Narquelië 11, 2965
The map lay open between them on the council table, its marked trails and staging-points a grim account of everything gathering in the south. Bain studied it with his brow furrowed, and Celenneth waited until he was ready to hear her before she spoke.
"We need allies," she said. "And the nearest with strength enough to matter are the Woodland Elves. Thalion's people sit closest to Dol Guldur of anyone. If we can bring them in, it changes the whole reckoning."
Bain leaned back, skeptical. "Thalion is not an easy man to move. He's proud, and his people have small love for the affairs of Men. Even with the Shadow at the door, I'd not wager on him seeing reason."
"He might," Linnea said, quiet but sure, "if it's put to him the right way. The Elves have fought the Shadow longer than any of us have been alive. Show them it won't stop at their borders — that Mirkwood is the road it means to travel — and standing aside stops looking like safety."
Bain turned that over. "Thalion guards his people above all else. He may decide closed borders serve them better than a war that isn't yet theirs." He tapped the table. "And if Dale falls, the Woodland Realm is next — I'll grant you that. But even should he agree, what would he give? His archers are deadly, yes. Will he spend them on someone else's fight?"
"Perhaps he needn't spend them all at once," Linnea said. "Scouts, to start. Word of the orcs' movements. His people know these forests as no one else does — that alone could be the edge we lack. And we should carry something to offer in return. Thalion respects strength, and he respects a fair exchange. Aid for his borders, supplies — enough to show we come as partners, not beggars."
Celenneth nodded. "We don't demand. We appeal to what he already knows: that the dark doesn't keep to the lines drawn on a map."
Bain rubbed his temples, and at last let out a long breath. "You make the case well. Thalion is proud, but he's not a fool, and Dol Guldur is a name that frightens wiser men than me." He looked up, resolved. "Go to the Woodland Realm. Speak with him. But tread carefully — if you sour this, you'll leave us weaker than you found us."
Celenneth inclined her head. "I understand."
There was a bittersweet weight to packing up the room they had been given, folding away the small comforts of a roof and a real bed. Celenneth was double-checking that nothing had been left behind when Linnea caught her by the waist and spun her, and walked her back until her shoulders met the door.
"We don't know when we'll next have a bed like this," Linnea murmured, her mouth close enough that Celenneth felt the words more than heard them. She caught Celenneth's earlobe lightly between her teeth and tugged, then set her lips to the side of her throat.
The answer moved through Celenneth before thought did. She took Linnea by the hips, lifted her clear off the floor, and carried her the few steps to the bed to drop her on her back. "You asked for it."
She shed her clothes without ceremony and climbed over her, and let her hair fall around Linnea's face, and kissed her slow and deep until Linnea's mouth opened under hers and her arms came up to pull her down flush. Linnea arched to meet her, and Celenneth pulled back just enough to speak.
"You know," she said, and there was mischief in it, "the Woodland Elves are famous for more than their arrows. There's a thing they're said to do — with the mouth." She sat up and worked the fastenings of Linnea's dress, spreading it open to the cool air. Then she bent to kiss her once, firm, before setting a slow line down — the hollow of her throat, the rise of each breast, the soft of her belly — until she had settled between Linnea's parted thighs. "May I?"
Linnea nodded, nervous and wanting at once. Celenneth touched her first with a single finger, gentle, parting her, and then followed it with the flat of her tongue, unhurried, learning the whole length of her before she narrowed to the place that made Linnea's breath catch. Linnea shuddered. Celenneth glanced up, and smiled to see what she'd done, and gave her more — a soft, closing pressure of her lips, the tip of her tongue, patient at the swollen peak of her while Linnea grew wet and open under her mouth. The last of the tension went out of Linnea's body and left only this; her hips began to rock, and her hands found Celenneth's hair and held on.
When it broke over her she cried out and shook with it, and Celenneth stayed with her, easing, until the waves let her go. Then she stretched back up along her, and Linnea caught her face and kissed her hard, tasting herself on Celenneth's mouth, and laughed, breathless.
"That was — " she started, and gave up on the word. "You have to let me do that to you. Just — not this instant. I need to remember how to move."
Celenneth laughed, low, and pressed a kiss to her damp temple. "We've time. I'll get Nimroch ready, and then I'll come back for you, lover."
Narquelië 12, 2965
They rode north under a clean sky, the Forest River glinting away on their right, and for a morning the going was gentle — Nimroch easy beneath them, the wind moving in the grass, and away ahead the dark wall of Mirkwood growing steadily nearer against it. Celenneth let herself feel the small mercy of open country while it lasted. It would not last long.
At a quiet bend where the water slowed, they came on a figure standing at the river's edge — cloaked, his face lost in the hood, a pack set down at his feet. He raised a hand in greeting and made no move toward them.
Celenneth signed Linnea to hold back and swung down, one hand resting easy near her sword. "What brings you here?" she called, level.
The stranger pushed his hood back a little — an older man, weathered, with sharp and careful eyes. "A wanderer, no more," he said. "The road is long, and the river's decent company. And you? Bound into the wood, by the look of you."
Linnea stayed mounted, her fingers near her bowstring. "What's it to you?"
He chuckled, his gaze moving between them. "Nothing at all. Only a word of advice: the wood is unkind to those who go in unready."
"And what would you know of Mirkwood?" Celenneth asked.
"A fair bit." He leaned on his stick. "Enough to know its paths, and which shadows to keep clear of. I'd share it — for a price."
"I carry little coin," Celenneth said plainly. "But if the offer's honest, we might trade in something else."
He tilted his head, interested. "Something useful for the road would suit me. A well-forged blade. A vial of Elvish physic. Or a tale well told."
She glanced back at Linnea, who lifted one shoulder. We've supplies, the look said, and you have your songs. Celenneth turned back. "I'll give you a thing more lasting than coin," she said. "A song. A tale to keep you company on your own long road."
Something shifted in his face — real interest now. "A song, is it? I know the old ones, all of them. You'll have to give me something I've not heard."
She did not often sing where strangers could hear. But she felt the weight of the moment, and after a pause she nodded. "Then I'll give you one worth the road."
