Hello again! Thank you to everyone who reviewed/followed/favorited and read the last chapter. I cranked this one out pretty quickly, because I had some inspiration this last week. So, here's chapter 7. I really hope you like it!

Chapter 7:

Thorin Oakenshield was dreaming of dragon fire. Behind his eyelids, the light and heat from the flames seared his eyes. He brought his arm up to his face, desperately trying to shield it from the blaze, but he was struck with confusion when he realized that his usually mail-clad arm was bare. The hot tongues of fire singed the dark hair on his arms, and he felt the sparks land on his beard. Looking around him, he felt panic growing in his chest. There was nowhere to escape, nowhere to run. Smaug had found him, and he was going to be burned alive in this hell of raging flames. As he resigned himself to his fate, he felt a blast of cool air rush past him.

Turning around, Thorin was startled by what he saw. A woman was walking through the midst of the flames which receded, and shied away from her form. She was clearing a path through the blaze as she walked, and the cool breeze with accompanied her kissed Thorin's burned face.

At first her form was hard to distinguish, but as she came closer, Thorin saw her for who she really was - an elf. Long blond hair reached to her waist, and impossibly creamy skin covered her face and arms. She seemed to almost float rather than move; Thorin could tell that there was something... special about her. But he still didn't trust her.

When she reached him, Thorin found a pair of clear blue-gray eyes watching him calmly. " Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. I know what you seek."

The elf's voice was calm, but withdrawn. She seemed to be looking at something other than him while she spoke.

"What business is it of yours what I seek?" His tone was gruff and hostile.

The elf remained motionless. "What do you wish to find in Erebor?"

"I wish to find nothing." His voice was angry. "I only wish to take back the halls of my people."

The lady focused her eyes on him once more, and Thorin felt as if he was being stripped naked under her gaze. She seemed to be able to see into him, through him, and to understand intimately what he was thinking and feeling. Thorin did not like the sensation; he liked it even less that it was coming from an elf.

Instantly, she turned his attention elsewhere. "Why do you dream of fire, Thorin Oakenshield? Is it because of the dragon? Or is it something else?"

Thorin's frustration was growing. "What are you talking about, elf?"

She turned away from him, and he couldn't help but be fascinated by how fluidly she moved. "Flames do many things. They create and they destroy, they purify and defile." Without looking at him, she asked again. "Why do you dream of fire?"

The dwarf king didn't understand, nor did he care to. He felt the anger rising up in his chest, the hatred that he felt whenever he saw elves. It ran burning through his veins, turning his blood molten. With his fist clenched at his side, he longed for his sword to strike down that unbearably pristine-

His thoughts were interrupted. The space where the elven queen had been standing was empty. As he began to turn around to look for her, he felt a cool and gentle hand on his rough cheek. The feeling was only there for an instant before it disappeared, and Thorin Oakenshield awoke with a start.

The dream had been so vivid, it took him a few minutes to shake off the last tendrils of sleep that clung to him. He seldom dreamt about elves, and when he did it was only reliving again and again those moments of betrayal at the destruction of Dale and Erebor. This elven queen though, for that is all she could have been, was someone he had never seen before in his life. Thorin lifted a hand up to his cheek where she had touched him, and drew in his breath sharply. It was still cool.

XXXXXX

Niamh had almost made it back to her room unnoticed. She had taken a detour through the outskirts of the buildings, weaving her way amongst the trees. She had thought she was almost safe, there were only a few hundred feet left before she reached her quarters, and then-

"Niamh?"

Of all the people it could have been.

Turning around, Niamh saw Legolas standing behind her. He was dressed in a deep silvery gray tunic, interwoven with deep blue threads that seemed to change their patterns before her eyes. His blond hair looked like spun gold in the lamplight. She hadn't even heard him approach.

"Hello Legolas." She managed a slight smile.

"Perhaps I was mistaken, but I thought you had taken to bed hours ago. It is quite late." His voice and expression were polite, but Niamh was on her guard. She couldn't let him know she had found the dwarves and hobbit. So, she told the truth.

"I have... a lot on my mind."

"Perhaps you would like to discuss it?" The elven prince offered her his arm. It was late, and Naimh was exhausted. But she didn't want to act suspiciously, so she wearily reached out and took it.

