on her pillow, gosh, if he can get all those ellons out of her room, then yes, she would thank him personally. The world swayed like a boat caught between two waves. Her stomach turned violently. If anyone could just stop the noise and let her sleep in peace.

“Estel,” Tauriel’s voice purred near her ear, soft and lilting. Rauth blinked, disoriented. Someone was brushing her hair from her face. Warm hands. A whisper of breath on her cheek.

Too close.

Wait—too close.

Her limbs felt like sandbags. She wanted to move, to speak clearly, to sit up. But everything was heavy and delayed. Her voice caught somewhere behind her tongue.

“T-Tauriel,” she managed. “Wh’t’re you—doing?”

A hand slipped behind her back. Another grazed her waist, featherlight. Her heart fluttered for the wrong reason.

Then the world snapped sharp.

“Tauriel. What are you doing.”

The voice was ice—clear, cold, commanding. Even the drunken haze couldn’t dull its impact.

Rauth’s head lolled slightly to the side, vision swimming—but she recognized him even through the blur.

He stood like a statue sculpted from moonlight and disdain. No trace of warmth. No flicker of amusement.

Tauriel drew back at once. The heat vanished from Rauth’s side. Her shoulder felt cold where that hand had been.

“I—I was only helping,” Tauriel stammered.

Silence.

Rauth tried to sit up. Failed. Her cheeks burned. Not just from the wine now.

She felt him looking at her. But not at her—through her. Past her. Like she wasn’t worth the focus.

He paused a beat. Then, without raising his voice:

“And remind them—the evaluation begins at dawn. Anyone who fails to pass the test will be fired.” Then, finally—finally, those cold eyes settled on her again.

“You reek of wine,” he said quietly.

Chapter Text

“Rauth. Hey—Rauth.”

A gentle shake pulled her out of the fog. She cracked open her eyes. Bright light stabbed into her skull. Her cheek was pressed against what she hoped was just a pillow and not someone’s cloak. Her tongue felt like it had been wrapped in sandpaper, and her head—oh Valar—her head was screaming.

“Mmngh—what happened?”

“You drank like three grown warriors, that’s what,” Elladan muttered, crouched beside her.

“You passed out next to the hearth. Come on. We’ve got to go.”

She tried to sit up and whimpered.

“Elladan,” she croaked. “Please tell me the world ended and no one expects me to stand.”

“I wish,” he said, slipping an arm under her shoulders and carefully pulling her upright. “But today’s the evaluation.”

Rauth blinked at him, sluggish and horrified. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

He helped her to her feet—she swayed, legs shaking—and supported her as they left the barracks and stepped into the cool morning light.

The training field was already filling with recruits. Some looked tense. Others sleepy. A few had the smug, straight-backed posture of people who had sensibly stopped drinking after the second cup. Rauth hated all of them equally at that moment. 

At the front of the group stood Mr.Hard-ass, immaculate in dark greens and silver, his hair untouched by wind, his eyes colder than the air.

Elladan guided her to stand beside the others, then stepped forward quickly, speaking low. “My lord. With respect—this one, Estel, he’s barely upright. Elrohir kept pouring his wine, and he didn’t know—he’s younger than the others. He didn’t mean to go overboard.”

Legolas didn’t even look at Elladan.

“Then he should have known his limits.”

“He trained hard all week,” Elladan pressed gently. “Just give him until the next trial. Or let him take a shorter path. It was a mistake—”

“A mistake,” Legolas interrupted sharply, his tone like a blade pressed against glass, “is what gets someone killed in the field. Do you suggest I reward it?”

Rauth stood silent, her heart pounding behind her ribs. Her head ached. Her stomach turned. She didn’t dare speak.

“He’s trained harder than most this week,” Elladan pressed. “Surely he can be tested another day, or—”

“Is the mortal dead?” Legolas interrupted, calm and cutting.

Elladan stiffened. “No.”

“Then he will be evaluated like the rest.”

Rauth stood, dazed, sweat trickling cold down her spine.

Legolas’s eyes swept over the line of recruits—resting, predictably, on her.

“I do not make exceptions for children who cannot hold their drink,” he said flatly. “You are warriors in training. Not tavern brats.”

She flinched. Her jaw clenched. But she said nothing.

His voice rose, clear and merciless. “Today marks your first formal evaluation. There are ten flagshidden in the forest. There are twenty of you. Do your own math.”

A few ellons exchanged tense glances. Rauth didn’t move.

“You will race against each other. There are no teams. There is no help. The terrain is unmarked. The path will change. You will face illusions, obstacles, and ambushes. Anything can happen.”

He stepped forward once more, cold eyes glinting beneath the pale sun.

“Ten flags. Ten who pass. Ten who prove they deserve to stay in this company.”

A beat.

“If you are injured—left behind—if you collapse in a puddle of your own failure—do not look to me for mercy.”

Legolas raised one hand.

Every heartbeat felt too loud in her ears.

“Begin.”

The word rang out like a war horn.

The line of recruits exploded into motion—shouts, pounding boots, bodies colliding as they surged toward the edge of the forest like a river breaking loose. Rauth stumbled forward before she could even think, her limbs moving purely out of instinct.

The first few strides weren’t terrible. The forest welcomed them with cold shadows and damp leaves, and her legs—miraculously—held her weight.

She stayed in the middle of the pack. The sound of breathing and snapping branches surrounded her. A few ellons jostled past. Someone laughed behind her. Someone else cursed.

She ran.

Faster than she should’ve.

Keep up, her mind warned. You fall, you’re done.

But her body already knew the truth. Every step was harder. Her head throbbed with each beat of her pulse. Her lungs burned. Her stomach churned like spoiled cider.

Branches slapped her face. Roots grabbed at her boots. And still, she ran.

Five minutes in—maybe ten—she couldn’t tell anymore—her vision blurred. Her stride shortened. She tripped once, caught herself, then staggered again.

And then—quietly, without drama—the last of the others disappeared ahead of her.

They didn’t slow down. No one turned back.

She was alone.

The trees swallowed the sound of their footfalls. The forest closed in like a mouth.

Still, she moved forward. One foot. Then the other. She didn’t know if she was jogging or stumbling anymore. She was just—moving.

Somewhere behind her eyes, the pain pulsed like a second heartbeat.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to lie down and sleep for a year.

You’re weak, Legolas’s voice whispered in her head.

She kept walking.

Fog began to gather in the low spaces between trees. At first, she barely noticed it—just a soft mist curling around her boots.

But it thickened quickly.

Turned silver.

Turned wrong.

She blinked and saw light flicker between the branches—lanterns? Torches?

No. Fireflies.

No—eyes?

“Rauth.”

The voice was soft. Familiar.

She spun.

No one there.

“Rauth,” it said again, almost tender.

Adar?

But the voice was too smooth. Too far away. It wasn’t real. No, Adar is in Lothlorien with Estel.

She shook her head and staggered forward again.

Who is Estel?

Why is Estel in Lothlorien?

She was Estel?

Then why is that person in Lothlorien?

No, Estel was her brother.

The fog crept higher, curling around her waist now. The light dimmed beneath it, the colors of the forest bleeding out until everything was gray and cold.

She reached a fallen log and tried to climb over it—but her hands slipped. She fell hard, elbow scraping bark, the pain distant and dull.

She stayed on her knees.

Somewhere in the mist, she heard laughter.

Her own voice?

No, not quite.

“Get up,” she muttered to herself. “Get up. Get up, Rauth, come on.”

She dragged herself upright.

A shadow moved through the trees.

She turned quickly—but it vanished.

Another shadow followed.

Too tall.

Too thin.

She backed away. Her boot sank into soft moss, her shoulder hit a branch.

Then—footsteps.

Two pairs. Light and practiced, deliberate in their pace.

She turned—

Out of the mist stepped Zeiran and Thandor, both not a hair out of place despite the mud and madness of the trial. In their hands… gleamed two flags, red cloth fluttering faintly in the low breeze.

Rauth froze.

Zeiran smirked, lifting the flag as if in mockery. “Looks like someone couldn’t keep up.”

Thandor’s smile was worse—lazy and cruel. “Or maybe the mortal drank himself to death.”

They stalked toward her, slow and calm, like cats stretching toward a trapped bird.

“You should’ve known your place,” Zeiran murmured, circling around to flank her. “Did you really think the prince would let you live?”

Thandor’s voice dropped lower, venom sweet as wine. “Did you think the Lady Arwen looked at you with affection? That Tauriel touched you because she cared?”

Rauth swayed on her feet, her stomach flipping violently.

“She pities you,” Zeiran sneered. “They both do. You're a toy. A joke.”

She tried to step back—but the river was there, cold and black and silent.

“Everything you’ve touched belongs to someone better,” Zeiran whispered, stepping in close.

Then—

Thandor grabbed her arms. Zeiran shoved her.

Her back hit the water.

Icy cold exploded over her skin. Her skull struck a rock. The current seized her legs. Hands still gripped her shoulders, shoving, forcing her under.

She struggled.

Kicked.

But she was so tired.

So weak.

The river roared in her ears.

A glow bloomed beneath her eyelids. Not water. Not cold.

Warmth.

Softness.

She was lying on green grass. The sun on her face. A woman with dark eyes and a tired, beautiful smile stood before her—Gilraen. She had seen her face so many times from historical textbooks that her jaws dropped.

“Mama…?”

Gilraen knelt beside her. Brushed a hand along her cheek. Her voice was gentle.

“You have to wake up, my love. Wake up now.”

Rauth blinked.

The water was still around her. She felt her body again. The ache. The burn in her lungs. The pressure on her chest.

And something—something—snapped inside her.

A scream clawed its way up her throat as her arm shot out of the river.

Her fingers closed over cloth.

A flag. Dropped carelessly in the mud behind Zeiran. He hadn’t even noticed. Arrogant fool.

She surged up, howling—cold and gasping—and drove the flagpole straight into his chest.

The red fabric flared as it punched through him.

Zeiran’s mouth opened in shock. No sound came out.

He staggered.

Stared at her.

Then collapsed.

Thandor backed away in horror. “What did you—what in the name of—”

Rauth was on her knees, gasping, soaked and shaking. Blood mixed with river water around her boots.

Zeiran’s body lay at her feet, a splash of red staining the riverbank.

Rauth couldn’t breathe.

Her fingers trembled around the flagpole, the wood sticky with blood. Her body shook—not from the cold anymore, but from something deeper. Rawer.

Then—

A low laugh.

Too slow. Too quiet.

She turned.

Thandor.

He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t shouting. He just stood there, grinning.

That was worse.

His eyes gleamed with something feral—something unhinged. Not grief. Not fear.

Delight.

“You really are cursed,” he breathed, stepping forward. “Even he didn’t think you’d go this far.”