She began low, the melody carrying grandeur and grief braided together. It was a song of Lif — the dwarf who had stood against Malech, the one-eyed orc that had made a slaughterhouse of the deep halls — of his blade bright in the dark and his spirit that would not bend even when the end was on him. Then the tune darkened, and she sang the truth of it: that courage had not been enough, that the spear had found his side all the same, and of the stillness that came after. Her voice caught once, and she carried on through it, and let the song hold the whole cost of the thing.1
When the last note faded, Linnea was staring at her. "I've never heard that one," she said softly. "Malech, and Lif — did the dwarves teach it to you?"
Celenneth met her eyes, quieter now. "I made it. In Lif's memory — a stone to mark him, and a warning."
"It's beautiful," Linnea whispered. "And so sad."
The wanderer let out a long breath, his sharp features gone soft. "You were there," he said — not quite a question. "You saw it, with your own eyes."
"I fought beside him," Celenneth said, her gaze gone far off. "His courage earned remembering."
The man shook his head slowly, admiration plain on him. "A tale as deep as the halls it happened in," he murmured. "You've honored me, Ranger. I'll answer in kind, with good counsel." He gestured toward the dark line of the wood. "Take the left fork, and you'll keep clear of the worst of the bogs. If ever the trees creak louder than the wind can account for, put the river between you and them. And beware anything that moves in the shadows without a reason to." With a last nod he turned and went off down the trail, and was gone.
They remounted, and Linnea rode a while in thought before she spoke. "You've seen so much," she said. "Not just places — the stories in them. Do you ever wonder how much of what we know will just be lost? The way Moria was lost."
Celenneth considered it. "That's why we keep the stories," she said. "Even the sad ones. Forget them, and you lose the lesson, and the place, and the people who were there. Someone has to carry them out."
Linnea nodded slowly, and they turned toward the eaves of the wood, the lament of the dwarf-halls still moving quietly in her, and in the darkening trees ahead.
Narquelië 13, 2965
The wood took them in and closed behind them. They had left the main path long since, trading the known road for an eastward line along the Forest River, and the river ran fast and fretful at their side, hurrying past as though it were fleeing something upstream and thought them fools for walking toward it.
Celenneth led at her steady pace, but her eyes never rested — every shift of the branches read like the flick of an ear, some watcher turning to mark them. There was no birdsong here, no daytime sound at all, only the water and the vast indifferent patience of old trees. The air itself sat heavy, as if steeped in the fear of everyone who had come this way before and not come back.
Linnea kept close behind, her fingers worrying the hilt of her dagger. "It's like the wood's angry," she muttered. "Like it knows we've no business here."
"Maybe we don't." Celenneth glanced to where the river bent out of sight into deeper shadow. "But here we are. If there's something ahead, I'd sooner meet it looking at its face."
Linnea gave a thin laugh. "You always did run toward what everyone sane runs from."
"Someone has to." A flicker of a smile, gone as fast.
They had both walked Mirkwood's edges before, and both knew this was not that. This was older and more awake. The dark here was not the absence of light but a thing in its own right, a weight that leaned on the chest and thickened with every step deeper. Where the trees drew in ahead and the river narrowed, the way forward looked less like a path than a throat.
"I feel it too," Celenneth said, before Linnea had to ask. "Stay near. If we have to cut our way through something, we do it together."
"Together," Linnea echoed, and the word steadied her.
Night came down hard and cold, until every breath hung white between them. They made their camp beside the river, and the simple comfort of a fire proved beyond them — for when Celenneth first knelt to lay one, the trees answered. Their branches groaned and shifted, tightening their ring overhead with a slow, deliberate menace, and the meaning of it needed no words. No flame. So there was no fire, and there was cold instead.
Linnea pressed close under the shared cloak, and Celenneth wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in, and Linnea tucked her face into the warm crook of her neck and took what heat there was to take.
"This is miserable," she said, muffled against Celenneth's skin. "We could freeze out here."
"If we freeze, we'll do it in each other's arms." The humor came out flatter than Celenneth meant, but she drew the cloak tighter over them both. Around them the wood held its cold silence, and the river ran on whispering its warnings to the dark, and neither of them slept much.
Narquelië 14, 2965
Dawn came grudging and grey and gave no warmth. They untangled stiff and slow, breath fogging, dark circles under both their eyes from a night that had granted little rest.
"We need a fire," Linnea said, her voice cracking. "We can't do that again."
Celenneth sat up, scanning the close-standing trunks. Their bark caught the weak light like wrinkled, scornful faces. "The trees don't like it," she murmured. "Last night, when I tried — I'd swear they moved."
"Maybe they did." Linnea remembered the groan of the branches, the windless stirring of the canopy, the pressure of it. That had frightened her worse than the cold.
But another night unwarmed would leave them weak, and weak was worse than watched. Celenneth weighed it with her jaw set, then reached for the flint. "A small one. Kept low. Just enough to get us through."
The spark caught. As the little flame took, they both held their breath — and the wood seemed to hold its own. The branches creaked and the shadows swayed inward, ringing the fire with their disapproval, but no limb came down to smother it. The flames steadied, and warmth reached their frozen fingers, and for a while it was enough.
Linnea sat close to the heat with her back to the river, eyes half-shut, letting the numbness leave her hands. Then her head came up. She'd heard something under the crackle of the fire — faint, almost the wind, and not the wind. A thread of melody, impossibly far off, a tune hummed by someone who had no place being out here in the dark.
"Do you hear that?" she whispered.
Celenneth frowned. "Hear what?"
"Music. I swear it — music." Linnea turned her head, straining after it. The tune wavered, faded, and then, close behind her, came a soft breathy giggle.
She spun with the dagger already in her hand — and there was nothing there. Only the leaves and the gurgle of the water, and the air gone thick and expectant, as though it were waiting for her to lose her footing.
"There was someone," she said, pale. "Laughing. Right at my shoulder. I swear it."
Celenneth's face went flinty, her hand to her sword-hilt, her eyes on the black between the trunks. This she could not parry or outrun. She'd take orcs over it gladly — orcs she could kill. This was a thing that meant to work its way into the cracks of them and prise them open from inside. "Keep the dagger close," she said, harder than she intended. "If anything comes, we don't wait to see what it wants."
Linnea nodded and leaned into her side, and their shared warmth carried an edge of fear in it now. The fire burned small against the dark, and somewhere far off the melody went on, patient, and Celenneth did not tell her that she too had begun to catch it — the faintest curl of a song at the very edge of hearing, winding, coiling closer.1
Narquelië 15, 2965
The fire had sunk to embers by dawn, and with the grey light the pressure of the wood drew back a little, the music and the laughter gone as though they had been a bad dream.