Legolas led her away to some benches that she hadn't seen before. It was small wonder, because they were carved into the trees themselves. Although... "carved" wasn't the proper word. As Niamh sat down, she couldn't see any markings of carving or smoothing whatsoever. It seemed as if the trees themselves had simply grown that way.

Noticing her look, Legolas answered her silent question. "Many ages ago, my people could sing to the trees. With their voices they taught them how to grow and shape themselves. Often they taught the trees themselves to sing back in return." His voice grew softer. "But all the songs are dying; this forest is becoming foul."

He looked around him, and Niamh found herself fascinated by the perfection of his countenance. Even sorrow looked beautiful on his face. "Why?" She finally asked.

"We do not know." For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Naimh watched around her, as fireflies drifted through the trees, winking their tiny golden lights on and off. They breezes were cool as they touched her face, and ruffled her red hair.

Legolas spoke again. "What is troubling you, Lady Niamh?"

A thousand thoughts ran through her mind. She could lie, or make something up. She could ask about Thorin and the others. She could simply ask to sit in silence. Or...

"I am not... Who I was."

His face was gentle. "What do you mean?"

Niamh bit her lip. "I can't... remember everything. I remember bits and pieces, but they all seem so fragmented and scattered... Like shards of a broken mirror. All of them reflect me, but none of them seem like they will ever fit together again. And even if they do, they will make something entirely different." She leaned back, resting her head against the cool trunk of the tree behind her. She felt surrounded by a spell, woven out of soft darkness and twinkling lights.

Absentmindedly, Niamh reached down to the ring finger on her left hand. She had remembered in the dungeon that she had twisted her wedding band when she was anxious or afraid. But when her fingers reached for the solid band of gold, it wasn't there. She wondered what they had done with it when they had buried her.

Legolas noticed the unconscious motion and wondered what it meant. This mortal was so young compared to him, and so fragile. She was a product of something else entirely, and he was drawn to her. She was something new entirely, something never seen before in Middle Earth. He had been waiting for something like her to come along for centuries - something new.

"Is it so terrible to become something else?"

Hazel eyes glanced up at his for a moment. "It may not be terrible. But it certainly is difficult."

She sighed, and he saw the exhaustion on her face.

"Forgive me, Lady Niamh. I have kept you out too late. Please allow me to escort back to your chambers." Legolas offered his arm again, and Niamh was too tired to refuse.

He left her at her door, but when he took his leave, his gaze held hers longer than made her comfortable. As she slid out of her dress and into her bed, she wondered why he had watched her like that.

XXXXXX

Four days passed in Mirkwood; four days of agony for Niamh, Bilbo, and the dwarves. As each sun set, Thorin and the others worried about making it to the Lonely Mountain before Durin's day, and Naimh worried about how to help her friends escape. On the fifth day, she was summoned again to meet King Thranduil.

The dress that the elves had laid out for her was even more elaborate than on the other days. As Niamh slipped into the material, it felt weightless on her skin. When she moved, the fabric rippled and shimmered like mercury. It was the color of quicksilver, and was designed much like the other dresses. The only difference was in the train, which was much longer. When she walked, it drifted behind her on the smooth floors.

For jewelry they had left her a golden belt for the dress, crafted to look like birds in flight. There was a matching necklace, which hung around her neck and nestled into the dip of her collarbone. They had even left her a circlet for her hair. Instead of braiding at as she had been, Niamh left it down. It fell in gentle waves around her shoulders and tumbled down her back.

Before leaving her room and walking to the great hall, she paused to look at herself in a mirror. The woman that she saw was someone unfamiliar to her. Large hazel eyes stared back, set in a pale face scattered with freckles. She had always been fond of the freckles; she had gotten them from her mother. In the summer they darkened, covering her nose and cheekbones. But here... they set her apart. The elves were flawless. Her freckles looked like blemishes and imperfections on skin that couldn't compare with the impossibly smooth skin of the elves. Her nose wasn't straight enough, her eyebrows were too dark, her lips too thin. In comparison with perfection, Niamh felt herself sorely lacking.

But today, they had tried to make her look as flawless as possible. She wondered... Why?