She stumbled back.

Thandor followed, calm and deliberate. “He said you’d crack eventually. Said if we pushed long enough, you’d expose yourself. But I didn’t think you'd kill Zeiran. Valar…”

Rauth’s back hit a tree.

Thandor stopped a few feet away, bow lowered at his side, though the arrow was already notched.

“You should’ve stayed hidden,” he whispered. “Stayed quiet. But you had to go and touch what doesn’t belong to you.”

His voice curled like smoke. “You touched her, mortal. The prince’s guard. You touched Tauriel.”

Rauth’s chest tightened. “She—she touched me—”

“Oh, don’t lie now,” Thandor hissed, voice cracking. “He saw it. Everyone saw it. That look in your eyes. That need. That filth.”

She flinched.

Thandor’s bow rose.

“You think he didn’t notice the way she hovered near you at breakfast? Or how she looked at you at the archery range? He watched it all. And he sent me to finish what he can’t do himself.”

“No—”

“He wants you gone, Estel.” His voice turned low and sing-song. “Prince Legolas doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t waste time. You? You’re a blemish. A mortal brat in disguise, wearing a boy’s name and stealing glances from a prince’s guard.”

The arrowhead gleamed between them now, leveled at her skull.

“You don’t belong here,” Thandor whispered. “You never did. And now—now that you’ve touched what belongs to him—you die.”

Her mouth opened. But no sound came.

“And don’t pretend you don’t remember me,” he snarled. “You kicked me off a horse when you were four years old. You laughed. Everyone laughed. I was a Rivendell guard, you little beast. Do you know what that cost me?”

“I was four!” She backed tighter against the tree. Her heart thundered. Her legs wouldn’t move.

Thandor’s eyes glowed with the thrill of it.

“This is justice. The prince wants it. I want it. Tauriel will forget you by morning.”

He drew the bowstring back.

The air went still.

Then—

steel flashed.

In one blink—

his head was gone.

It tumbled into the undergrowth with a sickening thump. His body stood for a half-breath longer—then crumpled beside Zeiran’s.

Silence.

Rauth couldn’t move.

Not until she saw the shadow behind Thandor’s body.

Legolas.

He stood, sword dripping red, eyes colder than the blade in his hand.

Rauth stared, soaked and trembling, blood on her hands, flag clutched like a weapon or a lifeline.

And Legolas… just stood there.

Unshaken.

Unmoved.

“You wanted me dead,” she spat, voice low and shaking. “Didn’t you?”

Legolas didn’t blink. “I did not.”

“You did. You did!” She staggered forward. “They said you sent them. They said I touched something that belonged to you—Tauriel.”

“I never gave that order.”

“Oh, forgive me, your royal frostbite,” she snapped, voice slurred at the edges but sharpened by fury. “I forgot this place was sacred ground where no fun must ever be had under the watchful eye of the Perfect Prince.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No, I get it.” She shoved wet hair from her face, teeth gritted. “You need to keep things orderly. Pristine. Controlled. Just like your feelings.” She threw her arms wide. “But not everyone’s busy compensating for their crippling insecurities with a cold stare and a glorified hair routine.”

His jaw locked. “I will not be spoken to like this.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She gave a mocking bow, voice dripping venom. “Did I wound your pride, my prince? Or are you just pissed because Tauriel left with someone who actually treats her like a person instead of a trophy?”

His boots echoed as he stepped in close—too close.

“Say her name again,” he warned.

“Why?” she growled. “So you can pretend you don’t burn every time she smiles at someone else? Face it, you’re not angry at me — you’re angry at yourself. Because you’re too much of a coward to tell her how you feel.”

His hand twitched.

“I am not—!”

“You’re in love with her,” she said, louder now, chest heaving. “And it’s eating you alive.”

“I SAID I AM NOT—!”

“You’re jealous! Of me!”

“Shut up.”

“No! You shut up! You walk around like you’re some ice-sculpted captain, but you’re just a boy. A boy terrified of being ordinary. Of not being enough. Of not being anything without a crown sewn into his skin.”

His voice broke on a snarl. “I SWEAR TO—!”

“What? Gonna call the guards?” she mocked, chest to chest with him. “Report me for treason? For speaking the truth?”

His fists clenched white. His face was flushed, rage twisting the corners of his mouth.

“You’re just a drunk little rat with a loud mouth and nothing to back it up.”

“And you’re a glass doll with a sword,” she snapped. “Breakable and fragile.”

Silence.

Crackling. Breathing. Neither moved. The forest held its breath.

Then—

She punched him.

Hard.

He dodged it, barely.

She kicked. Swung. Slapped. Cried.

“You tried to kill me—don’t lie—don’t lie—don’t you dare lie!”

He caught her wrist. Just one. Firm. Not hurting. But unyielding.

“Stop it,” he said. Too quiet. Too calm. “Stop.”

She struggled, tears running hot over her muddy, bruised face. “You let them hurt me. You let me drown.”

“I did not.”

“You want me gone.” She choked on the words. “You want me dead.”

Before he could reply—

Click.

Click. Click.

His head snapped up.

The fog behind them moved.

“Run,” he said sharply, dropping her wrist.

She turned just as a massive black leg unfurled from the mist.

Then another.

Eight. All around them.

The first spider burst from the fog—its eyes glowing like coals, its legs long as spears.

Legolas drew his sword, stepping in front of Rauth without hesitation.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, tone like frost. “Do not draw a weapon.”

“I can fight—”

“I said stay back.”

The spider lunged. His blade met its fangs in a ringing clash, slicing through the creature’s front leg—but his balance was off. The soaked earth shifted beneath him. His grip faltered.

The spider’s other limb caught his shoulder, and with a brutal jerk—

His sword flew.

It spun, end over end, landing in the mud several paces behind them.

Another spider appeared.

Legolas cursed under his breath and dove toward the fallen bow near Thandor’s body. “I’ll cover you with arrows. Don’t move.”

But Rauth was already moving.

She ran—straight toward the sword.

“No!” Legolas shouted. “Leave it! You’ll get yourself killed—!”

She didn’t listen.

Her fingers closed around the hilt, slick with rain and blood.

And something woke.

It surged in her blood.

Fire.

Memory.

Glorfindel’s voice. Years of drills. Balance. Form. Strike. Recover. The way he had trained her like she was made for war.

Because she was.

She rose, blade in hand.

The next spider charged—and she met it.

Steel sang. Her stance adjusted itself. Her body remembered.

A clean downward slice—across the eyes. A pivot. A lunge under the fangs. The blade punched into soft flesh. The spider collapsed.

She turned to face the next without hesitation.

From where he knelt, Legolas stared.

Rauth didn’t falter. Didn’t stumble. She spun with the blade like a dancer—a storm. Another spider lunged. She twisted, dropping low, and drove the sword up through its thorax until it shrieked and curled in on itself.

Another spider dropped.

Then another.

And then—finally—there were none.

The silence afterward was deafening. The kind of quiet that comes not with peace, but with blood and breath and shaking limbs.

Rauth stood panting in the clearing, hair matted to her face, clothes torn, blood—spider and her own—streaked across her skin.

Her hands trembled around the sword’s hilt.

Then—

Her knees buckled.

The world tilted, and the ground rushed up to meet her.

She didn’t hit it.

Legolas’s arms caught her before she could collapse fully, pulling her against him, one hand braced behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees.

“No,” he said, sharp and low. “Don’t sleep. Don’t you dare close your eyes, mortal.”

She blinked blearily up at him, head lolling slightly against his chest.

“Let me go,” she muttered, trying to push feebly at his tunic. “I hate you, elf.”

“You’re delirious.”

“I hate you,” she insisted again, though it came out more like a slurred sigh. “You’re the worst prince. Ever.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said tightly. “Badly.”

“Good. Hope it stains your fancy robes. And I hope my blood is poisonous so your skin get infected by the toxic and grow hot pink fur.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re a stiff-necked elf-sculpture with a superiority complex.”

He looked down at her, eyes narrowed. “You fought like a madman.”

“Because I am mad,” she said, eyes fluttering. “Mad at you.”

She slumped a little heavier into his arms, her breathing uneven.

“Don’t sleep,” Legolas repeated, louder now—urgency bleeding into his voice.

But her fingers curled loosely into his tunic.

“I saved your pointy ass,” she mumbled, almost fondly. “Say thank you…”

“Mortal—!”

Her head fell limp against his shoulder.

The prince swore under his breath and adjusted his grip. Then he ran.

The world behind them filled with shouting.

Footsteps.

Armor.

The pounding of hooves.

But Rauth knew none of it.

She had already slipped under.

Chapter Text

The ache in her side hit first, pulsing and deep, somewhere beneath the ribs. Rauth blinked against the brightness slipping through the carved wooden shutters. She shifted—and froze.

She wasn’t wearing what she remembered.

Her festival tunic, the one she’d bloodied and torn—gone. In its place was a clean undershirt, pale and too neatly tucked, the hem unfamiliar.

Her breath caught.

Who changed me?

Her hand flew to her head, fingers scrabbling—and relief broke through the panic. Her wig was still there, slightly askew but secured. She adjusted it with shaky fingers.

Then she noticed him.

Legolas.

Sitting near the foot of the bed like a carved statue, arms folded, face a perfect mixture of boredom and contempt.

Rauth recoiled instinctively. “You—how long have I been unconscious?”

“Long enough,” came the answer

“Who changed me?”

He frowned, thrown off. “What?”

“My clothes,” she snapped. “I wasn’t wearing this before—who touched me?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes slightly. “I assume the healers. I didn’t ask. Why? Modesty?”

She stared at him.

He stared right back.

Right. He still thought she was a boy. A male recruit with a stupid name and no boundaries.

“Of course modesty,” she muttered. “Not all of us were born posing for statues.”

Legolas stood. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”

Rauth’s eyes narrowed. “Did you not see the part where I was bleeding and unconscious? That means no walking.”

“Which you clearly ignored the moment you woke. As expected.”

“Oh, lovely. Mirkwood hospitality. Injure a guest, insult them, and then drag them into the woods.”

He let out a breath, jaw tight. “This isn’t your room. You’re only here because the king insisted you needed quiet.”

“Then send a servant. Why you?”

“I drew the short straw.”

“You don’t even have straws here.”

Legolas glared. “Then I chose to come. Is that better?”

“Worse, honestly.”

They were in the middle of yet another snide exchange when the door creaked open.

“Estel?” came a gentle voice.

Both turned like misbehaving children caught by a teacher.

Arwen entered, radiant in a soft silver gown, her long dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She took in the room with a faint, confused smile.

Rauth jolted upright despite the pain. “Lady Arwen.”