Celenneth woke first. Linnea lay curled against her, her face half-buried in the crook of her arm, her breathing deep and slow with a rest that had been rare in these woods. For a moment Celenneth only watched her — the tension she carried by day smoothed away, dark hair loose across her cheek, her lips parted on a soft breath. Beyond their small camp the wood was still hostile and cold; here under the cloak, warmed by each other, the world could be held off a little longer.
She leaned in without deciding to and pressed her lips to Linnea's brow. Linnea stirred, murmured, her eyes drifting open — and before she could speak, Celenneth kissed her mouth, slow and deep, her hand slipping behind her neck to draw her in.
Linnea sighed into it and woke fully under the kiss, her hand finding Celenneth's waist and pulling. There was a heat between them that owed nothing to the dead fire — the pull that had been building unspoken through every shared danger, every glance held a beat too long — and Linnea kissed her back fiercely, as if to pour all her fear into it and be rid of it.
When they parted, their breath mingling in the cold, Celenneth rested her forehead to Linnea's. "We need to move," she said, and her voice came reluctant and thick.
"I know." Linnea's fingers lingered at her waist, unwilling. "I know."
Celenneth drew back slowly, her thumb brushing Linnea's cheek as though to keep the moment before the wood pressed in again. Then she rose and went to see to Nimroch, who stamped and flicked his ears, wary of the trees, and steadied under her sure hands. Linnea watched her work — the calm efficiency of it a fixed point in a place with no others — and pulled the cloak around her shoulders, the cold biting at her again, and a warmth still lit beneath her ribs where the kiss had been. The forest watched on. But for now there was warmth, and there was each other, and whatever waited they would meet it together.
Narquelië 15, 2965
The wood grew meaner as the day wore on. By afternoon the path had strangled to nothing — a wall of thorn and root and ancient wood that would not let them through. Celenneth cursed under her breath, and behind her Linnea groaned as her foot fouled yet again on a buried root.
With nowhere left to walk, they took to the river. The shallows were bitter cold, numbing their feet as they waded upstream against a current that shoved at their legs as though it, too, wanted them gone. It was a long, grinding fight — soaked to the thigh, clothes heavy with river-water, the chill working into the bone — and by nightfall they hauled out wet, shivering, and sore.
Celenneth set to gathering what dry wood she could find while Linnea led Nimroch to a patch of grass and loosened his saddle with trembling fingers, murmuring to him low. When the fire finally caught, its warmth was almost painful against skin gone numb.
"We should dry off," Celenneth said, and glanced toward the water with a tired smile. "And we could stand a proper wash, after that."
Linnea rolled her eyes but her cheeks colored. They peeled off the sodden layers and hung them over a line strung near the flames, and stepped back down the bank into the shallows — cold enough to make them gasp, but it carried the grime and the ache of the day off with it as they waded to the waist. Celenneth ducked under and came up sleeking her wet hair back, and caught Linnea watching her, and smiled.
"Come here."
Linnea came, resting her hands on Celenneth's shoulders, and Celenneth turned her gently and worked her fingers through the tangles of Linnea's wet hair, patient, loosening the knots. Linnea's eyes fell shut, her body easing back into the touch.
"Did you ever hear the stories?" Linnea asked, half a dream in her voice. "About the Woodland Elves — that they'd charm travelers who wandered too deep, make them dance until they forgot their own names?"
Celenneth's fingers slowed at her scalp. "I heard them. My mother used to say they'd make you dance until your feet bled — until you couldn't tell your name from the sound of the wind."
Linnea shivered, and it wasn't the cold. "Do you think it's true?"
Celenneth traced the line of her collarbone, her breath warm at the back of Linnea's neck. "There's truth in every story," she said. "These woods are older than the kingdoms of Men. Who knows what still walks in them, or what it wants."
Linnea turned in her arms, searching her face, and reached up to touch her cheek. "Then let's give it no reason to keep us," she said, a small smile curving her mouth.
Celenneth leaned in until their brows touched, and gathered her close, and the cold of the river went out of the world. "We keep each other," she murmured against Linnea's ear — a promise made low, against the dark that waited past the firelight.
It was the fire that gave them true comfort in the end. They climbed the bank with their fingers laced and spread the dry cloak on the ground beside the flames, and knelt there facing each other, the light gilding the lean lines of them, the cold biting at their damp skin and the warmth of each other more than answer to it.
Linnea reached out and traced the planes of Celenneth's face, and leaned in, and the kiss began soft — a whisper of warmth that deepened as their mouths learned each other again. Celenneth's hand rose to cradle the back of Linnea's neck, fingers threading her damp hair. There was no urgency in it tonight, only the slow thrum of it, the crackle of the fire, the river running past. Linnea's fingers drifted down the curve of a shoulder, nails light on skin, and drew back to look at her, half-smiling.
"Your hair's a mess," she murmured against Celenneth's jaw.
"Your fault." Celenneth's voice had gone to a rasp. She found the shell of Linnea's ear, grazed the lobe with her teeth, and Linnea laughed, soft, and tightened her fingers in Celenneth's hair.
They moved slow. Their hands went to familiar places — old scars read by touch, the steady pulse beneath the skin, the salt the river had left behind. Linnea dragged her nails light down Celenneth's spine and pressed her mouth to her throat; Celenneth sighed and drew her in, and their bodies pressed close and warm along the whole length of them, and they let the night take them into a slow, unhurried tangle by the fire, in no hurry to arrive anywhere but here.
When the cold began to creep back, they drew apart at last, the heat of it still hanging between them. Celenneth pulled the cloak around them both and gathered Linnea into her, chin resting atop her head.
"Sleep," she said, barely a breath. Linnea curled into her, fitting where she always fit, and the fire burned steady beside them and the wood held its peace, and they slept.
Narquelië 16, 2965
Morning came reluctant, grey light straining through the tangled canopy. They woke wound together, the fire gone to embers, and dressed slow in their dried clothes and forded the cold river to the far bank, Nimroch picking his way beside them over the slick stones. Then upstream again, the path a shifting maze of shadow and thin light.
It wasn't long before Linnea heard it — the melody, drifting on the air. She stopped, head tilting. The tune was soft and coaxing, the kind that curled into the thoughts and made a home there, and under it ran voices, whispering in no tongue they knew, their cadence pulling at the edge of the senses.