Walking out of her chambers, she hurried across the grass towards the main hall where the king and the others were waiting. She paused before the doors, as the two elves standing there inclined their heads gracefully and then opened them for her. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

Thranduil was seated at the far end of the hall, in his rightful place as king. Legolas was seated to his right, and the elf prince looked as perfect as ever. But there was someone sitting to the left of Thranduil... someone that Niamh didn't recognize. She was obviously another elf; there was no way that she could be anything otherwise. Her long pale blond hair fell to her waist in ripples, and her white arms rested in her lap. But her eyes... when the eyes of the elf maiden met hers, Niamh felt the strangest sensation, as if someone was poking at her mind. She couldn't understand what was happening, until she heard the voice in her head.

"We finally meet, Niamh, woman who is not from our world."

Niamh knew there were introductions going on in front of her, she heard Thranduil's voice and saw his lips moving, but she couldn't comprehend anything he was saying. Her eyes were locked to the blue eyes in front of her. The gaze was so intense, she desperately wanted to turn away, but she was frozen in place.

And then, all of a sudden, Thranduil was gesturing to her and everyone was looking at her expectantly, and Niamh was so lost and confused and all she wanted was to escape from this bizarre world and these unnatural non-humans, when -

"Father, please." Legolas's voice managed to break into her head. "She's overwhelmed and still in a fragile state."

Somehow, he was standing next to her. It wasn't like elves to touch others wantonly, but the prince was standing close enough that she could feel the heat from his shoulder.

Thranduil looked slightly displeased, but his regal face was quickly composed. "I apologize, Lady Niamh. I do not mean to distress you."

Galadriel spoke. "She wishes to see the dwarves and the hobbit." Her voice sounded distant and ethereal, as if she was speaking from a distant cloud. "That anxiety clouds her mind."

"The dwarves? We have told her that the dwarves are safe, but not worth her time." Thranduil's sounded even more displeased. "Truly she shows disrespect for you, Lady Galadriel, as well as my house." King Thranduil arose from his seat, and took a step towards her. "We have shown you hospitality, Lady Niamh, I have opened my home to you, provided her with clothing and food, and now Lady Galadriel herself wishes to meet you. Is this how you repay my kindness?"

Beside her, Legolas moved to speak, but Niamh felt something rising up in her heart. It was anger. Before the prince could open his lips, her voice rang out through the court.

"And what about my friends? What hospitality have you shown them? What kindness?" She too took a step forward, and her hazel eyes flashed with light. "Your elves beat Thorin, and then you threw him in a cell without any medical treatment." For a moment, Niamh was what she had once been - a proud woman standing tall, red hair tumbling down her back and eyes blazing with fire. "You have shown them no respect, and have treated them with nothing but contempt."

Anger crossed Thranduil's pale face, and Niamh tensed herself for his rage.

"Enough." Lady Galadriel rose from her seat. She turned to the woman in front of her, and watched as the fire in her eyes dimmed. "I would also like to speak with Thorin Oakenshield."

The king frowned. "Then you may see him. But the other dwarves stay, and he will receive no medical help. He is still an enemy of the elves, and I will not allow him to roam freely in my house."

Niamh felt the desperation growing in her stomach. She hadn't seen him in four days, her worry about Thorin kept increasing. Her mind racing, she searched for an answer, until...

"Wait!" Her voice rang out. Every had in the hall turned, until every elf was watching her.

"Yes?" Thranduil's voice was cold.

"I'll... I'll make you a deal." Now that she had started speaking, Niamh was starting to regret her decision to open her mouth.

"A deal? What kind of deal could you possibly make with me? What do you have to offer, you, who have nothing?"

Although his comment stung, Niamh pushed forward. "I brought this upon them..." Her voice was dangerously close to cracking. "It was my fault you found them; it was my voice. So let me try to fix things the same way."

Thranduil still looked skeptical, but at her side Legolas spoke again. "Father, let her speak."

"Let me sing for you." Her request was simple. "If you are moved at all by my voice, then please... at least let me tend to Thorin's wounds. Move them out of your dungeon to somewhere more comfortable. Please."

The king of Mirkwood looked down at the woman below him, and looked at the face of his son. To his right, Galadriel watched him quietly. "Very well." He stepped back and sat down. "Continue."