Legolas stepped forward smoothly. “We were just leaving. For a healing walk.”

“Yes!” Rauth chirped. “A very soul-restoring walk. Through the trees.”

Legolas side-eyed her. “My father encourages fresh air for our convalescents.”

“Prince Legolas is so attentive,” Rauth added with a forced smile. “He’s taken such great care of me.”

Legolas’s voice dripped with false affection. “And Estel is always so cooperative.”

“We’ve become so close.”

“Like brothers.”

Rauth twitched. “Exactly. Except I’m taller.”

“You’re not.”

Arwen smiled sweetly. “It warms my heart to see you two getting along.”

They both nodded too quickly, too hard.

“Best friends,” Rauth said flatly.

“Practically inseparable,” Legolas agreed.

As Arwen turned to admire the window carvings, Rauth leaned toward him and hissed, “I hope you get bitten by a snake on this walk.”

Legolas didn’t even blink. “If I do, I’m dragging you down with me.”

The moment Arwen’s footsteps faded down the corridor, silence fell between them.

And then—

“‘Best friends,’” Legolas muttered under his breath, already walking ahead.

“‘Like brothers,’” Rauth mimicked, limping after him. “How very flattering.”

“You could’ve just kept your mouth shut.”

“You could’ve not shown up at all.”

“You’re lucky I did,” he snapped, pushing open a side door that led into one of the covered walkways.

The deeper they wandered into the woods, the thinner the paths became—twisting veins of stone and moss carved along the ridges of low cliffs. Below them, the forest dropped off in dizzying green, treetops swaying far beneath.

“Tell me again,” Rauth muttered, glaring at the path, “how this is supposed to be healing.”

Legolas stepped past her without a glance. “Try not to fall.”

“Oh, you’d love that.”

She limped after him, huffing. “Go ahead. Push me. End your suffering.”

“I wouldn’t waste the effort.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d have to carry my corpse. Probably mess up your princely tunic. Oh, I guess your royal soap water costs more than me, or perhaps even the laundry basket is adorned with gold?”

“Stop talking and watch your step.”

“No, really—this is your moment. You could give me the lightest shove and no one would know—”

Her foot slipped.

The edge crumbled beneath her.

For a split second, the world tilted and her stomach dropped. One leg kicked out over open air, her fingers clawing at nothing.

Then—

A hand. Strong. Sure.

He caught her wrist just before she went over.

Her heart thundered as she dangled, half off the path, her weight pulling down against his grip.

“Let go,” she breathed, winded. “It’s fine.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’ll be free. No more sarcastic human trailing after you. You’ll get your room back. Your peace. Your quiet.”

Still nothing. His grip tightened.

“Let go,” she whispered again.

Legolas looked down at her—expression unreadable, breath steady despite the strain. “Shut up.”

Then, with the gentlest pull, he hauled her back up, his movements precise and oddly careful. She landed with a grunt against his chest, arms tangled awkwardly between them.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

She could feel his heartbeat—annoyingly steady—against her shoulder.

“Thanks,” she muttered after a beat. “I guess.”

“You owe me,” he said flatly, releasing her and stepping back like she’d burned him.

Of course, only Mr.Hard-ass would tell her that after... you know.

They made their way through the winding halls of the palace, bickering at every turn. Rauth refused to walk slower even as her hip throbbed in protest. Legolas, of course, noticed.

“You’re limping.”

“I’m existing. Get used to it.”

“You’ll make it worse.”

“Then you’ll be free of me, and we’ll both win.”

“Try not to get lost, at least.”

“Too late,” she muttered.

Indeed, they had already wandered far from the guest quarters, their aimless path taking them down cooler, dimmer stone corridors. Their argument only paused when the air grew heavier, the faint smell of moss and metal creeping in. Ahead, iron bars lined the walls.

The dungeons.

“Did you just walk us into a dungeon?” Rauth asked dryly.

“I thought this was the conservatory.”

“Of course you did.”

They were about to turn back when the echo of voices caught her attention.

Down one of the dim halls, beyond the lantern glow, figures stood behind the bars. Dwarves. Most looked sullen or scowling, slumped on stone benches or pacing like restless wolves.

And Tauriel was there—just out of reach—her red braid catching the lamplight as she leaned toward one of the cells, speaking softly to a dwarf behind the bars.

Rauth slowed, the tension bleeding from her limbs for the first time.

“Who are they?” she asked quietly.

Legolas’s face hardened. “Trespassers. They crossed the forest without permission. My father had them arrested.”

She nodded slowly, watching the dwarves. “Some of them are quite attractive.”

Legolas’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

She gestured loosely. “That one’s got a nice beard. And the one Tauriel’s flirting with? Great arms.”

“I doubt he even has a neck,” Legolas muttered.

“He doesn’t need a neck if he has forearms like that.”

A soft voice joined them: “He is rather handsome.”

Rauth turned to find Tauriel standing beside her now, watching the same dwarf.

“Oh, I like him,” Rauth said with a grin.

“She has poor taste,” Legolas muttered.

“Because she doesn’t like you?” Rauth offered sweetly. “Poor prince. Jealousy is not a good color.”

One of the dwarves, overhearing, let out a loud spit against the bars.

“Bloody knife-ears. Listen to them talk like they own the world.”

Legolas turned, spine stiffening. “Watch your tongue, dwarf.”

“Oh please,” Rauth cut in, stepping forward. “You think I’m one of them?”

The dwarf glared. “You’re in their palace, dressed like one of their princelings.”

With a dramatic sigh, Rauth reached through the bars, grabbed the nearest dwarf by the collar, and yanked him forward so his face was pressed against the bars. Okay, there was a teory that if you press your skin against something long enough, it will leave permanant mark. Huh, imagine how strips might look for the face

“Look. Closer.”

She pushed her hair back and tilted her head, revealing her perfectly round, mortal ear.

His eyes widened.

“I’m human,” she said coolly. “And I hate elves too.”

Mr looked appalled. Tauriel stifled a laugh.

“Now sit down and behave,” Rauth added, giving the dwarf’s beard a little tug before letting go.

“Are you mad?” Legolas hissed once they stepped back.

“Most days,” she replied easily.

“You sided with prisoners.”

“I sided with the ones who aren’t trying to correct my limp with passive aggression.”

“They trespassed.”

“They exist, which is apparently your greatest offense.”

“You embarrassed me in front of Tauriel.”

“Oh, that’s what this is about.”

He said nothing.

Rauth smirked. “You’re jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of her liking someone else.”

Legolas scoffed. “As if I care who she flirts with.”

“You absolutely care. Look at you. You’re all stiff and scowling like a kicked puppy.”

“I don’t scowl.”

“You’re scowling right now.”

He turned away with a muttered Elvish curse.

Rauth was having the time of her life.

She had never consumed so much meat in her entire life, which she would sure would ‘cause farts to stink tomorrow. Nor had she ever watched such spetacular show that the Mirkwood elves are now putting on.  

Almost every one were drunk, swing around as expensive spilled upon the the great hall’s floor. A few were high-kicking at each other’s heads, others dancing like a mad monkey, the most ungraceful she had ever seen of elves.

Elladen had fetched all of them some wine, though all Rivendell Ellon’s remained seated at their table, sipping slowly from their goblets.

“Why are they so, urgh brutal?” Rauth asked.

“Haven’t you heard,” Elrohir snorted, “That they are more dangerous and less wise.”

“Like dwarves?”

“Not exactly, but——“

“Rivendell chicks!”

All of them whipped their heads toward the direction of the speaker, a drunk Tauriel swagged their way, wine spilling out of her mouth as she yelled: “Come play spin the bottle with us!”

A few Ellon’s shook their heads and returned to their goblets.

“Spin them bottle? What’s that?” Rauth asked.

Elladen smirked, and pulled her up:” Come on, it’s time you see the real hopitality of Mirkwood elves.” He led her to the center of the dinning hall which a large group of Ellons and ellyth had already gathered around what seems to be an empty wine bottle on the floor.

“So, what’s the rule?” Rauth sat down cross legs beside Elladen.

“It’s simple,” Elladen explained, “Everyone will spin the bottle when it comes to their chance, and if the neck of the bottle after you spin them point towards another person, you kiss them.”

“You what?” She panicked. Valar, she had not kissed anyone in her life, and certainly does not plan her first kiss to be with some random dirty ellon. Wait, what if—— “What if it’s the same gender?”

The Ellon smiled: “Then you down three goblets of wine, but you can kiss them if you want.”

Rauth seriously don’t know what is actually worse for her, kissing a disgusting Ellon or an elleth. If she did choose to kiss an Ellon, rumors will start and say she’s the weird mortal who likes the same gender. But if she chose to kiss an elleth like the male guard she pretends to be, it was just equally unsettling.

“Relax, you can say you’ll pass if you feel uncomfortable.” Elladen sensed her discomfort.

Before the first round began, Elrohir slid into the circle with a smirk.

“Alright,” he said, eyeing the bottle like it was some kind of predator, “which one of us is going to crack first?” Within moments, Elladen, Elrohir, and Rauth had struck a silent pact—and a wager. The first of the three to leave the circle would lose, and the other two would have bragging rights for the rest of the trip.

Then the game began.

A tipsy(many could say very drunk) ellon with hair so long it nearly brushed the wine-slick floor gave the bottle a dramatic whirl. It clinked and spun, sliding across the wood until the neck stopped—pointing directly at another ellon, who promptly burst into laughter.

The crowd roared.

“No backing out!” someone shouted, and before Rauth could blink, the two had leaned in, grabbed each other’s faces, and kissed with such enthusiastic sloppiness that she actually turned her head away.

The next spin ended with an elleth landing on another elleth, which triggered an even louder cheer. One of them simply shrugged, tipped back three goblets in rapid succession, and then kissed the other anyway—nearly toppling them both into the bottle.

Elladen shifted uncomfortably, his lips twitching like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or gag.

“This,” he murmured under his breath, “is exactly why Rivendell has proper feasts. Quiet music. Dignity. No… whatever this is.”

“Hospitality?” Rauth offered dryly.

“Madness,” Elrohir corrected. He glanced at the kissing pair currently drawing cheers from the crowd. “They look like they’re trying to eat each other alive. Is this some sort of courtship ritual or a public execution?”

Her brows rose. “Courtship? Surely not. Imagine explaining to your parents, ‘Yes, mother, we met when a wine bottle told us to smash our faces together like two potatoes.’ How utterly romantic this is.”

It only got worse.

One elf spun so aggressively the bottle shot out of the circle and hit someone in the ankle. That someone—already flushed and glassy-eyed—picked it up, spun without even sitting down, and ended up kissing the wrong person entirely.

