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This is the longest chapter yet...
. . . . . . .
Four hundred years ago...
Her eyes fixed on the scribbled-on parchment between them, Narylfiel leaned across the table from King Thranduil.
"This cannot happen," she said and pointed to the sheet. Then with him watching, she picked up his pen from the inkwell and scratched a thick, drippy line through his perfectly penned set of names.
Thranduil had invited the young elleth to plan the upcoming Feast of Starlight with him. Galadhor, his chief of staff, had encouraged the idea, hinting that Narylfiel would benefit from some gainful employment of her time.
Now the king arched an eyebrow at her new addition to his well thought out seating arrangement. A look that he had cultivated over the years, the singular arched brow was particularly effective in silencing his opposition.
Narylfiel's mouth curved into a smile, and she mirrored him with an eyebrow raise of her own. "I can do that too," she said. "Thaliniel hates it, but secretly?" she leaned in a little. "I think she's just a little jealous that she can't do it!"
Thranduil would not be deterred. "Why do you believe that Lady Selieth should not sit with Lord Erndir?" He asked, pointing to where she had just crossed out the pairing at the table.
Narylfiel's cheeks pinkened. "Promise not to get mad, King Thranduil?" she asked, her sweet brown eyes round and wide.
Thranduil nodded. "Do I ever?" he asked her.
She hesitated. "Well..."
"Narylfiel, tell me what happened," he coaxed.
Her words spilled out in a rush. "Dorwil had just given me a new handball. He said he just had one made for his little nephew and thought I might like one too. You know, for playing rounders. Well, I was practicing catching and missed the ball. It sailed right past me, so I chased it. I hated to lose it, so I-"
Thranduil interrupted her. "Does any part of this story explain why Lady Selieth cannot sit down to dinner next to Lord Erndir?"
Narylfiel looked down and picked at the corner of the parchment. "I may have been in the act of retrieving the ball from under a table when I happened to hear Lady Selieth ungraciously refuse Erndir's advances." Narylfiel was no expert, but it sounded like she had slapped the fire out of him.
Thranduil held up a hand. "I have heard enough. Rounders, indeed. Inside my halls? Whoever did you talk into pitching for you?"
"Ooh, I don't think I can rightly indulge that information, my lord," she said sweetly. It had been Legolas.
"Friends can tell each other," he prodded.
"No, my lord," she said respectfully.
"Oh, enough phony formality, you!" he said with a snort. "Anyone with enough cheek to play rounders in my Great Hall had better just call me by my given name."
"Really?" she perked up, a small grin teasing the corners of her mouth.
"Yes," said the king, "and only in our private company, mind you."
"Well, in that case, Thranduil," she said trying out his name to his amused expression. "How about taking a break?" She produced a palm-sized ball from the pocket in her skirt. "Want to throw the ball around?"
He eyed the ball. "Really?" It sounded more like a statement.
Narylfiel tossed the ball up into the air and caught it. "As a friend, I would tell you that someone said you had a pretty decent arm."
She tossed the ball back into the air. Only this time, Thranduil's hand swooped in and caught it right before she could. "I would say it was more than just 'decent,'" he told her.
With a gleam in her eye, she hopped up from her chair.
"Prove it," she challenged him.
. . . . . . .
November 3018, Third Age
"You are looking exceptionally well this evening, Lady Narylfiel," King Thranduil greeted her warmly, as she took his arm. Elfir and Dorwil followed in tow, and the four elves proceeded to King Brand's dining hall, a long room with a singularly impressive table that dominated the room.
"I cannot help but notice that you acquired new clothes, my lord," Narylfiel whispered conspiratorially as they waited to be seated. Thranduil had shed his stained traveling clothes in favor of a beautifully tailored, but simple dark grey tunic with a high open collar.
"Galion, bless him," replied the king. "He packed an extra bag along with Dorwil, 'just in case.' Remind me to thank him."
Narylfiel had high hopes of being able to spend more time in conversation with her king during dinner, but sadly, the squires seated Thranduil to the right of the head of the table, and Narylfiel five seats down the opposite side. Elfir and Dorwil sat next to their king, and Narylfiel could only wonder who could fill the other seats next to her. She imagined that the King would take his place at the head of the table, and the Queen would occupy one chair.
