Darkest Nights | Love of Royals: Book II

XXII: Opposite

Fíria's POV

Legolas doesn't comment on my quietness the rest of the day.  He proceeds as though the words he spoke to me in that alcove must have settled my thoughts—as though I don't feel sick with fear every second of the day.  But he has no way of being aware, since I haven't told him.  This is my burden, my mission to deal with on my own.  When my father gets here, no way am I letting him anywhere near Legolas, Thranduil or the others, regardless of what any of us have said. 

And the night—the night, I finally get to speak to Ílren.  The Elf-ranger is positively in another world, his hair shimmering and his face aglow as he talks for hours about Tauriel, and... and his past.  He doesn't seem afraid of it anymore, doesn't seem haunted by his memories.  It's because he told her.  He opened up to Tauriel, and now he's opened up to me.  I told him about what I am, and my struggles, and he's...

He's suffered so much, but in such a different way to me.

The following morning, a sharp, clear, dawn of the waning autumn,  I'm once again excluded from whatever meetings the guards are having.  I understand why Tauriel and Legolas have to go, but Ílren?  Why haven't I been able to find him again?  After our nightly conversation, he's vanished off somewhere; whether that's to be with his Silvan friends, to the guards meeting with the one who holds his heart, I do not know.  However, I wish he would at least tell me where he's going before he disappears.  I thought he trusted me.

Valar, I'm a hypocrite.  I can't talk about telling people things if Legolas and I still have this secret festering above our heads. 

Stalking around the gardens furiously, cursing myself and my father and my friends under my breath, I'm caught by someone I haven't spoken to in days.  Queen Elena, those large eyes mapping out my face before lingering on the blades at my sides, stands before me in a tight-fitting grey catsuit and wrapped in a thick navy blue cloak against the biting wind.  A smile ghosts her face at the sight of the bemused frown creasing my own.

'Run out of dresses, your Majesty?' I say bitterly.

The Queen only smiles more.  'When last I looked, I could wear what I liked.'

'I'm surprised you didn't tell me to call you Elena.  What do you want from an assassin like me, anyway?' I gesture to my own black catsuit.

'I wanted to know if the rumours were true.'

'Rumours?' I prompt, nausea rolling in my stomach.

'That you are in fact as skilled a fighter a you claim.  That you can best Legolas, Tauriel and Ílren in combat without batting an eyelid.'

'Are you saying you wish to spar with me?' I ask, lifting a brow.  This delicate, regal figure is asking to spar with me of all people?  The Queen with barely thirteen years of experience against the notorious warrior-princess?  She nods, and I fight vainly to hold back the scoff.

'What?  Am I not a worthy opponent?' she smirks.

'I suppose I'll have to find out.  I don't have anything better to do.'

Once we're facing each other in Legolas's sparring ring, and Elena has abandoned her thick cloak on the edge, I begin to see the telltale signs of true skill in her actions.  To my surprise, she pulls out a glorious silver sword from its sheath in a similar movement to how I do it, and carefully sizes up the blade I reveal myself.

'Interesting blade,' she observes, 'what's it called?'

I spin my sword in my hand in the hope it unnerves her.  'Ingalian.  Shadow glass.  Yours?'