"You hear it," Linnea said. Not a question.
Celenneth nodded once, her hand going to her sword, her eyes cutting through the trees. The music came and went, never staying long enough to fix a direction on, and there was something mocking in the way it slipped away each time.
Then the air began to warm. It rose from the ground itself, unnatural, thick and close, and clung to them until sweat stood on their brows — a humid, breathing heat that made every step feel like wading. "It's wrong," Linnea muttered, tightening her grip on Nimroch's rein.
"It is," Celenneth said, and felt the wrongness press against her chest. The music and the whispers went on, always just out of reach, fading and returning like a half-remembered dream that would not let go.1
They walked into the strange heat all the long afternoon, and toward dusk the trees gave way at last. The forest opened onto a wide grassy clearing where the river ran lazy through it and the sky stood clear overhead — deep indigo, the first stars already pricking through. Celenneth stopped, and looked up, and her breath caught at the sweep of them. She turned to Linnea and gestured to the open ground.
"Here," she said softly. "We rest here tonight."
Narquelië 16, 2965
Linnea tipped her head back and the breath went out of her at the sight. The sky over the clearing was endless, the stars so thick and near they seemed a thing she might reach up and gather. "It's perfect," she said.
They made camp with an ease neither had felt in days. The clearing was open and it felt safe, the weight of the trees left behind them, and though the air was still warmer than a night this deep in autumn had any right to be, under the naked sky it troubled her less. Celenneth coaxed a fire to life; Linnea led Nimroch to the river's edge to drink, her ears turned toward the treeline out of habit — but here the music thinned, lost under the run of the water and the wind in the grass.
The fire took, and Celenneth looked up and found Linnea's eyes across it, and they traded a smile that needed nothing said. For tonight they had the stars, and each other, and the forest could wait.
Sleep took them under the shared cloak, and the warmth grew as the night went deeper — no longer the fire's comfort but something heavier, close, cloying. Celenneth stirred once and shoved the cloak off, her shirt damp and clinging. Beside her Linnea turned and turned, restless, and half-asleep her fingers went to the ties of her tunic and pushed the layers away, her skin sheened with sweat. And under it all, threading the dark, the music came again.
Linnea's eyes drifted open, a haze over them. The heat had left her limbs loose and heavy and strange, and the tune tugged at something under her ribs, a summons she felt more than heard — move, sway, come. She rose, slow, dreamlike, bare feet finding the cool grass, and she began to dance. Her arms lifted, her head fell back, her eyes half-closed, and she gave herself to the melody, turning in the firelight with her shadow thrown long behind her.
Celenneth woke to the sight of her — Linnea silhouetted against the stars, swaying, her dark hair catching the light, her body moving as though it weighed nothing at all. For a heartbeat it stopped Celenneth's breath, the beauty of it. Then the wrongness of it landed.
"Linnea?" Her voice came rough with sleep.
Linnea didn't answer. Her eyes were glassed, her lips parted, a soft breathless laugh spilling out of her as she spun, further from the fire, drawn toward the dark treeline a step at a time.
Celenneth was up and across the grass before she'd finished thinking. She caught Linnea by the shoulders, turned her, took her face in both hands. "Linnea. Look at me." She held her gaze and would not let it slide away. "You're dreaming. Come back."
For a moment longer the melody had her — and then it broke, and Linnea blinked, and came to herself with a stumble and a small, embarrassed sound. She looked around at the clearing, at Celenneth's frightened face, her breath coming quick, her skin damp. "I don't — " she started. "I was — "
"I have you." Celenneth drew her in against her, felt the racing of her heart. "It's the wood. It went looking for the loosest thread in you and pulled. You're back now."1
But the heat did not let go of them, and the music did not stop, and where fear had been a moment before there was now something else rising to meet it. The air lay thick and feverish on the skin, and the drums began — low in the earth, felt through the soles before they were heard, slow and building, a pulse that found the pulse in Celenneth's own chest and matched it.
Linnea's hand closed on her wrist. "Celenneth — I — " The words wouldn't come whole. The need in her was plain, and it was answered; Celenneth felt the same fever climbing in herself, and knew it for what it was — the wood's glamour, yes, but laid over a want that had been theirs and true long before the wood ever touched it. She had spent the day wading through the heat of this place. She would not fight this. She would rather burn toward the one thing here that was real.
"I need you," she breathed, and pulled Linnea's mouth to hers, and the kiss was nothing like the slow one by the fire — it was teeth and open breath and hunger, both of them gasping into it. They came down together onto the crushed grass, and there was no patience left in either of them. Celenneth's fingers found Linnea slick and ready and Linnea's found her the same, the two of them working each other in the dark with the drums driving under it, hips rocking to a rhythm that was half theirs and half the wood's. Linnea's breath sobbed against Celenneth's throat; her nails dragged down Celenneth's back and Celenneth pushed into the sting of it, wanting more of everything at once.
"Don't stop," Linnea gasped.
"I'm not going anywhere." Celenneth turned her onto her back and followed her mouth down — throat, the peak of one breast drawn between her lips, the sweat-salt hollow of her navel — while Linnea's hands fisted in her hair and her hips lifted after her. She settled between Linnea's thighs and this time she did not tease; the fever wanted more than teasing. She took her with her whole mouth, tongue flat and firm where Linnea most needed it, two fingers curling up into her in time, and Linnea came apart almost at once, arching off the ground with a cry that the drums swallowed, and Celenneth stayed and drew it out of her in wave after wave until she was wrung empty and shaking.
The drums faded then, as though they had gotten what they came for. The oppressive heat lifted all at once, a cool breeze moving across their damp skin, and overhead the stars seemed to shimmer and drift, alive, though that might only have been Linnea's spent and swimming sight.
She turned her head and found Celenneth's face gilded in the last of the firelight. Celenneth leaned in and kissed her — slow now, tender, all the fever gone out of it and only the deep thing left. "I love you," she whispered, searching Linnea's eyes as though she needed to see it answered.
Linnea's breath caught. She reached up and traced Celenneth's cheek. "And I love you," she said, unsteady with it. "More than anything."
They kissed again, gentle, and lay tangled under the drifting stars while the music of the wood thinned away to a lullaby, and slept at last with the whole clearing for their witness.