She did not have to imagine for very long. King Brand and his queen appeared, all smiles as everyone stood upon their entrance, with their son following behind them. King Brand took his place at the head of the table, with the queen to his left. Two seats were still left empty after Prince Bard pulled out the chair next to Narylfiel and sat down by her with a friendly smile.
"Who are those other two seats for, Prince Bard?" Narylfiel quietly inquired. They were obviously meant for someone of high stature or importance to be placed so closely to the king and queen.
Bard glanced at the two remaining seats while the rest of his father's court slowly took their seats, milling around the table, many of them inventing reasons to drift closer to the king and queen in order to get a better glimpse of the elven visitors. "Oh, they'll be along shortly-only just arrived from Erebor," he said casually.
Dwarves, Narylfiel thought and her eyes flitted toward her king.
From across the table, Thranduil stilled in the middle of his lively conversation with Elfir, his ears catching Bard's mention of the dwarves' mountain. He cast his eyes toward the two empty seats across from him, and his mouth straightened into a line. The Elvenking swallowed a grimace and schooled his expression into one of bored disinterest.
"What?" Bard asked, seeing his friend's eyes widen. "Did I say something wrong?" But Narylfiel hardly heard him. Her entire focus was on Thranduil, as the people at the table quieted upon the herald's announcement of the two late dinner guests.
"Presenting to you, Prince Thorin III and Lord Dwalin of Erebor!"
The three other elves had grown completely rigid at the herald's words, and marking the direction of Thranduil's cold gaze, Narylfiel turned in her seat to watch the two dwarves thunder across the dining room to their seats, just across from the Elvenking.
Both the dwarves' faces were a picture of horror and disbelief as soon as they noticed their elven dinner companions, even more so to see that one of those elves was the Elvenking himself. Clearly, they were as surprised as Thranduil was; only the Elvenking was much better at hiding his revulsion.
King Brand clapped delightedly. "How proud I am to have rulers from both Erebor and Mirkwood at my table at the same time. May this be the first of many such happy occasions."
Thranduil's eyes shifted to King Brand. "My lord, I believe we are a little-" and he eyed the dwarves-"short on introductions."
"Oh, so you have never met Prince Thorin?" exclaimed the king. "Then may I have the honor of presenting Prince Thorin III, son of King Dain, and Lord Dwalin to you, King Thranduil."
"We've met," Dwalin said gruffly under his breath.
Thranduil looked coolly across the table, appraising the pair of them. Young Thorin favored his predecessor greatly, he decided. "The honor is mine," he told King Brand with a dignified nod of his head, "to meet a prince of Erebor in such refined circumstances."
The young dwarf prince stroked his beard in turn and carefully regarded the elf king. "Long have I heard... stories of you, King Thranduil," he said with mock politeness.
"Haven't we all?" King Brand said admiringly. "It does my heart good to see the pair of you together. Just like the old glory days!"
"In truth, I never fully believed them," Thorin said. "Silly tales. I mean what king, or any man really, would wear a crown of berries in his hair?"
Thranduil sipped his wine. "Come visit my kingdom, Prince Thorin, and I would be happy to enlighten you," he drawled, "if you're not too short on time."
Thorin bristled a little, but fortunately the serving girls and cupbearers began to bring out the first course. The dwarves both delightedly attacked their dinner, tucking their napkins into their collars and taking great mouthfuls. It seemed as though the dwarf prince briefly forgot about the snide insult offered by Thranduil; Dwalin leaned over between bites and whispered several somethings in Thorin's ear.
Conversation picked back up as the guests finished their first course. King Brand asked the Elvenking what he thought of the dwarves' improvements to Erebor.
"Impressive," commented Thranduil. "The new stone gate will serve the dwarven people well before this war has ended."
"I was most sorry to have missed King Thranduil's visit to Erebor. I had only just returned when I heard about how eventful it was. The king needed medicine to heal his lovely companion; of course, my father was only too happy to help," Thorin informed the table.
"Mirkwood is most grateful, of course," Thranduil replied tepidly, his eyes briefly going to Narylfiel.
She opened up her mouth to say something, and both Thranduil and Elfir gave her the tiniest of head shakes 'no.'