By the time the bottle was passed to Elrohir, the circle was roaring with half-drunken anticipation. He gave it a lazy spin, clearly trying to look unimpressed by the entire affair.

The glass whirled, clinked against a knot in the wood, and slowed… until the neck stopped squarely at himself.

There was a heartbeat of silence—then Elladen doubled over laughing, and Rauth bit her lip hard to keep from joining him.

“Well,” Elrohir announced dryly, “I am my own best company.”

He picked up a goblet and began to drink, but before he could finish, the Mirkwood elves erupted into shouts.

“Coward!”

“Three goblets! Three!”

“No, properly! Down it all!”

I wish I have his luck, Rauth thought nervously as the bottle would next pass to her hands.

Across the room, a sharp thunk cut through the din—King Thranduil’s staff striking the floor. The drunken chatter snapped off like someone had cut a string.

“My son,” the king announced with smooth, dangerous amusement, “and Lady Arwen… will join your little game.”

The circle collectively inhaled. Heads whipped toward the newcomers.

Legolas stood like someone had nailed a rod down his spine, jaw set in that infuriating I am above this way that made Rauth want to hurl the bottle at his head. Arwen, meanwhile, wore an amused, diplomatic smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her stomach sank. Oh, perfect. Now she got to play spin-the-bottle under the laser glare of Mr. Hard-ass Crown Prince himself—like she was personally responsible for every poor life choice ever made in Mirkwood.

A flicker of a thought crossed her mind. Where was Tauriel? Surely the elleth would have been dragged into this circus by now. The absence was suspicious… though, for once, Rauth was glad Tauriel wasn’t here. At least someone she know would be spared the sight of this disaster.

“Carry on!” Thranduil said lightly, sweeping a hand like he hadn’t just upended the atmosphere entirely. The command settled over the group like a royal decree—which it was—and because most of the participants were drunk enough to wrestle a bear, the game lurched forward again.

And then… the bottle landed in front of her.

Rauth stared at it like it might bite. The polished glass caught the torchlight, glinting with malice. She could feel Legolas’s eyes boring into her. Across from him, Arwen gave a small, encouraging nod that only deepened the pit in her stomach.

A groan built in her throat. The last thing she ever wanted in her life was to kiss Lady Arwen—beautiful, poised, and painfully out of Rauth’s league in every possible sense.

Her palms were damp. “I hate this game,” she muttered under her breath.

Elladen grinned like a devil awaiting a soul. “Spin.”

She did. The bottle whirled, clinking over the floorboards, spinning faster than she meant it to. She held her breath as it slowed… slower… slower… until—

…until it stopped.

Right. Between. Them.

The neck of the bottle pointed so perfectly between Legolas and Arwen.

For one heartbeat, the circle was dead silent. Then the drunken shouting started.

“It’s pointing at our prince!” someone bellowed.

“No, the lady!” another argued.

“THE PRINCE!”

“THE LADY!”

“It’s BOTH!” a third howled, as if that were an acceptable rule in any civilized realm.

Rauth sat frozen, staring at the glass like she might be able to will it to shatter. She could feel their eyes—his cold and sharp as frostbite, hers warm but disturbingly amused. Oh, perfect. Stuck between a rock and a smug place.

She swallowed. “I think it’s broken,” she tried, voice deadpan. “We should probably stop before someone loses an eye.”

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

“Kiss! KISS! KISS!

“Do it, mortal!”

“Make it good!”

“Prince Legolas, don’t chicken out!”

“Lady Arwen’s waiting!”

“KISS! KISS! KISS!”

The drunken crowd was still shouting around her, but Rauth’s attention was locked on Legolas, whose icy glare was practically daring her to lose her nerve.

Rauth tilted her head at him, letting the shouting swirl around like a storm she wasn’t technically standing in the middle of. “What’s wrong, Your Royal Glacier? Afraid my lowly mortal lips will tarnish your ancient, pristine elf-dignity? Because honestly, I can understand. Imagine surviving centuries, winning battles, walking out of orc-infested forests without a scratch, only to have your reputation undone by a drunken parlor game. The scandal alone might make the bards choke on their own lutes.”

Legolas’s jaw tightened. “I fear nothing.”

“Oh, please.” She made a lazy gesture in his direction. “You’re practically vibrating with dread. Not the good kind, either—no adrenaline rush, no heroic charge into certain doom—just the kind of dread you get when you realize you left the door unlocked and there’s a raccoon in the pantry.”

“That would be preferable.”

She gave him her sweetest smile. “Coward.”

His eyes narrowed. “I am not a coward.”

“Of course not,” she said lightly, “you’re the paragon of bravery, the very embodiment of elven stoicism. Why, just look at you—standing there with the same energy as a man about to be forced into dancing at his cousin’s wedding. Go on, then. Prove me wrong. Or—” she tipped her chin toward Arwen, who was watching the exchange with undisguised interest—“let the lady do the honors while you hide behind your father’s title.”

A ripple went through the crowd—half gasps, half gleeful anticipation.

Legolas’s voice was cold enough to frost the floorboards. “If anyone hides, it will be you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, leaning forward until their noses were almost level, “if I were going to hide, I’d have done it the second His Royal Hardwood Staff over there decided to grace us with his presence. But no, here I am, staring into your judgmental face like I’ve just been called to confess my crimes—which, to be fair, I suppose I have. Only problem is, I don’t feel guilty. At all.”

Legolas leaned in, closing the space between them until she could see the faintest twitch in his temple—a telltale sign that she was getting under his skin. “You speak too much.”

She let out a soft, mock-thoughtful hum. “Maybe. Or maybe you just speak too little, and I’m compensating for both of us. That’s what teamwork is, princeling.”

Somewhere behind her, someone yelled, “KISS HIM!”

Another voice: “SHOW HIM, PRINCE LEGOLAS!”

Then: “KISS BOTH!”

And then—oh, because the Valar clearly hated her—Legolas moved closer, pride stiff in every line of him. At the same moment, Arwen, perhaps mistaking the chaos for some noble gesture, leaned in as well, her eyes bright in a way that made Rauth’s stomach tie itself into a sailor’s knot.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Rauth muttered—then, in one swift, shameless motion, she grabbed both by the back of the head and slammed them together.

The collision was exactly as romantic as two goats butting heads over the last patch of grass.

And then—blink, gone.

Legolas ripped himself away so fast Rauth half-expected him to dislocate something. He straightened like she’d just dumped a bucket of orc-guts on him, immediately swiping his mouth with the back of his wrist in a motion so precise it might have been choreographed. Arwen, meanwhile, looked like someone had swapped her wine with vinegar mid-sip—wide-eyed, a little stunned, and not quite sure whether to be offended or to dissolve into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

The circle exploded, “AGAIN! AGAIN!”

Rauth sat back, folding her arms with all the smug calm she could fake, her pulse still hammering like a war drum. “Well,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “that’s one diplomatic incident taken care of. You’re welcome.”

She took off running.

She vaulted over a bench, dodged a tray of wine before it could baptize her in red, and took the first hallway she found. Not a plan, just instinct. Her boots thudded down the steps into the cooler air of the lower levels—stone corridors, fewer candles, the faint damp tang of the dungeons.

But then she heard it: the faint, precise echo of boots. Too measured to be anyone else.

“Oh, Valar,” she muttered, ducking behind a column. “The glacier is thawing.”

Legolas’s voice called out, sharp and cold, bouncing off the stone: “Stop running, mortal”

She smirked, pulse racing like the beat of a drum. “You can’t catch me, baby, I’m on the run, run, run. You’ve already had your spotlight, your shame’s been spun, spun, spun. So step back, let me breathe, before your glare weighs a ton, ton, ton.”

She slowed only slightly, rounding the corner, and froze at the voices echoing from one of the cells—not hostile, but low and warm, like a campfire conversation.

Tauriel sat cross-legged on the floor inside the open cell, talking to a dwarf who looked like he’d been pulled from a bard’s cautionary tale. Urgh, kind of okay looking, Rauth scratched her chin.

“…and you really think stars look better here?” That was Tauriel’s voice.

The dwarve’s reply came with a laugh that was all nerves and charm. “Better? No. But they’re different. Wilder. Like they’re not part of some court or rulebook—they’re just… there. Free.”

There was a pause, long enough for Rauth to picture Tauriel tilting her head in that way she did when she was actually interested. “And you think freedom is always better than duty?”

“Not always,” Kíli admitted. “But I think if someone spends their whole life looking at the same stars from the same place… maybe they should try a different sky.”

She stepped out of the shadows. “Well,” she announced, clapping her hands once, “isn’t this cozy. Stars, freedom, forbidden longing—did I miss the part where you two start composing tragic ballads?”

Tauriel blinked, then gave her a dry look. “You’re out of breath.”

“Because,” Rauth said, flopping dramatically against the bars, “I was just chased halfway across the palace by His Royal Ice Sculpture, and I came here for some peace. And maybe to hide. Definitely to hide.”

She got a strong feeling His Royal Ice Sculpture was somewhere near them.

Chapter Text

Even after Rauth and Elladen had laid down in their beds after washing off the wariness and the alcohol, the two still could not seem to rest properly.

Probably due to the party that was still on full swing in the Great Hall. Neither of the two has any idea how Mirkwood elves could drink and shout for so long without the need to sleep as most Rivendell ones had long retired for the night.

Elladen lowered himself onto the edge of his bed, hands neatly folded in his lap, exuding the calm composure that made him so maddeningly proper. “It’s… different here,” he said quietly, eyes reflecting faint torchlight. “Not just the palace, but the people. Mirkwood is… more unpredictable than Rivendell. More… alive.”

Rauth flopped onto the other bed, crossing her arms. “Unpredictable? That’s one word for it. The rest of us would call it a nightmare on stilts. Honestly, I feel like I just survived some sort of elven acid trip. You think anyone else would just… spin a bottle and kiss someone—or three—without legal repercussions?”

He gave a small, polite smile. “Yes, it is… lively. And the customs… they are quite unlike anything we are accustomed to.”

Rauth’s dark humor bubbled up again. “Lively. Right. Nothing like watching two people nearly eat each other over a glass bottle. So, tell me, oh calm, dignified Elladen—when the bottle came your way, did you, perhaps, kiss anyone? Or were you the poster child for restraint?”

Elladen’s cheeks colored slightly, though his posture remained impeccable. “I… participated. But only out of politeness, not folly.”

“Out of politeness?” Rauth repeated, incredulous. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes narrowing. “Politeness, Elladen? Are we talking courteous cheek-kissing or full-on scandalous lip engagement? Because I need to know who fell victim to your… exemplary manners.”

He hesitated, then inclined his head, keeping his tone measured. “A lady. A Mirkwood lady. That is all I shall say. It was brief and proper, nothing more.”