Narquelië 17, 2965
By daylight the clearing was another country. The sun stood well up, pouring gold through the gaps in the canopy onto grass and wildflowers that stirred in a cool morning breeze; the oppressive heat of the night had burned off entirely, and the river ran bright and easy beside them. Birds sang overhead — a sound they had not heard since they entered the deep wood. Everything felt scrubbed clean, as though the land had granted them a reprieve after the fever of the dark.
Celenneth woke first, stiff but easy in her mind. Beside her Linnea lay wrapped in the cloak, her face soft with sleep, and Celenneth brushed a strand of hair from her brow and let her fingers rest there a moment before she rose. They dressed slowly, packed without hurry, traded small smiles that wanted no words, and set off following the river upstream, the air sweet with damp earth and blossom.
The peace did not hold long. As they went on the trees drew close again, the canopy thickened, and the old feeling of being watched returned — but changed now, less a threat than a curiosity. Celenneth and Linnea exchanged a glance, hands drifting to their weapons.
A rustle in the underbrush, and then laughter — light, musical, unmistakably mischievous. Linnea's head snapped round, and before she could place it an arrow whipped through the air and buried itself in a trunk a hand's breadth from her head. More laughter followed, delighted with itself.
From the shadows stepped a band of Elves, bows slung careless over their shoulders, their clothes the greens and browns of the wood so that they seemed half made of it. One came forward — tall, with hair the color of turning leaves — his grin flicking between the two women.
"Good morning, travelers," he said, brimming with mirth. "We couldn't help but mark the delightful performance you gave us last night. Truly — a spectacle worthy of a song."
Celenneth's face heated; beside her Linnea had gone crimson. "You were watching?" Linnea managed, caught between mortification and outrage.
"Indeed we were." He bowed slightly, eyes dancing. "The stars, the drums, the passion — a fine show. We rarely see travelers give themselves to the wood so freely. Consider it your welcome to the realm of the Woodland Elves."
A second Elf stepped forward before Celenneth could find a reply — a woman with long silver hair, her smile gentle though her eyes were sharp. "Don't be shamed by it," she said. "The forest is alive, and it loves those who love deeply. You honored it, and it has granted you safe passage in return."
Linnea swallowed, and a hesitant smile tugged at her. "Then — I suppose we should thank you."
"Think nothing of it." The autumn-haired Elf stood aside and gestured them on. "The river runs to our halls. Perhaps, if you'd like, we'll show you more of what this wood has to offer. Eryndor, I'm called." He winked.
The silver-haired woman inclined her head. "And I am Arannis. We'll take you to our lord. There is much to discuss — and perhaps more to enjoy."
They followed. The trees grew taller as they went, ancient trunks thick as towers, their high leaves whispering; Eryndor led with an easy grace, breaking now and then into a snatch of song that seemed to quiet the wood around him, and Arannis walked beside the two women with a curious, warm attention.
At last the forest opened, and the halls of the Woodland Elves lay before them — a lattice of platforms and slung bridges woven high into the branches, silver lanterns glowing amid the leaves, the whole of it grown into the trees rather than built upon them. They climbed a stair that spiraled the trunk of a vast oak, wide-eyed, and were brought at the top to a great pavilion roofed in living boughs, where a tall figure waited.
Thalion, lord of the Woodland Realm, stood with the ease of long authority — hair golden as sunlight, eyes deep as forest pools, robed in green, a slender crown of woven leaves at his brow. He smiled as Eryndor and Arannis brought the travelers before him.
"Welcome," he said, his voice rich and low. "I am Thalion. Word of your coming reached me. You have my hospitality while you tell me the cause of it."
Celenneth bowed her head. "My lord. I am Celenneth, of the Dúnedain, and this is my companion Linnea, and my horse Nimroch, gift of Elrond in Imladris. We come bearing a message from the King of Dale."
Thalion's brows lifted a fraction. "Dúnedain, Dale, and Imladris — a curious weave. What matter carries you so far?"
Linnea stepped up, steady despite her nerves. "Bain, King of Dale, seeks assurance of your alliance, my lord. With new shadows stirring, he thinks it wise to see old bonds reaffirmed."
"The alliance exists," Thalion said, a bemused smile playing at his mouth. "But I see little cause to call upon it. The Greenwood stands untouched, and Dale's borders are far."
Celenneth kept her tone even. "We've seen the cause with our own eyes, my lord. The Shadow of Dol Guldur is waking. I have crossed this forest with the King's scouts and found orcs moving through it in ordered bands — testing, probing for weakness — and wards of dark sorcery laid across the paths." She unrolled the map and stepped forward to show him the marks. "This is no idle raiding. It is a thing being made ready."
Thalion's amusement drained as he studied the map, his brow drawing down. "This is troubling indeed," he said quietly. "If it is as you show me, there is much here to weigh." He looked up, grave. "I must take counsel with my council before I answer."
Then, as if setting the matter deliberately aside, the ease returned to him, and a glint of mischief with it. "But you are weary from a hard road. Tell me — have you tasted the joys of the Elves?"
Celenneth traded a glance with Linnea; both shook their heads. "We have not, my lord."
His smile widened. "Then you must, and fully. Rest, and take your pleasure of my halls, while I see to this. When I am ready to give you my mind, you will be summoned." He gestured to Arannis and Eryndor. "My friends will see to your every comfort."
Arannis and Eryndor led them away along paths that wound through gardens grown wild and lovely, and brought them at last to a secluded lawn and a spring lit with a soft, unearthly light, the air heavy with the scent of blossom.
"Here you may wash the road from you," Eryndor said, teasing. "Allow us to help."
Celenneth hesitated, and found Linnea's eyes, and the warmth in Arannis's steadied her; she nodded, and the Elves came forward, and undressed them with light, respectful, unhurried hands. The water was warm as they stepped in, and the last of the journey's ache went out of them. Arannis poured a fragrant oil into the spring and worked her fingers through Celenneth's hair, kneading her scalp until she sighed; Eryndor did the same for Linnea, humming low under the rustle of the leaves. They bathed the two women with a care that was luxurious and strange and wholly disarming, as if the wood itself had gathered them up to be tended.
When they were clean the Elves wrapped them in soft embroidered cloth and led them on to where garments waited — robes of green and silver, light as water, worked with patterns of leaf and vine. Arannis fastened Celenneth's clasps, her eyes meeting Celenneth's with a soft smile. "You are a guest of the Woodland Elves now," she murmured. "Tonight you will dine. And tomorrow, perhaps, you will dance."