"I think it shows a great sense of community and common spirit of cooperation that the dwarves and elves could work together," King Brand told the table, finally beginning to pick up on the uncomfortable rift between his two guests. He remembered his father telling him about the lack of love between dwarves and elves, but the Battle of the Five Armies had happened so long ago. Surely after all these years, the bad feelings would have dissolved...or not.
Meanwhile Bard reached for Narylfiel's hand , covered it with his own. "You never mentioned that you were injured," he said softly, his voice full of concern.
"I was nicked by an orc's poisoned blade, but the king healed me." Her explanation suddenly seemed much louder than she intended, for most of the conversation around her had died down, and her words, although spoken softly rang clearly down the table for all to hear. Narylfiel blushed as soon as she realized what happened and moved both her hands into her lap. She did not dare to look at Elfir or Dorwil right now. Who knew what they could be thinking?
"Elvish medicine is so interesting," Thorin said pleasantly to the table, and his blue eyes gleamed. "From what I hear, King Thranduil puts his patients into a trance and pulls the poison from the wound with elf magic."
A few gasps sounded along the table, and more than a few guests craned their heads to peek at the Elvenking.
At this point, Elfir did not wait to defer to his king. He spoke up at once in an easy, matter-of-fact tone, "I dare say it would seem like magic to mortal folks, but this type of healing is common enough among elf kind-just using a deep healing sleep to balance the humors of the body."
"With the patient's feä...in his bedroom," grumbled Dwalin, his cheeks taking on a rosy hue. Now most of the guests missed this comment, but it certainly did not go unheeded by Elfir or Dorwil, who both as if drawn by an invisible hand, moved their heads in time to peer curiously at Narylfiel.
Thranduil gave both dwarves a withering look. "Do not presume, dwarf, to understand matters beyond your ken."
Now Prince Thorin was young and lived and spoke with the carelessness of the young and privileged. Only had he ever heard stories of this Elvenking, and having never met him personally, did not pay much credence to the fair-haired king sitting across from him. He was just too fair, too androgynous, with his long hair and eyelashes to be taken as a serious threat. Rather than mind the king's thinly veiled warning, he merely shrugged and laughed. "Sounds like it could be... barrels of fun."
King Brand, hearing the conversation completely unravel, quickly signaled for his wait staff to serve the next course.
Thranduil, along with Dorwil and Elfir, ignored the jab about barrels and talked amongst themselves. Both of the guards knew better than to bring up any mention of the dwarves' insinuations about Narylfiel.
Now, this increasingly unpleasant combination of dinner guests might have resulted in another Battle of the Five Armies, but the Valar, or perhaps just plain good fortune, intervened. Before the next course could be served, one of King Brand's marshals hurried to the table and whispered his urgent news. Upon hearing it, Brand immediately folded his napkin and signaled to his son.
"Come," he said to King Thranduil. "Your guards have returned. They've brought prisoners." He stood, and the elves gracefully followed suit. The dwarves, not to be left out, of course, abruptly stood as well, their chairs screeching against the stone floors.
"You just love taking prisoners, don't you?" accused Thorin as he sped up to match the men and elves' long strides. He would not be left behind!
"Only those that annoy me," replied the king with a smirk, hopeful that his guards had caught that miserable Maubûrz.
Brand led his guests down to the city jail, set beneath the proud foundation of the citadel; rarely did the cells see many visitors, for Dale was by in large a fair and prosperous little kingdom. The captain of Brand's City Guard waited there, along with Thranduil's warriors, all of whom turned in a smart elven salute when he entered the room with Brand.
The Forest Guard had not been able to find Maubûrz. The coward had fled the camp before the elves arrived, but they had seized all of the possessions in the spies' camp and caught four of the cut-throats who had been at the camp. The Elvenking recognized them immediately.
"Yes, those men were there," Thranduil told King Brand. "Are any of them from your city?"
"Who are these people?" Thorin interrupted. He did not like being uninformed, and certainly not in front of elves!
"Spies," hissed Thranduil, throwing a dark look toward the men in the cells. He purposefully spoke loud enough now, so all might hear his words. "Their crimes are numerous. These men attacked and imprisoned the King of the Woodland Realm. They openly admitted to spying on Erebor and Dale to sell information to the Easterners."
Both the dwarves stiffened, and their eyes glinted fiercely. "Sounds like treason against three kingdoms!" Dwalin cried. "Would you like to borrow my ax, your highness? Let's take off their heads, and be done with them!"