Rauth groaned dramatically, letting her head fall back onto the pillow. “Of course. Proper. Of course it’s proper. And here I thought I had witnessed enough chaos for one evening. Well, good to know someone managed to remain… civilized.”

Before he could answer, the sudden blare of a horn split the night. A second siren followed, shrill and urgent. Shouts echoed down the corridor.

Rauth shot upright, fumbling for her wig. “What in the—?”

The hallway outside exploded into chaos: doors slammed, boots thundered, steel clattered as guards rushed for weapons. Elves shouted orders over each other, voices sharp with panic. Rivendell guards scrambling for armor, tunics, and boots, while Rauth fumbled with her wig, twisting it into a vaguely plausible shape as she cursed under her breath. “Honestly, do they ever just let anyone have a normal night?!”

Elladen grabbed her arm as they joined the other guards running through the hallways.

“The dwarves—escaped the dungeon!” someone cried.

“Orcs on the borders!” another voice bellowed.

Arrows spilled across the floor, shields were wrenched from racks, someone nearly collided with Rauth in the crush. She grabbed her bow, heart pounding.

But before they could join the press racing toward the gates, a commanding voice rolled like thunder through the halls.

“Rivendell guards!”

Everyone froze. King Thranduil’s voice was unmistakable, echoing with authority.

“You will remain within the palace. You will escort the ladies back to Imladris. Mirkwood will defend its own borders.”

Wait what?

Hey, you know the kind of disappointment mixed with relief when Lindir told everyone there was gonna be a quiz tomorrow and then he got sick. Well, the prerequisite is either: one, you know you’ll do well on the exam, which is absolutely not possible for Rauth. Two, you’re the one who drugged Lindir’s dinner and stuck him in a toilet.

Okay, she was actually dying for a chance to go kill some orcs.

“Estel, you will follow me to my office.” The king startled her. “The rest of you will go prepare to leave, I have sent message to lady Arwen and her companions.”

Rauth glanced at Elladen: “What now?” 

“Um, follow the king’s order.” He looked bewildered as well.

“But what if you guys leave without me?” 

The ellon look mildly alarmed: “We won’t, I promise.” Patting her on the shoulder like a brother.

“Estel, we have no time to waste.” King Thranduil reminded them again. “Rivendell guards, you will leave in the next fifteen minutes! Estel, follow me.”

“I’ll be hast!” Rauth shouted over the noise towards Elladen as he disappeared into the barrack again.

As soon as they were in the king’s study, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You would have me leave them now? When they’ve only just begun to see me as one of them? When every hour counts, and I—” She bit the words off, heat flooding her face as she realized how her tone had risen before her king. She dropped her gaze, breath sharp, forcing her shoulders to still. “Forgive me. I… overstep.”

Thranduil chuckled softly, the sound not mocking but warm, as though she were a niece whose temper amused him more than it offended. “Overstep? You have the fire of your adar, and Glorfindel would be ashamed if you swallowed it all down like a meek doe.”

“Then what are you calling me for?” Rauth blurted out.

 “You will watch. Listen. Write.”

Her brow furrowed. “Write?”

Thranduil inclined his head, as if her outburst had only confirmed what he expected. “Letters, yes. Reports of what you see, of what moves in shadows and what stirs in the open. My halls have many eyes, but your gaze—” he gestured lazily toward her “—is not so easily suspected.”

“You want me to be a spy.”

“A correspondent,” he corrected smoothly, lips twitching as if it were all a game.

“I am not a scribe, nor your errand-girl,” she snapped before she could stop herself.

His chuckle was light, without edge. “So fiery. You sound so much like him.”

That only deepened her scowl. “And what of my training? My comrades? You would have me sit and write while others shed blood?”

“I would have you live,” Thranduil replied simply. “Ink is lighter than blood, and carries farther. Your blade may strike one foe, but your words may turn the course of many.”

“And where exactly is that, urgh, foe thing?” Rauth asked. If she hadn’t spent so much time mimicking how to act guy-ish, she wouldn’t have the problem of being accused of having a foul mouth.

“Gondor.” Thranduil said finally, “there are whispers carried on darker winds than even Mirkwood’s trees can’t endure. The corruption here, the shadow spreading through my borders—it does not begin in my forest. It comes from the south, near Gondor’s eastern edges. Something festers there. Something old, and cunning.”

Rauth blinked, thrown off by the weight in his voice. “And you think… me? Out of everyone, me?”

The king’s lips curved in that wry, knowing half-smile she’d seen before, the one that made him look far less like a ruler and far more like a mischievous neighbor watching her climb the wrong tree. “You are not just anyone. You are unnoticed when you need to be, clever when you ought not to be, and reckless enough to walk where the rest of us hesitate. You are… the perfect spy.”

Her pulse kicked hard. “Does Elrond know? Wait, what about adar”

Thranduil’s smile dimmed, and for a moment, his age showed. “Your adar has received my message, but he made no reply. As for Lord Elrond…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I have not told him. He would not permit it. His heart is too protective of his children, and I will not waste weeks in debate while shadow grows bold. No, Rauth. You will leave now.”

“NOW?” she shrieked, “what do you mean now?”

Its the king’s turn to be confused: “I mean right now.”

“And what do you mean right now?” 

“At this moment.” Thranduil answered confidently.

“That’s not reasonable.” Rauth crossed her arms.

King Thranduil raised a brow. Oh, I see where Mr. Hard-ass inherited such brows, I need to know which sugar wax they use, perhaps its family recipe. “If you’re concerned about the other sons of Elrond, then I will send them a light message explaining your situation of feeling unwell as ladies often does.”

“Urgh, no, and please don’t say that, Elrohir still doesn’t know.” Rauth mumbled.

“Or, I could comfort lady Arwen’s crying heart.” 

“NO! I’m not concerned about that.”

“The what are you concerned of?” Thranduil asked, exasperated.

“Well, for starter, you can’t tell somebody to go right now. Like the moment you said right now is already not “right now”. Which means, the last time you ordered me to go on the mission right now is already half a minute ago, and it would make me impossible to travel back time and follow your order. Even if I could time travel, the average human reflexes is about zero point one seconds. Therefore, there is no way for me to go “right now.””

Thranduil glanced at the window: “Thank you so your well-rounded explanation, but I’m afraid you’re even further from the point I said “right now”.”

“Yeah, I was about to ask you which route to take to Gondor.” Rauth lied smoothly.

Thranduil arched a golden brow at her(Again? I know a character is not suppose to repeat an action, but Rauth knew clear enough that its his signature movement), clearly seeing through the lie, but he reached for a rolled parchment from his desk nonetheless. With a lazy flick, he spread it open across the table, smoothing the edges with his long fingers.

“This route,” he said, tapping near the forest’s southern edge. “You will travel swiftly through Ithilien, avoid the main roads, and cross here, near Osgiliath. Gondor’s watchmen are… zealous. They will not look twice at one cloaked and traveling light, but an elf wandering openly? That would raise too many questions.”

Rauth leaned over the map, frowning. “So you want me sneaking through Gondor’s borders, dodging zealous guards, writing you secret love letters in invisible ink… and you’re saying this with the same tone you use to order more wine.”

“Yes,” Thranduil said simply, and handed her a small bottle with dark glass. “Your letters will appear only to elven eyes when dipped in moonlight. Write what you see, send by bird, and no Gondorian will ever guess what you’ve carried.”

She turned the bottle over in her palm, unimpressed. “Great. Secret spy ink. That’ll definitely save me when some orc decides to turn me into kebab.”

Thranduil chuckled, pouring himself another glass of wine as though her dramatics were part of the entertainment. “You thrive best when underestimated, child. Orcs will look at you and see prey. Men will look at you and see a traveler. Only those who know better will see the weapon.”

Rauth rolled her eyes. “What if those ‘who know better’ happen to outnumber me by—oh, I don’t know—a whole Gondorian garrison?”

“Then,” Thranduil said, sipping with infuriating serenity, “I expect you will run very quickly, and write me a most detailed letter about how unfair it was.”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s your royal strategy? Run quickly?”

“I find it keeps one alive.” He set the goblet down and fixed her with a steady look that softened at the edges. “Do not mistake me, Rauth. This is dangerous work. I would not send you if I thought another could do it better. But you… you have a way of wriggling through places even my best scouts would balk at.”

“Wriggling?” she repeated flatly. “Did you just call me a worm?”

“Yes, now please wiggle to your dorm room and pack swiftly, a horse has been arranged for you at the front gate. I trust your comrades have already left.”

Rauth trudged through the palace’s front gate, luggage in hand feeling excitement of the trip.

She had chosen a light black cloak that draped almost from head to toe as if she was a gigantic bat. But it will do what the king requested, to be as discreet as possible.

Ahead, a horse had been arranged for her. And not just any horse—this one looked like it belonged in a song, all muscle and shine, mane like liquid bronze, and eyes that practically dared her to mess up its day. She raised an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you the show-off of the stables?” Carefully, she approached, running a hand along its sleek coat. The horse snorted softly, almost as if it approved of her attitude. “Finally, someone who appreciates me,” she said, swinging herself into the saddle with a flourish that would’ve earned applause if anyone had been watching.

Thank you, my king, I have no doubt you’re rich. Even my adar wasn’t that picky about horses, well, he told me he used to be.

She did not urge it to a trallop, unlike most people with their fancy vehicles, instead it trot patiently on the rocky ground of Mirkwood, a steady beat that seems calming. No need to waste all your strength on the first stretch, she thought dryly, patting its neck.

And I’m never ever giving you back, this could work well as a nice gift for adar.

She followed the winding path marked on Thranduil’s map until the forest thinned and the faint gleam of water appeared ahead. The river.

Urgh, that’s the border.

Slowing the horse as it neared, she mumbled: “Hell yeah, we could use some of this, you need a drink, I need a drink. Until we find some other bar, this is gonna be our life saver.” But the horse, against her will, seem to have no appetite for some water as it kept nuzzling further from the river.

“What? You afraid of water?” Rauth snorted, detaching her water skin and took a long drink from it. “Big chunk of fancy muscle afraid of ----”

A distant cry broke her words.

The river widened before her, and the rushing current carried with it a most absurd sight—dwarves. A dozen stout figures bobbing down the water in great wooden barrels, shouting, grumbling, splashing, and—were they fighting from inside those things? Rauth pulled her reins and stared, wide-eyed, before a laugh slipped from her lips. “By the valar, I m lucky I didn’t drink from the river directly, dwarven bathing water must stinks.”

But her mirth didn’t last. On the far bank, orcs swarmed like ants, their guttural cries rising as they loosed arrows at the drifting dwarves. Black-fletched shafts rained across the water, striking wood, glancing off metal, narrowly missing bearded heads. 