Eryndor dressed Linnea, his grin never far. "The forest has seen your passion," he said. "Tonight let it see your joy. Come — let us show you the beauty of our halls."1
Narquelië 17, 2965
The evening opened under lanterns strung through the branches, their glow warm and gold across the pavilion. Eryndor and Arannis seated Celenneth and Linnea at a long table laid with carved goblets and dishes of a delicacy that could only be Elvish, and the feast began — course upon course, brought out with an effortless grace, each one a small argument for the richness of the wood.
There was a salad of woodland herbs and flowers, bright and clean on the tongue; thin slices of river trout under a sauce of crushed berries and honey; a broth of wild mushrooms with warm crisp bread. As each dish came, so did music — flutes and strings that blended so seamlessly with the rustle of the leaves and the far calls of night-birds that it was hard to say where the wood ended and the song began.
The wine flowed golden and fragrant, and with every cup the weight of the road loosened a little more from Celenneth's shoulders. Arannis raised her goblet to the two of them. "To love," she said, "and the courage it asks." Her gaze lingered on them both as she drank.
Between courses the two Elves sang by turns. Arannis gave a song of old loves — of parting and reunion beneath the stars — her voice haunting, her eyes finding Celenneth's as though the words were meant for her alone. Then Eryndor rose, bright with mischief, and sang of revelry and laughter under the boughs, and on the swell of it he stepped forward and took Linnea's hand. "Dance with me."
Linnea hesitated, glancing to Celenneth — and at Celenneth's nod she let herself be drawn up, and Eryndor spun her light beneath the lanterns until she was laughing. Arannis watched a moment, then held out her own hand. "Will you?"
Celenneth let herself be led. The music quickened, and Arannis moved with an ease that was almost unearthly, silver hair catching the light as she turned, her laugh low and warm — and across the floor Linnea was laughing too, flushed and easy in a way Celenneth had not seen in weeks, and the sight of it lifted her more than the wine had.
As the night deepened, the courses grew stranger and more decadent — smoked venison spiced dark, tiny pastries of goat's cheese and herb, fruits that seemed to hold a light of their own, their juice so sweet it lingered on the lips. And the Elves grew bolder with it. Arannis leaned close to name each dish, her fingers grazing Celenneth's arm, her breath warm at her ear. Eryndor fed Linnea a dried fig from his own hand, his fingertips brushing her mouth, his eyes not leaving hers. "You mustn't shy from pleasure," he told her, low. "It's what makes us alive."
Celenneth was not blind to where the evening was tending. The flirtations had thinned to little more than plain invitation — a finger traced along her jaw, a hand resting warm at the small of her back, words spoken close enough to feel. And she found, wine-warm and easy under the stars, that she was not turning from it. She caught Linnea watching her across the table, cheeks high with color and something bold in her eyes, and held the look, and read in it the same openness she felt rising in herself.
"The forest has seen many lovers," Arannis murmured against her ear, "but few as radiant as the two of you. Stay with us tonight. Let us show you all the pleasures of our realm." Her lips were close, her gaze steady and unhurried, waiting on an answer and not pressing for one.
Celenneth's heart was beating high. But it was not the wine or the wood she looked to for her answer. She looked to Linnea — and Linnea, meeting her eyes down the length of the lantern-lit table, gave her the smallest nod, and a smile that had no fear in it at all.
Narquelië 17, 2965
As the feast wound down, its music and laughter gave way to something quieter and no less heady. Eryndor and Arannis led them off the pavilion and along a moss-soft path lit by silver lanterns like caught starlight, deeper among the trees, the air thick with the perfume of night blossom. They came to a secluded glade made into a kind of room by nothing but nature — couches and low cushions and thick rugs heaped in the dark, lantern-light swaying gold across the leaves overhead.
"Here you may rest, and find whatever pleasure you wish," Arannis said, and settled beside Celenneth, her hand light on her shoulder, tracing idle lines on her skin. Eryndor sank down at Linnea's side, his fingers brushing her arm.
Celenneth and Linnea looked at each other across the little space, and it was to each other they spoke first. Linnea leaned in and kissed Celenneth deeply, and drew back only far enough to say it. "I only want this if you're beside me."
"I'm right here." Celenneth traced her jaw with a fingertip and held her eyes. "The whole time. Say the word and we stop — both of us."
"The whole time," Linnea agreed, and something in her settled, and she turned to Eryndor with her breath already quickening.
Only then did Celenneth let Arannis turn her face toward her. The Elf's kiss was slow and deliberate, a patient exploration, her hand sliding to the small of Celenneth's back and drawing them flush. Celenneth answered it, her own hands finding Arannis's waist, her mouth going to the line of her jaw, and she let the last of her guardedness loosen — but she kept Linnea always at the edge of her sight, and each time she looked, Linnea was looking back, flushed and unafraid, and the thread between them held taut and warm through all of it.
Arannis unfastened Celenneth's robe with deft fingers and eased it from her shoulders, and Celenneth returned the favor, and skin met skin in the lantern-warm dark. Arannis pressed her back onto a broad chaise and knelt, and looked up once — asking — and at Celenneth's nod she set her mouth to the inside of one thigh and worked upward until her tongue found her. Celenneth's breath left her; her hand fell to Arannis's silver hair, and she gave herself over to it, the Elf unhurried and skilled, drawing the pleasure up in her slow and sure.
Across the glade Eryndor had laid Linnea back among the cushions, his mouth at her breast, his hands learning her. Celenneth watched them through half-lidded eyes — Linnea arching, one hand fisted in Eryndor's hair — and Linnea, catching her watching, held her gaze as her own breath broke, and the sight of her lover coming undone poured through Celenneth hotter than any touch.
Then Eryndor rose and crossed to her, and knelt at her side, and rested a hand on her thigh. "May I?" he asked, low. Celenneth glanced to Linnea — who had propped herself on an elbow to watch, her eyes dark and willing — and nodded. Arannis drew back with a last kiss to her hip and moved to Linnea, gathering her close, and the four of them rearranged around the bond that anchored them, no one apart.