A collective moan of anguish sounded from the cells. "No, please!" and "Fair, King Brand, don't let them chop our heads off!" and a few other pleas could be heard from behind the bars.
One of the Forest Guards stepped forward, holding a plain wooden box. "Your majesty," he said, addressing his king with a polite bow of his head, "we found this chest in their leader's tent."
Thranduil exchanged a look with Brand as he took the box from his warrior's hands, opened it so all might see. Well, almost all.
"What is it?" grumbled Thorin, craning his neck. "What'd your pointy eared scout find?"
The Elvenking appraised Thorin's jibe through half-lidded eyes and then angled the open box so the dwarves could look inside too.
"Little glass-stoppered bottles?" exclaimed Dwalin, and then his eyes grew round as a fearful suspicion crept into his mind. He turned and whispered his guess to Thorin.
King Thranduil nodded, pursed his lips. Then passing the box off to Elfir, the Elvenking withdrew a single bottle, uncorked it in front of King Brand, his guards, and the dwarves. "Poison." He drew the word out slowly as he held the bottle to the light, illuminating the dark viscous liquid. "I would wager this is the same poison that has been making your young warriors so ill," he told the dwarves, "the very same that nearly killed Lady Narylfiel." His eyes landed on the prisoners in the cell.
"But orcs poisoned Lady Narylfiel," challenged Prince Bard, eyes flashing. "Are you saying that these men are selling poison to orcs?" He did not wait for an answer, but stormed over to the nearest cell and throwing open the door, seized the prisoner by the collar and shook him. "Tell us!" he ordered him, with another savage shake. "Your life may depend on it."
Elfir exchanged a glance with his king. "Your majesty, we cannot even be sure that these bottles hold the same poison. We cannot really be certain unless we test it."
"You are right, Elfir," concluded the king, eyeing young Bard still gripping the prisoner. "Bring that one over here."
"What? No!" shrieked the ruffian. "No, please, my lord. Don't let those elves do anything unnatural to me!"
Bard twisted the man's arm and forced him forward. "Then tell us what you know," he growled, jerking the man to cower in front of a very impassive Elvenking.
"I don't know anything," the man wailed, feebly trying to twist against Bard's firm hold on him.
"I still say we cut off his head," barked Dwalin, running a light finger over the blade of his ax.
"Tilt back his head and open his mouth," Elfir commanded, and Dorwil pushed forward to carry out the order.
"No!" screeched the prisoner, crumpling in front of Dale's prince. "I just tended the horses and the like at camp. Maubûrz said he could make it worth my while! He-he's the one you want! Maubûrz was getting the poison at Dale. Said he had buyer in the south." He hiccoughed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "But he hadn't sold it yet. He was going to bring information back to his emperor about Dale's walls and Erebor, too!"
Elfir and Dorwil exchanged a disappointed look. "Well, that hardly took any effort at all."
"A dwarf would've never cracked so easily," Dwalin muttered with a disbelieving shake of his head.
Brand was pleased. "We will call a tribunal tomorrow for judgment," he announced to his marshal and guards. "Bard, will you return to the feast and tell your mother not to worry? Make our excuses to the other guests?"
The prince bowed to his father. "Yes, of course."
The king of Dale signaled for his guests to follow him to a small antechamber where they might speak privately for a moment.
Thorin's eyes drifted to the Elvenking. "So what you told my father is true," he said resignedly. "War really is upon us."
"Yes," Thranduil agreed solemnly, "and against an enemy who will stop at nothing to destroy all of our kingdoms."
"I do wish we might have caught this Maubûrz fellow." King Brand rubbed the side of his temple.
Thranduil nodded his agreement but added, "He does not concern me nearly so much as the buyer of this poison, who is still at large and unknown."
Dwalin leaned on the long handle of his ax-he hadn't yet had the heart to put it away. "Seems like we have Maubûrz's entire supply. If he still has that buyer, he may try to restock," he grumbled under his breath.
All three of the elves, with their superior hearing, eyed the stocky bald dwarf with new interest.
"Say that again..." breathed Elfir, sharing a glance with his king.
. . . . . . .