Her grip on the reins tightened. She was about to curse under her breath when two figures slipped into view like ghosts made flesh.

Legolas.

Even from across the water, she could tell by the way he moved: precise, cold, terrifyingly graceful. His bow sang through the air, each arrow loosed with that infuriating Elven ease. Every shot was a death sentence.

And then, Tauriel. Fiery-haired, moving with speed that was almost reckless. Urgh, if only she could have their grace in archery.

Rauth blinked hard, leaning back in her saddle with a half-snort.

“Of course,” she muttered to herself, “leave it to Mirkwood’s golden boy and his shadow to turn a riverbank slaughter into a performance.”

Follow the map, Rauthmirelle. Keep your head down.

Let him do the work, they won’t even recognize you, you’re wearing a heavy cloak, nothing could give away your identity.

Slowly tugging the rein, she willed the horse to turn back and---

“STOP!”

A sharp whistle cut the air.

Her horse jerked beneath her, ears twitching, nostrils flaring. From across the river, even above the orcs’ howls and the dwarves’ shouting, one voice carried clear as steel.

“That is my horse!”

That was his horse the king gave me? What the hell?

Rauth’s stomach dropped. Her head snapped back toward the bank—too late. Legolas’ eyes had found her. Even through the mist and the chaos, his sharp gaze locked onto the steed beneath her cloak-wrapped frame.

“Damn,” Rauth muttered. “Should’ve picked the half-dead mule. Now run, show us the meaning of hast!”

Her horse, however, had other ideas. The moment its dark eyes landed on the prince, it surged forward with a snort of recognition, ears pricked and stride eager, as though it had just sighted its true master.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Rauth snapped, tugging at the reins. The beast tossed its head, nearly unseating her, and plunged another few paces toward the bank. “I don’t care if you think he’s the Golden Lord of Saddles, you are mine.”

The horse ignored her, hooves churning up dirt as it tried to charge toward the archer. Rauth grit her teeth, gave the reins a vicious yank, and barked out, “He is not your master anymore! Do you remember Thranduil? Yes, your king? He gave you to me, and by the stars above, you will obey me, not his stupid asshole son!”

The first arrow sang through the air, grazing past her hood. Instinct yanked her low in the saddle, and she yanked the reins hard. The horse surged forward on the rocky bank, hooves clattering against stone as arrows whistled around her.

Another shot—closer this time. She swore, yanking her dagger free with a twist of her wrist.

“Sorry, Prince Charming,” she muttered, flipping the blade over in her fingers. “I’m not stopping for a lecture.”

She hurled it back.

Legolas twisted, nearly avoiding it—but not enough. The dagger kissed along his arm, ripping through leather and grazing his skin. His face flashed in pain, then fury. A thin line of crimson welled along the pale flesh, a mark that would not fade easily.

He drew again, too quick. His arrow hissed through the trees—this one found her. It sliced past her cloak, burning against her shoulder, leaving a deep, searing gash that dragged a cry from her lips.

“Thief! You will not escape me!”

The chase had only begun.

Then the horns blared. Deep and guttural, echoing through the valley. An answering chorus of snarls and pounding boots followed. From the treeline burst a swarm of orcs, cutting Legolas and Tauriel from her sight in an instant.

Rauth’s stomach dropped. “No—”

The orcs roared, swarming the riverbank, and their voices rose in cruel, guttural mockery.

“The mute!” one bellowed, pointing.

“Catch the mute, skin the mute!” another jeered, laughter harsh as steel.

Rauth lowered herself close to the horse’s neck and kicked harder than she ever had before. Her legs burned, her breath tore at her chest. The stallion lunged forward, flying over root and rock with terrifying speed.

It was worse than any race she had run with Adar in Rivendell’s golden woods. Back then, the air had been filled with laughter, cheers, and the warmth of sunlit leaves. Now, the only sound was her own ragged breathing, the thunder of pursuit, and the shrieking laughter of orcs gaining ground.

Her arms trembled with the force of holding the reins. Her thighs ached from clinging to the galloping beast. Every muscle screamed, every breath stabbed her lungs. Yet still, she pushed harder.

She could feel them closing in. Could almost feel their claws scraping at her cloak.

No thank you, I would not like to buy a new cloak because someone teared it up. And I hate cloaks, she thought bitterly.

Let’s outrun some orcs.

The trick to riding hard and fast isn’t to shout slogans like “Ride! Faster!” at yourself.

Nor is it to pity yourself either, no matter how tired Rauth felt after days of riding none stop. Yes, adar, thank you so much for those training session in the Imaradis woods, I need all those fancy tricks now. And no thanks to Lindir who was picking herbs and ran back to report to Elrond at the sight of me back then.

She was pretty sure she had successfully got rid of the hord of orc by now as there were no longer heavy footsteps and metal clinking behind her, not that she has elven hearing anyway.  Not that she ever want to be an elf, well, if she could choose, she would definitely wish for the absolute speed and strength an immortal pocesses, but never a bad elf. Wait, does she even knew a bad elf. She does.

Maybe, she couldn’t remember.

Wait, why can’t she remember, that bad elf’s name was just there.

She could even picture his too-bright hair that shone in the training ground’s sunlight and the way his muscled worked together to pull a bow, or the way his wicked smile pulled at her----

What was his name?

Rauth blinked against the thick mist curling around the shallow pools. The horse shifted beneath her, another whimper escaping its lips, high and sharp, breaking through the haze of her fatigue.

The ground beneath them squelched, and for a heartbeat, she didn’t notice the water licking at the horse’s hooves. Only when it flinched and jerked sideways did she realize where they were. Her stomach sank as the gray-green pools reflected shapes that weren’t there — faces, pale and hollow-eyed, moving beneath the surface, mouths opening in silent cries. Her head spun. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, but her legs felt leaden, her hands trembling on the reins. I’m fine, she told herself, but the lie barely formed before dizziness pulled her sideways, and she was sliding off the horse into the cold, sucking water of the marsh.

The horse let out another low whimper, trotting restlessly.

“Behave.” Rauth tugged on its reins, “Do you mind me calling you Horse?”

It let out another feared sigh.

“I’ll take that as a yes, Horse.” She continued. “You know what, i would love a warm bed to sleep in right now, by a burning hearth and some nice food. Wait, I shouldn’t be talking about food right now, it ruins the urgh, dead body mood.” Rauth felt like puking, at the sight of ghostly white corpse lying a few feet away from her as she was still atop Horse.

“Keep walking, keep walking.” Rauth mumbled, she had no idea where they’re walking towards, but anything is better than staying in this graveyard.

Horse shuddered.

“Yeah, toughen up man. Fine, i have no idea what your gender is which would bother me a little ‘cause you probably saw me bathing the other day. You’re a horse, its all good, no harm done.” She tightened her grip on the rein. “Or if you do want to apologize, I suggest you dig your own eyeballs out and join the eyeless club over there.” That’s not funny, she mentally noted.

Rauth swayed in the saddle. Her mouth was so dry she could barely form a curse.

And then she saw it.

A pale, hunched creature crouched at the edge of a pool, tearing at something with long fingers and sharper teeth. It was gnawing at a corpse, one of the faces beneath the water dragged halfway out, its armor rusted, its skin waxen.

The thing’s head jerked up. Wide, lamp-like eyes fixed on her. It hissed, lips peeling back.

“No… no, no, no, no… thief! Thief, thief! After it, yes, after my Precious!”

With a successful cry, the creature dragged the corpse of what it seems to be a human fully on to the shore, its ghostly grey wrinkled fingers clawed at what seem to be left of it.

Rauth was about to be sick, though there were nothing in her stomach that was left to let out.

“Hungry, yesss… so hungry… no fish, no bread, nothing… precious, where is it, where, where? Thief stole it, tricksy thief…”

“What’s that smell?” His voice sharpened, cracked. He scrambled closer on all fours, eyes glowing like lanterns in the mist. “Horseflesh? Elf-flesh? No… no, not elf… something else…”

Rauth’s throat tightened, but she held her chin high, forcing herself not to show fear.

The creature froze, blinking up at her. Then his face contorted, desperate. “You! You’ve seen it! You’ve seen my Precious! Tell us, yesss, tell us where it is!”

She rolled her eyes: “Yeah, I’ve seen it,” she snapped. “I have your stupid Precious. Your precious Precious.”

The words slipped out before she could bite them back.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the creature shrieked, clawing at the air, his voice a knife through the mist. “LIAR! THIEF! YOU STOLE IT! HALFBREED!”

The horse reared in terror, nearly throwing her. Shadows stirred in the fog, answering the cry — shapes too large, too swift, slithering closer. Rauth’s stomach dropped.

“Thief! THIEF THAT STOLE MY PRECIOUS! An ugly nasty HALFBREED!”

Then to her greatest horror: from the darkness of the sky came a sound like a million wings dragging through mud and cutting through the wind, guttural snarls rising and falling. Rauth didn’t know what they were — only that they were coming fast, wings slicing through the night, a hunger in their screeches. Monsters, summoned by its scream.

The only escape lay in the reeking water.

The water closed over her head with a sucking chill, heavy and foul, as if she’d plunged into death itself, that stuck of rot and stagnent slime, thick with poisoned oil that clung to her skin.

Shapes drifted all around her.

Bloated hands brushed against her shoulders, tangled hair curled around her arms. Their faces—pale, greenish, eyes half-open—floated just beneath the surface, mouths slack as though still gasping for air. Elves, Men, even orcs, their corpses preserved in the swamp’s spell. When Rauth’s foot touched one, its swollen body rolled and turned, and she nearly screamed as its dead empty gaze caught hers.

Behind her, the creature dug into the water, its sharp nails digging into her skin.

Then to the arrow wound that Legolas gave her back at the chase.

Bubbles burst from her mouth as she thrashed with agony, but the water pressed in, muffling every sound, choking her.

It was as it bats in a long abandoned cave, that the creature’s large yellow ones and those ghostly ones of the corpse which had long lost their original light snapped inches from her face. Wide and wild.

She fought to push him away, but her hand struck a cold chest—one of the corpses.

For a moment she was nose to nose with a dead elf, his hair floating like weeds, a broken arrow still lodged in his breast plate. Terror surged so strong it nearly paralyzed her. The water tasted of iron and decay when it forced its way into her lungs.

Long nails stabbed into her flesh, pushing toward where the arrow had struck, gawning and searching for any sense of death.

And it burned.

Rauth could feel a flicker of gold through the black void of pain, of death, sending her a wave of warmth.

Her hand brushed metal.

A dagger, gripped tight in the lifeless hand of the elf. Desperate, Rauth wrenched it free. With a sob that turned into a scream in her throat, she slashed across the creature’s clawing hand.