Celenneth turned onto her knees on the chaise and Eryndor settled behind her, one hand splayed at her hip, and eased into her by slow degrees until she took all of him and they both went still at it. Then he moved — deep, unhurried — and her breath came in broken gasps she made no effort to hide. She found the pace with him and rode it, and when she wanted more she said so plainly, and he gave it, and across the glade Linnea watched them locked together and shuddered through her own release against Arannis's mouth, and turned and kissed the Elf hard.
When Celenneth was near her own edge she reached back and set the rhythm herself, and Eryndor followed her over it, his grip tightening as he spent himself and drew out slow. He pressed a lingering kiss to her shoulder — the heat in him gone tender now — and let her sink down onto the cushions, spent and humming.
Then the two Elves turned their attention wholly to Linnea, and Celenneth would not be left out of that for anything.
She came to Linnea's side and took her mouth while Eryndor kissed a slow path down her belly and Arannis pressed close at her other flank, her lips at Linnea's ear murmuring in Silvan, her fingers light at Linnea's breast. Celenneth caught one nipple gently between her fingers and rolled it, and swallowed Linnea's gasp with her own mouth, and felt the tremble start to build in her. Eryndor settled his mouth between her thighs, patient and deliberate; Arannis's teeth grazed her throat; and Linnea, held and wanted from every side and anchored by Celenneth's kiss, climbed fast and hard.
"Look at me," Celenneth said against her lips, and Linnea's eyes came to hers, wide and glassy, and held there as her whole body drew taut — and then she broke, arching up off the cushions with a cry, her hands clutching whatever they could reach, Celenneth's name shaped soundless on her mouth. Celenneth kissed her through every wave of it and did not look away, so that the last thing Linnea saw as she came apart was the one face in all the wood that was truly hers.
When it ebbed, Linnea went loose and boneless, laughing a little, breathless. Eryndor pressed a kiss to her hip and rose; Arannis smoothed the damp hair back from her brow. The two Elves drew a soft blanket over her and settled to either side with a care that was almost reverent, their teasing all gone quiet.
Celenneth stretched out along Linnea's front and gathered her in, and Linnea turned into her and tucked her head beneath her chin, fitting where she always fit. Around them the glade lay hushed, the lanterns guttering low, the leaves stirring overhead. Whatever the wood had woven around them that night, this at the center of it was theirs and had always been — and they held to it, and each other, and let sleep take them.
Narquelië 18, 2965
They woke slow, in a wide and beautiful bed, morning light falling dappled through the leaves above. The room was open to the wood on one side, so that the rustle of the branches and the murmur of a near stream came in with the air, and the two of them lay tangled and warm, the night still on their skin.
Celenneth opened her eyes to find Linnea's face on the pillow beside her, dark hair spread out around it, peaceful in a way the road rarely allowed. She brushed a strand from her cheek, and Linnea stirred, and her eyes opened to a smile. For a while they only lay there in the quiet, content.
Soft footsteps drew their attention: Arannis and Eryndor, each bearing a tray of fruit and honey and delicate pastries. "We thought you might be hungry," Arannis said, kneeling by the bed, "after such a long night." Eryndor held a piece of fruit to Linnea's lips, and she took it with a blush and a laugh, the sweet juice bright on her tongue. Arannis offered Celenneth a slice of golden peach from her own fingers. "No need to rush today," she murmured. "The forest is yours to enjoy."
When the trays were empty Arannis set them aside. "Come. There's a stream near, cold enough to wash the night away and wake you both." She rose and offered Celenneth her hand.
They were led down a winding path through a wood alive with birdsong, the air cool and sweet, and came to a stream running clear over pale stones. Arannis loosed the sash of her robe and let it fall and stepped into the water, and Eryndor after her; and Linnea, with a glance at Celenneth and a smile, let her own robe drop and followed. Celenneth watched a moment — love and simple wonder tangled together in her — then shed hers and stepped in, the cold water bracing against her skin.
They swam, and splashed, and the Elves' bright laughter proved catching, until Celenneth and Linnea were laughing too, the worries of the deep wood rinsed away. Then Arannis began to hum, and the hum became a song — old, and in Silvan, lilting over the run of the water. "It is about how the truest joy is the joy you did not see coming," she said, and taught them the words as she sang, patient and merry when their tongues stumbled over the strange sounds, until all four voices wove together over the stream. Surprise brings delight, she translated, her eyes on Celenneth. The unexpected is where joy lives.
The song ended in more laughter and a last flurry of splashing, and after a while Arannis led them back to the bank to gather their robes and return to the halls.
There Eryndor brought them to a broad room strewn with cushions and soft rugs, a carved harp standing in its center, and sat to it, and drew from the strings a slow, unspooling melody that filled the air. Arannis settled among the cushions and drew Celenneth down into her arms, fingers combing idly through her hair; Linnea lay with her head in Celenneth's lap, eyes drifting shut. The music rose and fell, unhurried, and it was a gift freely given — a display of what the Elves could do, and yet made to feel like an offering rather than a boast. Morning warmed toward afternoon, and the three of them lay lulled by the harp and by the steady rhythm of one another's breathing, at rest.
Narquelië 18, 2965
Late afternoon light came slanting through the high branches when the summons reached them, and Eryndor and Arannis walked them back through the winding ways to the great pavilion at the heart of the halls. Thalion stood at its center, his gaze fixed on something far past the borders of his realm, and turned to them as they entered — and there was a warmth in his eyes now that had not been there at their first meeting.
"Celenneth of the North, Linnea of Bree," he said. "Welcome again. Your message has been weighed, and I have taken counsel. I will share my mind with you." He gestured them closer.
"We understand the threat that gathers in the south-west," he went on, his eyes on Celenneth. "The Shadow of Dol Guldur wakes, and it is not Dale alone that stands in its path. The forest itself is stirring, and we must be ready for what comes." His gaze moved to Linnea, and softened. "I have resolved, with my council, to stand with the Men of Dale. Our scouts will watch the Mirkwood; our bows will hold the forest; and our warriors will march beside Dale's, should the need come."
Relief went through Celenneth like warmth after cold. "Thank you, my lord," she said. "Your strength will mean much to Dale, and to all who stand against the dark."
Thalion inclined his head. "The woodland must stay strong, and the alliances of the Free Peoples must hold. I have heard, too, that a like plea must be carried to Rohan — that the Horse-lords be warned of what stirs." He turned to them, purpose in his face. "I will speed your way. There are paths known to my people that will carry you swifter and safer than any road."