Niamh's bravery had subsided, and now she was frightened. Somehow she had believed that her voice could move a creature of perfection. But this was her chance, and she was betting everything on the off-chance her voice could move a king. Her mind turning, she searched her memory for a song that could possibly... And then it hit her. She remembered. Stepping away from Legolas, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. No silly ballads for her today, or foolish tunes. She needed a song to move a mountain.

When the notes and words did begin to flow out of her mouth, her voice wove a spell around the court. Even king Thranduil, despite himself, found himself falling more deeply into her tale.

Beloved gaze in thine own heart,

The holy tree is growing there;

From joy the holy branches start,

And all the trembling flowers they bear.

The changing colors of its fruit

Have dowered the stars with merry light;

The surety of its hidden root,

Has planted quiet in the night;

The shaking of its leafy head

Has given the waves their melody,

And made my lips and music wed,

Murmuring a wizard song for thee.

There the Loves a circle go,

The flaming circle of our days,

Gyring, spiring to and fro,

In those great ignorant leafy ways;

Remembering all that shaken hair

And how the winged sandals dart,

Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

Beloved gaze in thine own heart.

Gaze no more in the bitter glass,

The demons with their subtle guild

Lift up before us when the pass,

Or only gaze a little while;

For there a fatal image grows,

That the stormy night receives,

Roots half hidden under the snows,

Broken boughs and blackened leaves.

For all things turn to barrenness

In the dim glass the demons hold,

The glass of outer weariness,

Made when God slept in times of old.

There through the broken branches go

The ravens of unresting thought,

Flying, crying, to and fro,

Cruel claw and hungry throat,

Or else they stand and sniff the wind,

And shake their ragged wings; alas!

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:

Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

Beloved gaze in thine own heart,

The holy tree is growing there;

From joy the holy branches start,

And all the trembling flowers they bear.

Remembering all that shaken hair

And how the winged sandals dart,

Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

Beloved gaze in thine own heart.

The last notes died away into silence, and everything in the hall was again still. Even the elves seemed as if they had been holding their breath, lest the smallest sound would crack her crystal notes.

When Niamh opened her eyes finally, they were full of tears. Through blurred vision, she looked up at King Thranduil, and waited with bated breath... because the king of the elves also had tears in his eyes. It was at that moment that she knew her gamble had paid off. Without a word, Thranduil nodded to one of the elves in the room, who bowed his head and then left. Behind her, Legolas frowned. He felt an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. It was something slightly resembling jealousy.

XXXXXX

When the elves came down and unlocked their cells, none of the dwarves or Bilbo understood what was happening. They were even more confused when they were led up out of the darkness blindfolded, and through the trees. When the cloths were removed, they were in a room with windows and doors. The elves left them there silently without a word, but they could tell from the armed guards at the doors - they were still prisoners.

When the elves came for Thorin, they were even more confused. Although they crowded together to protect their leader, they couldn't keep him from being dragged away.

Thorin was led between two guards to a small section of one of the buildings. Opening the door, one of the guards motioned for him to go inside, and then stood by the door facing away from him.

Thorin walked cautiously inside, wondering what he would find. When he walked into a beautiful room with bed and bright windows, and a bathing pool visible through the doorway, his eyes narrowed - and then he saw her.

Niamh walked out of the room with the pool, carrying a roll of soft bandages. She was the most beautiful he had ever seen her, with her hair down and in the white gown. But he didn't understand why...

"Hello, Thorin." Her voice was quiet, hesitant, as if she was afraid of his answer.

"What is this?" Was his only response.

"I... managed to get King Thranduil to move you out of the dungeon. And he is going to let me take care of your injuries." She motioned to a small wooden box on her dresser, which he guessed to be filled with some sort of salve or herbs.

He saw her shift uncomfortably, and made a guess. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

Niamh looked down at her feet and shifted uncomfortably. "Not really, no. But I'll do the best I can."

The dwarf prince looked at her, and then sighed. "Very well." His deep voice was seemed resigned. And before Niamh knew what he was doing, Thorin began sliding off his cloak and then his armor.

She found herself mesmerized by the way he moved. His silver-streaked hair fell forward as his gauntlets fell and then his breastplate. He laid his rings on a table, and then slid off his boots. Standing there in nothing buy his pants, Niamh drew in her breath with a hiss.