She could feel the gold dripping within her blood, fueling her body as she pumped her legs and kicked upward.

Breaking through the surface.

Relief tore through her like lightning with a ragged choke, clawing her way up, dripping and shaking, hauled herself into the saddle.

“Go,” she croaked, and Horse needed no urging.

It bolted forward, hooves splashing mud and then pounding into firmer ground as it fled the cursed marsh. Rauth clung to its mane, barely upright, water streaming from her clothes, her dagger still clenched in her hand. Behind her, the shadows shrieked and the marsh gurgled, but she did not dare look back.

They galloped until the air smelled clean again, until the oppressive weight of the Marsh lifted. Only then did her strength fail. Her vision blurred, the world tilting sideways as she slipped from the saddle.

She hit the ground hard, mud smearing her face, the dagger falling from her fingers.

The last thing she saw was a familiar golden light hovering anxiously above her.

“Adar.”

Chapter Text

An icy hand had grabbed her ankle when she pulled herself up from that monstrous pond. She turned to see gray fingers digging into her skin.

“Let go.” She heard herself begging, trying to peel away the hand.

“No...” A hairless head popped out from the water bellow, it has wide red eyes filled with blood an empty hole on the place of its nose.

“Come with us, stay with use.” More like it joined the chorus, dragging their bodies towards her.

“No, no, no, no. NO!”

Rauth woke with a start, the world titling and swimming around her.

Her chest ached with every breath, her throat raw, but the stench of rot was gone. Instead, the air was clean and cool, carrying only the faint smell of damp earth.

Something moved at her side. Rauth flinched, hand going instinctively to her belt—though there was no dagger there.

“Don’t—don’t be frightened,” a voice squeaked. High, thin, and strangely mouselike.

Blinking against the sun, she looked up.

And up.

And up.

And up----

The figure standing over her was a women, if “women” is the right word for someone so towering. Rauth was sure she must be much taller than herself though she was considered quite tall among females back in Rivendell already. Her shoulder’s were as broad as any men, even steadier perhaps. Her plain wool dress strained at the seams, and her hands which wore no rings were large, callused, though she wrung them nervously as if trying to hide their size.

“Who,” Rauth rasped, still catching her breath, “are you supposed to be?”

The stranger shifted awkwardly. “Hilda,” she said at last, her voice trembling as though she feared Rauth wouldn’t believe her. “From the far north. I’m… I’m on my way to Gondor. To seek service. In the palace. As a maid.”

Rauth stared. Her lips parted, but no words came out. The absurdity was too much: this towering oak of a woman, broad as any warrior she’d ever sparred, claiming to be a servant?

“…A maid,” she repeated flatly.

“Yes,” Hilda squeaked, ducking her head, as if that made her seem smaller. “I’m very good at polishing silver.”

Rauth’s eyes flew open to the smell of smoke and meat. Her chest burned, her throat still raw from the Marsh water. She rolled onto her side, hand instinctively reaching for her belt—empty.

“Don’t—don’t be frightened,” came a squeaky voice.

Rauth snapped upright, ignoring the throb in her ribs. Her eyes narrowed. A towering woman loomed over her, broad as a soldier, hands callused, a bonnet pulled low over messy brown hair.

“And who in the name of the Valar,” Rauth rasped, “wanders the borders of the Dead Marshes dressed like a farmer’s wife?”

The woman wrung her massive hands. “I—I don’t know what Marsh you mean. I’m only Hilda. From the north. On my way to Gondor. To seek service… as a maid.”

Rauth blinked at her. Then gave a dry, incredulous laugh.

“A maid,” she repeated flatly. “Yes, of course. Because every maid I’ve ever met was taller than most captains of the guard and had hands like a seasoned brawler.”

Hilda ducked her head as if shrinking into herself. “I… I polish silver very well.”

Rauth tilted her head, eyes sharp. “And you just happened to stumble onto the Marshes without knowing what they are?”

“I’ve never heard of them,” Hilda squeaked quickly. “Are they close?”

Rauth studied her in silence, lips twitching into a humorless smirk. “Unbelievable. You’re either lying, or you’re the stupidest maid to ever walk Middle-earth.”

Desperate to change the subject, Hilda stammered, “I made soup. A rabbit ran into a tree. Very lucky.”

Rauth’s suspicion only deepened. “Oh, how convenient. Supper leaps into your pot, you trip across cursed swamps without noticing, and here you are, towering over me like a misplaced soldier. You must be the most blessed maid alive.”

Hilda squeaked, “Would you like some?” and thrust the steaming bowl toward her.

Rauth ignored the food, eyes never leaving her. Her tone dropped to a cool, cutting murmur: “Your story is full of loop holes, Hilda. You’d better hope I’m too tired to cut them wider.”The woman said nothing more, simply folding her large hands and standing meekly, as though she wished to disappear into the grass.

Timidly, the tall woman cleared her throat and pointed a little way off, where thin smoke curled above the grass. “Meat soup.”

Rauth squinted at her. “Meat? From what, exactly? You don’t look like the type to set snares. And no maid I’ve ever met knew how to hunt.” Hm, she is tall and broad but no parent would ever allow their girls to hunt unless its a northern tradition she didn’t know of.

The woman’s cheeks colored, and she stammered quickly: “A rabbit. It… it ran into a tree trunk. By itself. Very lucky.”

A bowl of steaming soup was being placed on her hand, rich with the scent of fresh meat and herbs. If Estel was there, he could have easily identified them. Her stomach, however, turned at the thought of swallowing anything. The memory of marsh water, thick and foul in her lungs, clung to her throat. The ghostly faces of the dead seemed to stare up from the soup instead of carrots and broth.

She set it down beside her with a grimace.

“You… you don’t want it?” Hilda asked, her squeaky voice wobbling like a bowstring.

“Not hungry,” Rauth muttered, drawing her cloak tighter around her.

A beat of silence hung between them. Then, with almost comic determination, the broad-shouldered woman snatched the bowl back. “I’ll eat it then. No sense wasting food.”

Rauth arched a brow, watching as Hilda shoveled mouthfuls into her mouth with exaggerated relish. The “maid’s” jaw worked stiffly, like a soldier choking down rations, her too-large hands clumsy around the delicate utensil.

“Mm,” Hilda squeaked between spoonfuls, eyes darting toward her. “Delicious. Best soup I’ve ever made. You’re… missing out.”

Propping her chin in her hand, Rauth studied her. Flawless skin, as if the sun had never touched it. Brown hair tucked beneath a bonnet that hid her ears. Eyes framed faintly, as though someone had used some strange kohl or gel. The face… irritatingly familiar.

“You know,” Rauth said slowly, “you remind me of someone. Someone I’ve seen before. Someone who even cooks soup like this.”

The spoon froze midair. “Lots of people make rabbit soup,” Hilda stammered.

“Mm.” A faint smirk curved Rauth’s mouth. “I’m sure.”

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

“Hilda?” Rauth asked at last.

A beat. “Yes?”

Her eyes narrowed, steady and cutting. “That isn’t really your name, is it?”

“NO! I—I am Hilda, I mean—” The woman faltered, desperation flashing in her too-wide eyes.

Rauth cut across her. “It’s fine. If that’s the name you prefer.”

Relief washed over the maid’s face, and she nodded quickly.

Rauth chuckled under her breath. “Strange, though. You’ve shown almost no interest in me, for a stranger who just dragged me out of a cursed swamp.”

“What would you have me ask?” Hilda squeaked.

“For a start,” Rauth mused, “do you even know my name?”

The woman blinked. “What is your name?”

Rauth hesitated. She couldn’t use Estel. Not here. Not now. “Urgh. Rosemary,” she said at last, dryly. Because Rauthmirelle is far too obviously Elvish, she thought to herself.

“Hi, Rosemary!” Hilda waved, awkward as a child.

Rauth groaned. “Unbelievable. Hi, Hilda.” She let out a small laugh despite herself. “Aren’t you even curious where I’m headed?”

“Oh—yes, where are you going, Rosemary?”

“To Gondor,” she answered breezily, scratching her forehead. “Looking for a position at the palace. Maybe as a maid. Who knows—maybe we’ll be sisters.”

“Yes. Sisters.” Hilda echoed, the word oddly flat.

Rauth’s grin widened, teasing. “Perfect. It’s been a long time since I had any female friends. And it’s not every day I meet someone taller than me. Tell me—are all northern women built like oak trees?”

A blush crept over Hilda’s cheeks, poorly hidden beneath her dull hair. “Yes,” she mumbled.

Rauth stood, brushing crumbs from her cloak. “Here, give me the bowl. I’ll wash it.”

Hilda squeaked in protest, nearly toppling the pot. “No, no—you’re a guest! I can do it.”

“You’ve done the cooking. Least I can do is the cleaning.” Rauth plucked the dish from her fumbling hands before the woman could argue further. She carried it to the stream, dipping it into the cold water until the last trace of broth swirled away.

When she returned, Hilda was already fussing with her bedding, cheeks faintly pink. She mumbled something about the chill and turned over, her bonnet slipping just enough to hide her ears again.

Rauth stretched out across from her, cloak pulled tight, chin nestled into her arm. The night was quiet save for the crackle of the fire, shadows dancing against the canvas of the tent.

It was strange. She should have been wary—was wary—of this broad-shouldered woman who had appeared out of nowhere, on the very edge of the Dead Marshes, no less. And yet… there was something oddly familiar in the cadence of her voice, in the awkward way she ladled soup, in the faint, unguarded blush that still lingered on her cheek.

For the first time in weeks, Rauth’s shoulders eased. She allowed her eyes to close, lulled by a comfort she could not name. It was ridiculous, she thought drowsily, to feel safe with a stranger she’d met mere hours ago. Ridiculous—

And yet she slept soundly.

Rauth stirred to warmth she had not known in weeks. The rough ground no longer pressed against her back, and when she shifted, she found herself nestled deep in a bedroll, the blanket pulled snug beneath her chin. For a disoriented moment she blinked, wondering how she had crawled in without noticing.

Her answer came in the shape of a velvet muzzle pressing against her cheek. She laughed, half-startled, and reached up to stroke her horse’s nose. “You again,” she murmured, rubbing the familiar white mark on its brow. The animal snorted, warm breath tickling her face, and she sat up fully.

The camp was tidy, the fire coaxed back into steady embers. Her packs were still lashed neatly to the saddle, as if no hand had dared disturb them in the night. On top of her rolled cloak lay the folded map Thranduil had given her, its edges worn soft with handling. She pulled it open, eyes tracing the inked lines, and a thrill of relief went through her chest.

“You’re awaken, Rosemary.” It was Hilda’s squeeky voice again.

