Legolas

A thousand stars sparkle overhead by the time I finally finish my long conversation with Father. They cast a pale-bluish glow over the entirety of the camp and its surrounding woodlands. The only exception: the lookout's personal bonfire, raging along the adjacent lake's shore.

Aranel still sits crouched on the same fallen log she occupied earlier. However, none of her prior companions accompany her now in the camp's lingering silence, leaving her to be one of the sole remaining denizens to still be awake.

I approach and sit down next to her, the action earning a quick glance from her in response.

"I believe I have been successful in persuading Father to remain, should we choose not to deceive the dwarves," I report and clasp my hands together out in front of me. "However, Father still insists deceiving Oakenshield would be our best course of action, should we proceed with the original dealings, as planned."

"Of course." Aranel huffs with a roll of her eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

Disdainful sarcasm coats her words like venom. The bitterness behind them hard to miss, much less ignore.

She leans forward further, burying her face in her hands.

I've never seen her look so distraught before, not throughout all our conversations or travels together. It goes beyond mere concern for one's past friends or the possibility of a minor skirmish. It's as though the entire world weighs down upon her shoulders now, and she fears she's but a step away from letting it all down.

But why? Why does this confrontation trouble her to no end? Does it remind her of her prior struggles during the blight? Her past battles as a Warden?

Or is this just who she is? Someone who takes on and worries over the burdens of all others, as though they are her own?

The thought intrigues me—gets me thinking.

I recall Tauriel's discussion with me earlier, the night we first learned of Aranel's defection.

'You must not lose hope. Not yet. Give both time, and her, a chance,' her voice repeats. 'We may yet learn of acceptable reasons behind her actions. Ones that might not have ever crossed our minds, which could affect our stance.'

I purse my lips.

Perhaps there is more than meets the eye.

"Why is it you decided to return?" I ask before I even realize the words have flown from my mouth.

"Why do you care, Prince?" she retorts, her voice sounding more worn, more exasperated, every passing second.

"I am merely curious to hear your reasoning," I persist. "Is that not enough?"

"Was I not clear enough before, the night Bilbo and I escaped?"

She leans back and scowls at me. But after a moment, her face relaxes.

She sighs and goes back to staring straight ahead, out into the darkness. "It was . . . the right thing to do," she answers. "I've seen many corrupted by power and greed throughout the past. I would not see one of our friends become one of them and lead the others to their deaths. That's not what I came here to do. Nor do I wish to see such misfortune take place, could it be avoided."

Aranel pauses.

She bends forward and ruffles up her hair at its roots, flipping the flying strands this way and that in ungraceful, agitated sweeps. "I won't lie and say this was easy." She stops and drops her hands back down in her lap "However, I do not regret my choice or my prior decisions."

A flame of certainty burns in her bright blue eyes. One I can tell is sincere, full of purpose, resolve. She speaks the truth.

But how much of it does she believe?

How much of it did she struggle with when making said decisions?

I can't help but wonder what could've been floating through her mind back then. What could be guiding her now.

What could her line of reasoning be? Her motivations?

She remains a peculiar enigma. One who's actions, decisions, and subsequent emotions never seem to match my own expectations.

And it unnerves me.

Why do I care about her or her thoughts so much? Why must I trouble myself with associating with this troublesome woman?

And then I realize: I can't control myself.

Ever since the start, I've felt an invisible pull, an inherent need and desperation, to reach out, to understand this stubborn Warden and bizarre, foreign member of our kin. Even if it goes against my own self-interest or internal arguments. It always pulls me back to her.

'You've grown fond of her,' Tauriel's words repeat in my head once more.

I shake the thought away, dispelling it, cursing it. "Would you indulge me one more question?" I ask.

Aranel smirks at me. "Does that count?"

I quirk one eyebrow at her, and she bursts out in laughter.

"I jest. I jest!" she says. "Come. Tell me. What's on your mind, Prince?"

I hesitate. The words feel difficult to form, though the struggle doesn't seem to stem from the words themselves, but rather their potential meanings—the significance.