His chest and shoulders were marked and discolored by bruises and dried blood. The wounds from his battle with the pale orc were only half-healed, and the scabs marred his muscled chest. Wordlessly, Thorin walked towards the bathing pool, and sat himself on the edge. Niamh followed with the bandages and salve.

In silence, Niamh picked up a rag and began to wash away weeks of dirt and grime. She was especially careful with his bruises and cuts, gently wiping away the dried blood and dust. As the filth trickled away, she saw the scars that remained on his chest and shoulders and back. Niamh wondered what kind of life he must have led to have so many wounds...

"Are you surprised?" His question startled her.

"I'm sorry?" Niamh was confused.

"By how I look. Does it upset you?" Thorin didn't sound concerned or curious, just cool.

Niamh chose her words carefully. "It upsets me in that it means you've had a difficult life. But it doesn't frighten me."

"Every scar has a story." He winced slightly as she cleared away dried blood from a fresh cut. When she didn't respond, he spoke again. "What story is behind yours?"

Niamh brushed his long hair over his shoulder, and tried not to let her fingers linger. "What are you talking about?" She tried to keep her voice steady, but it trembled slightly.

"The scars on your chest. What are they from? You have certainly never seen battle." His thick arms rested on his knees and he looked down at the water. When the dirt began to cloud the surface, it was washed away by the spring. His head was bent, hiding his eyes from view.

Niamh didn't respond at first. She didn't want to respond, but he had asked her point-blank. And he was finally talking to her as an equal, as a person. And he was so warm, so solid beneath her fingers. She felt her heart beating so loudly she was sure he would be able to feel it. She was so thankful he couldn't see the way she was blushing.

But still, she stopped. Putting down the cloth on the stone, she leaned back. Thorin turned his head to look at her, and the waves of dark hair fell over his strong chest. Naimh turned her head away, until her hair hid her face.

"They..." Her voice caught in her throat. She didn't want to cry, she didn't want to cry, she didn't want to cry... "I got them when I died."

He could barely hear her voice, it was so quiet.

"So it's true, then? You were truly dead?"

"Yes. I remember dying." Her hands twisted her the fabric of her dress in her lap.

"How?"

She flinched, as if he had struck her. Thorin turned towards her completely, and his blue eyes studied her face. Reaching up, Niamh pulled down the neckline of her dress until the scars were revealed.

Thorin counted them again; there were 5.

Niamh shifted uncomfortably next to him, and she seemed to shrink, to withdraw within herself. Her voice quieted to a whisper as she began her story. "I was home alone... my husband was gone to visit his parents..."

She was trembling now, as the memories took over. "It was late at night, and there was a break-in. He found me alone and he..."

She couldn't continue, and she didn't want to. It was all so strange, she was telling the story of her death to a half-naked dwarf that she... And then it hit her. Niamh, even in the midst of her memories and sorrow realized that her feelings for Thorin...

"Is that what the nightmares are about?" Before she could finish her thought, Thorin's voice interrupted again.

Niamh shook herself out of her thoughts. "Yes, that's what the nightmares are about." Before she could change her mind, Niamh finished the story. "He raped me, and then he stabbed me - 5 times." She unconsciously moved her hand to her chest, and traced the ridges of flesh there. "I don't remember when I died, but I remember the pain."

Next to her, Thorin felt something strange. A deep, violent anger at whoever had done that to her. The idea of someone violating Niamh, of forcing her to do anything, and then stabbing her, killing her... He wanted to find that man and make him pay. Thorin wanted to fight him to the death, and then feed his corpse to wargs. But instead, he simply picked up the rag she had set down, and began washing his feet and legs. Without looking at her he spoke again, and his voice was gentle.

"They may never fade. But you learn to wear them proudly." He glanced to his left where she was sitting with her head bowed.

"Would you help me finish?" Thorin held out the salve and bandages.

Niamh looked up in surprised. But when she reached out to take them, their fingers brushed against each other. And when she let hers linger for a moment too long, Thorin didn't pull his hand away. And when her hands moved over his torso, Thorin let out an inaudible sigh, and closed his eyes as her hands did their work gently. For a moment, both of them were completely at peace.

XXXXXX

WOW. That turned out to be much longer than I thought it was going to be. But there you have it folks, chapter 7! I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. As always, please R&R. Feedback is the best.

Aeilyn