“Gosh, you scare me! How come you have such light footsteps for a human!” Rauth exclaimed, nearly dropping the map. “No offense, really. Just surprised that most human this tall don’t walk so soundlessly.

The maid blushed again: “I have some potatoes.”

The smell of roasted potato made Rauth’s stomach growl the moment Hilda unwrapped the cloth. She hadn’t realized how hollow she felt until the food was right before her.

“Here,” Hilda squeaked, handing over one of the browned tubers.

Rauth burned her fingers in her haste to peel the skin back and bit into it before it had cooled. The first mouthful nearly scalded her tongue, but she didn’t care. The soft flesh was buttery, smoky from the fire, and the taste only sharpened her hunger. She devoured it quickly, barely pausing to breathe.

Across the fire, Hilda blinked at her, spoon halfway to her mouth. Then, without a word, she broke her own potato in half and pushed the larger portion across the plate toward Rauth.

She was too hungry to argue. Rauth accepted it, muttering a rough “thanks” before tearing into the second portion just as eagerly. By the time she slowed, licking the salt from her fingers, she felt the gnawing ache in her belly ease into something close to satisfaction.

She leaned back against her horse’s flank, wiping her hands on the edge of her cloak. “If we keep a good pace,” she said, tapping the folded map beside her, “we can reach the borders of Gondor by nightfall. Minas Tirith by the next noon.”

They broke camp quickly after breakfast. Rauth tightened the straps on her pack and gave her horse’s neck an affectionate pat before swinging herself easily into the saddle.

Behind her, Hilda gathered her skirts and—without hesitation—straddled the animal waiting for her as smoothly as any seasoned rider.

Rauth froze. Her brows shot up. “You do realize,” she said slowly, “that women in dresses ride side-saddle.”

Hilda blinked, bonnet slipping slightly as she adjusted her seat. “Ah—well, in the North, it’s different.” Her squeaky voice wobbled. “Families there… we all have horses. Girls grow up riding, just like boys. No one bothers with side-saddle.”

Rauth narrowed her eyes, tugging her reins to bring her horse alongside. “Convenient.”

“Convenient… and true!” Hilda said quickly, forcing a laugh that rang false.

Rauth smirked. “We’ll see.”

Without warning, she kicked her heels into her horse’s flanks. The beast surged forward, pounding across the meadow in a spray of dew. Wind whipped at her hair as she leaned low, urging the animal faster. She glanced back, fully expecting to see Hilda fumbling, skirts tangled, bonnet askew.

Instead, the “maid” had launched into pursuit with surprising control. Her horse tore across the ground with equal speed, and Hilda sat astride with the balance of a warrior long accustomed to the saddle.

Rauth’s suspicion only deepened. She eased her pace until they rode side by side once more, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Not bad,” she said. “For a maid.”

Hilda’s answering laugh was a shade too thin. “Told you—northern women ride.”

“Mm,” Rauth murmured, still watching her carefully. “So it seems.”

Who exactly are you, Hilda?

They indeed arrived just in time as night falls over as if a heavy cloud over Gondor’s borders. The road narrowed as the sun bled red across the horizon. By the time they reached the stone outpost, the sky was bruised with the last light of day. A banner bearing the White Tree stirred faintly in the evening wind, and a cluster of guards in plain steel helms stepped forward, spears leveled to block their way.

“Halt. State your names and business,” one of them barked, his voice as hard as the stone wall at his back.

She cast a quick glance at Hilda, whose hands were folded demurely on her own reins, gaze downcast in practiced meekness.

The guard thrust a wooden board toward her, quill dangling from its chain. “Name. Origin. Parentage. Business.”

Urgh, if she was at home, Rauth was sure adar would say to never trust the others, whether it is your real name or fake name. For names had powers, and it was highly likely for others to use it to their own good.

Her lips curled in a faint, sardonic smile as she pushed the board back. “I don’t write.”

The guard sneered. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Rauth tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Would you like me to sing you a ballad instead? I’m very good at those. And yes, me just like any maid do not know how to write. I’m sorry if my lack of education just offended your nose.”

The man scowled, about to retort, but Hilda’s soft, squeaky voice cut in. “She’s Rosemary. My niece. From the North. Orphaned from birth, like myself. We’re bound for Minas Tirith to seek service in the palace.”

Another guard leaned over the board, scratching the names down without much care. “Rosemary and Hilda. Maids.” He gave them both a dismissive once-over. “Plenty of those already in Gondor. You’ll be lucky to find work.”

The guard grunted, unimpressed, and waved them through. “Very well,” he said, his eyes scanning the road behind them. “Pass through the archway. There’s an inn at the end of the street where travelers lodge.” He motioned vaguely toward the town. “Rooms are full tonight. You’ll have to spend the evening in the common hall, at the bar.”

Rauth’s brows shot up. “The bar?” she repeated, not masking her skepticism.

“Common for all travelers. No exceptions,” the guard said firmly, tapping the spear at his side. “Food and drink are available inside, but the rooms? Crowded. You’ll manage, or you’ll sleep on the floor with the rest.”

Hilda swallowed nervously, glancing at Rauth. “It… won’t be so bad,” she squeaked.

Rauth gave a flat nod, eyes narrowing at the road ahead. This is fine, she told herself, though her mind buzzed with caution. Better to see Gondor in its raw state than pretend the world is civilized outside Rivendell.

True to the guard’s word, they did found an old inn which walls were smokey and shabby, and the scent of ale with a tang of unwashed bodies. A fire sputtered weakly in the hearth, and rough-hewn tables groaned under the weight of chipped wooden plates. There were already many inside the inn, all of them man, to Rauth’s utter dismay. Most were drinking or playing some sort of games, blocking the hearth’s warmth from their view.

“Urgh, I’ll get us some food?” Rauth glanced at Hilda, “I think I have some valuable items to exchange for a hot meal.”

“It’s okay.” The maid squeaked, “I have a few coins left. Don’t bother to repay me for I found them lying on the street just now.”

She nodded: “Sure, urgh, I’ll go grab a table then.” 

Her eyes swept the room as her feet carried her forward. She counted the key points just as her father had taught her: three major areas to watch in any room if planning for safety or surveillance. The first, a group of ugly, rowdy, drunk men near the hearth. The second, the inn door, where strangers could enter unexpectedly. And third, the innkeeper himself — a round man with greasy gray beard, as if he hadn’t bathed in months. Selecting a table in a quiet corner, just far enough from the door but with a clear line of sight to both the men and the innkeeper, Rauth lowered herself onto the creaking bench. She leaned back slightly, letting the chair groan under her weight, and surveyed the room once more, noting escape routes and potential threats.

Hilda soon came back with a tray: “You selected well.” Tilting her head with a faint squeak.

Rauth allowed a small, satisfied smile. Good, she thought. She doesn’t need to know the teacher behind it all.

That was when she noticed the tray. On it sat a gray slab of meat, sinewy and tough, half-burned at the edges alongside one limp brown vegetable that none could recognize its shape.

“This… is food?” she asked, trying not to wrinkle her nose.

“We… we usually have better at home,” she squeaked then reached for a piece of meat, eyes darting around the smoky room as if to apologize to Rauth for the offense.

“I see. So even the North isn’t all knights and hearty feasts, huh?” She reached for a piece of the tough meat but recoiled at the thought of swallowing it.

Hilda glanced up, frowning slightly. “I… I can’t eat much of it. It’s… it’s not what I’m used to.”

Rauth leaned back in her chair, studying the taller woman with an amused glint in her eye. “Not hungry, are we? Well, that’s fine. We’re discovering Gondorian cuisine together, then. The wonders of human hospitality.”

“Well, what do we have here?” A red-faced man at the far end of the table jerked upright, pointing a thick, ale-slicked finger at them. “Two little maids thinking they can sit here like proper folk?”

Gross.

Smell of sweat and spoiled ale hit Rauth, making her nose wrinkle. “We’re eating, yes. You have a problem with that?”

The man bellowed, staggering forward, knocking over a chair. “Spunky little shit, eh? Maybe you need to learn some manners!”

A ripple of drunken laughter spread through the room, and suddenly the whole inn turned its attention toward them. Ale-stained men hooted and hollered, throwing insults, shoving chairs, and pointing. “Teach ’em a lesson!” one crowed. “Show ’em what humans do to girls like that!”

Hilda squeaked nervously behind her. “I… I think we should—”

“Shut it, Hilda,” Rauth hissed, rolling her eyes. “Unless you want to join the entertainment.”

“Aren’t you a pretty one? Bet you’re even more fun to handle when you squirm.” One sloppy finger about to graze her shoulder.

Rauth’s hand shot up, slapping his wrist away with a sharp crack. “Hands off, asshole. Touch me, and I’ll shove you through that table like it’s nothing!”

The man staggered back, laughing with drunken bravado. “Ooh, spunky! I like her! Maybe a round with the big one, hmm?”

“Eww.” Rauth mumbled. Standing up, she was in fact the same height as the man: “Lemme teach you a lesson: girls with faces like mine don’t talk to orcs like you.” 

He lunged for her. She twisted aside, seizing his wrist, and spun on her heel — flipping him clean over her shoulder. The drunkard crashed into a table with a splintering crack, stew and ale flying across the floor.

The onlookers roared, half in laughter, half in outrage.

Another swung a chair at her. She ducked low, legs sweeping out. The chair flew overhead, clattering into the wall as the man toppled backward over her leg.

Someone else lunged with a tankard; she snagged it midair, took a quick swig, and smashed it down on his head.

“Honestly,” she muttered, stepping onto a bench, then springing to a tabletop, “I’ve seen pigs fight prettier.”

Two men tried to climb up after her. She kicked the table’s edge with sharp precision — it toppled forward, bowling both of them into the ale-soaked floor.

Then came the biggest brute, swinging fists like hammers. The tankard arced toward her head — and stopped.

Broad hands caught it, jerking it away. Ale sprayed across the room as it exploded against the wall.

Rauth blinked. “Hilda?”

The “maid” stood rooted, chest heaving, expression pale but determined. The man’s fist hung limply in her grip like a trapped rabbit.

“Beginner’s luck,” Hilda squeaked, tossing him sideways. He slid across the floor, bowling into another pair of drunks.

The room erupted — curses, crashing wood, flying potatoes.

“That’s enough of this human hospitality,” Rauth said flatly, dropping from the table and brushing stew from her sleeve. She caught a plate midair as it sailed at her head, set it neatly down on the bar, and strode for the side door.

Hilda scampered after her, bonnet askew, muttering squeaks.

The inn’s stench gave way to crisp morning air, cobblestones slick with dew. Behind them, the roar of chaos and smashing furniture faded into the pale-gold horizon.

“Well,” Rauth said, cracking a grin, “that was fun. Let’s see what else humans are like.”