Later that evening, Narylfiel changed into her nightgown and curled up by the fireplace. She could scarcely sit still from wondering what her Elvenking had meant by 'more in mind' when she heard a knock at the door. With her eyes shining, she pulled on her robe and eagerly flung open the door. Her beloved's name died on her lips. Thranduil was no where to be seen, but Bard stood at there, shyly rubbing the toe of his boot against some imagined scuff mark on the stone floor. Narylfiel stood there, stunned for a second, before realizing she was standing there in her nightgown! She quickly pulled her robe around her, belted it. She had been brushing her hair by the fire, so it was all hanging down, a straight fall of dark brown silk.
At first, Bard did not even say anything to her! He just stared a little, until finally Narylfiel cleared her throat and greeted him.
"What? Oh!" Bard shook his head, collected himself. "I'm sorry, Lady Narylfiel. Dalish maidens never wear their hair unbound like that..." his voice trailed off for a second, and his eyes grew distant. "When I was younger, I thought you were so lovely. A real elven princess like out of a story," Bard said, his hand moving with a force of its own toward her hair. "I always wanted to touch it just once to see if it was as soft as it looked."
Narylfiel pulled her hair together with her hand and pushed it back over her shoulder. "You shouldn't, Bard," she said quickly and pulled her robe a little tighter, crossed her arms in front of her chest. "It wouldn't be...appropriate for you to according to my people's customs."
Bard blanched. "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. Sometimes I forget the differences between our people."
"I know you didn't," Narylfiel said easily. "And for as many differences, there are just as many similarities.
"Well, good night then," he said, meeting her gaze after a beat. "Would it be too forward of me to ask to kiss your hand?"
"Yes, it would be," answered Thranduil, coming up behind the dark-headed man. "Run along, young Prince. Lady Narylfiel must rest."
Bard stiffened at Thranduil's words, two red splotches staining his cheeks. "Yes, of course. Until tomorrow, my lady," he said and excused himself with a courtly bow.
Thranduil watched him leave down the hall before leaning against the doorframe. Elfir and Dorwil were nowhere to be seen. "Were you brushing your hair?" he asked softly, his eyes darkening as he trailed his fingers through a section.
"I had just started to," she explained, twisting the brush in her hand.
"I thought I could brush it for you...while we talked," he said, taking the brush gently from her hand and replacing it with his other hand, "if you wish."
Her mouth fell open a bit at the look in his eyes, the intensity there. Oh, Valar. More in mind, indeed. "Yes," she heard herself say remotely. "I- uh, yes. Please."
He led her to the ottoman by the fire and bade her to sit upon the thick rug in front of the ottoman, while he sat down behind her. He gathered her hair into his hands and baring her neck, placed a warm kiss there.
Narylfiel sighed. He picked up the brush and ran it through her hair, smoothing down each section.
"I thought about what you said," he told her slowly, lifting a section of her hair away from her face and ear. His hand was warm on her shoulder.
"Did you?" she asked, trying desperately to sound demure.
"Yes." His voice was soft against her ear, his touch gentle as he ran the brush through another long strand of her hair. "I should not have used Elfir to talk to you. You were right about that."
She turned to face him, her brown eyes full of wonder. "You were right too. About Bard," she admitted. "I did not see it."
"He is not a bad fellow," the king owned with a small grin, "but definitely besotted."
"I would rather talk about us," Narylfiel told him, resting her hand on his knee.
"Us," the king tried out the word, his lips curving up. "I want that too. Narylfiel, I want to take you back to our forest and marry you, bond with you, make you mine." His last words came out in a whisper, his dark eyes meeting hers, and her breath caught; how long had she yearned for him to look at her like that? "But there will be questions-about you, about me, and probably my first wife. My marriage," he began, his smile fading at the mention of it, "was...difficult."
"This is the first time I have ever heard you bring up the subject." Narylfiel's voice betrayed her surprise. The king's marriage was ever an unspoken taboo topic at court.
Thranduil sighed and felt distinctly uncomfortable, but he made himself pick up another warm section of hair and glide the brush through the ends. "I am not sure how much you know, or what you've been told-"
"Nothing," she told him earnestly. "No one speaks of it. Ever. Only Legolas did once, when I asked him."
Thranduil set the brush down, then thought better of it and picked it back up, his long fingers gliding back through her hair as he found his voice. "My father wanted the match, and I...rebelled against the idea, up until we were to leave for the War of the Last Alliance. Elendil and Gil-galad were mustering as many armies as they could summon, and we were to leave in a week. She was beautiful and noble and courtly, and I was young and foolish, so I married her." His words hung in the air; the wind howled again against the citadel's stone walls.