Linnea stepped forward, her eyes bright. "We're grateful, Lord Thalion. Rohan must know what's coming. The alliance of the Free Peoples has to hold now, more than ever."
"Indeed, brave Linnea." He smiled. "You will go with the blessing of Thalion and of Bain both, and of the forest besides. My scouts will see you safe to the borders of Rohan; from there I trust your own courage to carry the rest." He raised a hand toward Eryndor and Arannis. "In the meantime, rest, and gather your strength. There is time yet before you must depart, and I would have you leave my halls renewed." His eyes warmed. "You are friends of the woodland now. You will always find sanctuary here."1
Eryndor stepped between the two women and took a hand of each. "Come," he said softly. "There is still much of the forest to enjoy before your road takes you on."
Narquelië 18, 2965
Arannis and Eryndor led them by quiet paths to a room deep in the halls — spacious but close, strewn with cushions and draped fabrics, lit gold through the leaves above, the air sweet with lavender and honeysuckle. Linnea felt the anticipation hanging between the four of them like a held note.
"We've made a gift for you," Arannis said, her eyes bright. "A game of the senses — to thank you for your courage, and to remind you there is delight to be found even with shadows near."
Eryndor drew out two lengths of silk. "Tonight we play with the senses," he said. "Trust us, and let the wood reach you a new way." He held up a blindfold, his eyes on Celenneth — a question in it.
Celenneth glanced to Linnea, and Linnea to her, and they answered together. Arannis came to Linnea with the other silk. "Only say the word, and it comes off," she murmured, and Linnea nodded, and let the world go dark.
Sight gone, everything else surged forward. She felt the cushions receive her, the warmth of the room, the slow careful hands that bound her wrists and ankles in ribbon — loose, comfortable, meant not to hold her but to give her nothing to do but feel. "A game of trust," Eryndor said close to her, and she breathed out and let herself be held by it.
Scent came first: a vial passed beneath her nose, wildflowers and green herb, and she drew it deep. Then Arannis's fingers at her lips, and honey, the sweetness lingering as the Elf's touch traced her mouth. A feather drifted along the inside of her arm and she shivered at the near-unbearable lightness of it. A bell rang somewhere near, its chime hanging in the air and blending with the rustle of leaves. Cool oil, smelling of crushed pine, worked slow into her wrist and forearm until the muscles went loose. Every sensation arrived whole and enormous, unshared with sight, and she gave herself over to each in turn.
Then hands turned her gently onto her stomach and worked warm oil into her back — jasmine and cedar, Arannis's touch firm and knowing along her spine — and she sank into the cushions and let the last tension go. She heard, distantly, Celenneth doing the same under Eryndor's hands, the small sound of her breath deepening, and it made Linnea smile behind the silk.
They were turned onto their backs, side by side. Linnea reached until she found Celenneth's hand and squeezed it, and Celenneth squeezed back. Then came the soft sound of robes falling, and warm bare skin close to hers, and the game changed its nature by slow degrees.
Weight settled over Celenneth — Linnea felt the cushions shift, heard the small catch of her lover's breath — and then the unmistakable sound of a kiss, deep and unhurried. And there, blind, Linnea built the whole of it out of sound alone: Arannis's mouth on Celenneth's, silver hair spilling over her face, the two of them close and moving; a low murmur, a shift of cushions, a gasp she knew better than her own name. She could not see it and so she saw it more vividly than sight would have allowed — every touch she could not watch drawn in bright behind her eyes — and her own body answered it, heat gathering low in her, her breath going short with wanting. Eryndor's hand traced slow up her thigh, steady, an anchor while her mind ran ahead into the dark, and she let it, aching and unhurried both.
Then she felt the silk drawn from her eyes, and the room came back gold and swimming — and there was Celenneth beside her, flushed and lost in Arannis's arms, exactly and not at all as she had pictured it. And there, kneeling between Linnea's own parted knees, was Eryndor, his gaze dark and asking, waiting on her word and not a moment before it.
She met his eyes, her breath catching, the long slow burn of watching-without-seeing still bright in her. "Yes," she said, barely a whisper. "Eryndor — yes."
He leaned down and kissed her soft, and eased against her, and pressed slowly in. She gasped, and made herself loose to take him, and the first ache gave over quickly to a deep and spreading pleasure. He moved with a careful surety, unhurried, watching her face for every flicker of it, and she rose to meet him and lost track of time entirely, until a wave broke over her and she came back to herself gasping and pushed against his chest — more, differently — and he understood, and rolled beneath her so that she straddled him. Hands splayed on his chest, she sank down onto him and set her own pace, slow and then not slow at all.
Then Celenneth was there. Her blindfold gone too, she caught Linnea's chin and tilted it up and kissed her — and Linnea tasted Arannis on her mouth, and the strangeness and the intimacy of it went through her like a spark. Celenneth swung a leg over Eryndor's face and settled facing Linnea, so that the two of them sat astride him together, and she framed Linnea's face in both hands and kissed her deep, and the two women moved over him joined by the kiss, breathing each other's breath.
They came in a near-tumble, one after another in quick succession — Celenneth first with a low broken sound against Linnea's mouth, then Eryndor, and Linnea holding herself down through it until he had spent himself and she collapsed back spent among the cushions. Arannis came to lie before her and gently, tenderly, cleaned the slick of him from her thighs with her tongue while Linnea shivered through the last of it, boneless and undone.
When she could move again, Linnea found Celenneth watching her with a slow, wicked warmth, already reaching for the little vial of pine oil Eryndor had used on them earlier. Celenneth warmed a few drops between her palms and set them to Arannis's back, working the fragrant oil into her shoulders and down her spine until the Elf sighed and melted under her hands — the game turned round on its makers now.
Linnea laughed, delighted, and took it up. She found the bell and rang it soft by Eryndor's ear, and watched his eyes fall shut, and traced her fingers along his chest the way he had traced hers. Celenneth took up the feather and drew it teasing down Arannis's side until the Elf gasped and squirmed and laughed; Linnea dabbed rosewater across Eryndor's chest and bent to kiss the line of it, the scent of roses winding through the pine and the honey.
So the four of them turned the whole game inside out, guest tending host, their laughter mingling low with the murmur of the wood beyond the leaves — a celebration of the senses, and of the strange kindness of this place, and of the joy that could still be found and given even with the Shadow gathering somewhere past the trees.