"Why did you decide to betray us to protect the dwarves?" I ask. "I need to know."

Aranel gapes at me for a long a moment.

She looks like she wants to argue on the word 'betray' but seems to stop herself with some visible effort.

"I was . . . bound by duty and a promise to Gandalf the Grey," she says, lowering her head. "Originally, he hired me to be the dwarves' personal bodyguard in their search to reclaim their homeland, as you're well aware. Their key worry being Smaug, who they hoped I could slay . . . When Smaug fell, one could argue that said duty had finished. But, when I saw an entire horde of humans and elves approaching the mountain, looking armed and ready for a pointless war, what else was I supposed to do? Turn my backs on them? Abandon my old allies, as soon as they may have reached their homeland? Just because my presumed 'duty' might've concluded?"

She glances at me with general curiosity in her eyes. No antagonism or hatred apparent in their depths. Only genuine, raw inquisitiveness, searching for follow up questions, answers.

But I give her none. I merely stare at her, uncertain what to say when confronted with her vulnerable gaze.

Aranel sighs again. She frowns and looks off into the distance, her line of sight lost in the impenetrable night. "I hoped by finding and aiding them, I might've been able to convince them to enter peace talks, to avoid bloodshed," she continues. "After all, Elgar'nan knows those dwarves see no reason most times. Especially when it comes to gold . . . What good all that turned out to do. Even with my interference, we still may have war yet."

A complex aura, riddled with despair and remorse, looms over her as she slumps forward again. The intensity rising, swirling around her like a dark, invisible cloud.

A part of me regrets putting her in such a foul mood. But the other half feels nothing but relief. Relief that perhaps her decisions weren't a reflection of poor character judgement on my part or a personal betrayal. But rather her concern for all those involved—as overly idealistic and counter-intuitive as her attempts may be.

A warming sensation spreads throughout my chest. I stand up, feeling a tad lighter in step, and smile down at Aranel. "Whatever your reasoning, I am glad you have returned to us unharmed," I tell her. "Let us work together now to try to establish peace. I imagine we may achieve better results working together, assuming you and your pet don't try to run off and lose me again."

Aranel snickers. "But then, where would be the fun in that?" she teases and rises from her seat. "I like to keep you on your toes. It keeps our trials interesting."

I chuckle then glance down at the ground between us.

Interesting? Yes, I suppose she would call it that.

When I look back up, Aranel's still watching me.

My whole body stiffens. The pull from earlier returns, this time in force. I reach out and tuck a rogue strand of hair back behind her ear.

Aranel's expression softens. There's an unexpected tenderness to it, drawing me in.

I find myself leaning in closer, bowing my head, one hand slowly stroking up the soft skin across her right cheek.

And then, it happens.

I press my lips softly against her own. A brief caress that ignites a fire within.

But one touch isn't enough. It's as though I'm starving after years of ignorant hibernation.

I close my eyes and cup her soft face between my hands, pulling her lips back to mine once again. This time with more strength, more need. A hunger I'm unable to quench.

Aranel reciprocates in kind, her hands grasping at my wrists, her fingers light and almost hesitant of touch.

The two of us break the kiss, and for a moment, I'm lost in her gaze. All thoughts and other senses cease. It's as though I'm swimming, cast out into the depths of the Anduin; drowning, but unwilling to escape. Unable to detect or search for the shores beyond.

I jolt as soon as I realize what I've done. What we've done.

Aranel appears to do the same.

I move back and immediately lower my hands back to my sides.

Aranel turns. She fidgets with a lock of her hair. "I . . . should turn in for the night," she whispers. "We have another big day tomorrow."

I gulp. "Yes, that you should," I agree.

Aranel glances over at me again. There's a shyness to it now, but also something more, lurking beneath the surface.

A question? No, reaffirmation?

I can't tell.

"Allow me to escort you back to your tent," I insist and motion for her to take the lead.

"Ma serannas," she whispers, striding ahead of me.

The two of us then wander deeper into the surrounding campsite in search of her lodgings, an awkward silence now dwelling between us, and a confusion and alarm I can't quite understand or break tearing at my conscience.