Narylfiel turned just a little so their eyes could meet again. "Did you love her?" she asked in a small voice.
"Yes." Thranduil looked away, stared at the flames. "Yes, I loved her."
"I am sorry," Narylfiel said, pushing herself up to sit on her knees. Gently, she took the brush from his hand and set it aside. Then combing her own fingers through his hair, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his. "I am sorry," she repeated softly, pressing her lips to his forehead, then the corner of his mouth, then down to the column of his neck.
Her actions were rewarded with his sharp intake of breath. His fingers found her chin and guided her back up. His eyes betrayed his sorrow. "I wanted you to know, Narylfiel, to understand-I'm not perfect."
"Shhh!" she exclaimed and nudged him. "Don't let the dwarves ever hear you say that."
"I am being serious, Narylfiel." He leaned his head against hers and his voice grew quiet as he admitted aloud, "I am not sure I even know how to give what you're asking, what you will need. My marriage to Elarien was cold and distant, and most of that I fear was my fault. I returned from Dagorlad as King, but I was ill with grief, scarred and hurt from battle...and bitter." He shook his head and looked down.
"Maybe that's who you were then," Narylfiel told him, "but that is not who you are now."
Thranduil looked away, drawn to the swirl of snow outside the window, his eyes distant, and Narylfiel began to understand something she must have known for a long time-her beautiful king hid scars that no one knew of or could even guess at, and because of his pride, his strength, he bore the anguish of them alone. The empty feeling weighing down her heart twisted painfully for him, for them both.
With liquid eyes, she crawled into his lap and pressed her lips to his jaw and then the corner of his mouth. Thranduil sighed and then tenderly drew his finger across the line of moisture at her eyes. "Do not cry for me, naurenniel. No tears," he told her, drawing her against the warmth of his chest, one warm hand at her waist and the other rubbing her back.
"I have loved you for...well, as long as I can remember." Narylfiel whispered, her eyes starting to burn again from hearing herself speak those words aloud to him. "You speak as if I have some sort of decision to make, but for me, there is no choice. There never has been."
The silence after her words stretched between them, dulling the crackle of the fire on the hearth or the sound of the snow blowing against the window, until Thranduil tipped her head back and kissed her, his arms going around her shoulders and waist tightly, breathing her in through long hungry kisses. His mouth trailed kisses from her lips to her neck, his hands lifting her from the ottoman, pressing her onto the rug beneath him, and somehow in the blur of his attention, Narylfiel found herself stretched out on the rug, Thranduil propped up on his elbow, looking down at her, his hair soft against her cheek while his hands played with the belt of her robe.
"You should rest," he said quietly after kissing her deeply again. "Bedtime." Then he gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed.
"Stay," she whispered, catching hold of one of his hands.
He regarded her, his mouth slightly open and then bit his lip. She had never seen him do that before.
"Please, Thranduil," she asked. "I know that I cannot be with you all the time during the day, but at least now, when it's just us- I miss being with you."
"Be patient," he said, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss there. "It's hard now, but just try to be patient. When we return, I will meet with the Elder Council. Then by the Yule Feast, we will make our intentions known."
She nodded glumly, and then drawing off her robe, settled under the coverlet.
Thranduil watched her, his mouth curving up at her obvious disappointment. "Scoot over then," he said with a resigned air, like one admitting defeat. She brightened immediately and patted a spot beside her for him.
"Besides," he excused himself. "Your hands felt pretty cold just now, and I cannot in good faith leave you here alone shivering in the dark." He reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head. He let the garment drop to the floor.
"I would much rather have you shivering in the dark for other reasons," he said, and Narylfiel grinned up at him.
"Prove it," she said.
. . . . . . .
Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please Vote, Follow, and Comment!
Narylfiel: #Shivering
Thranduil: #ProvingIt
. . . . .
Another note: I have been encouraged by a fellow author, CJ_Callahan90 (thanks, CJ! Check out her beautiful Thranduil fic To Live Again) to enter this story in the Wattys contest. What do y'all think? Should I enter this one, even though it's not finished or Wanderlust? Or both? Or neither?