prologue.

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"We found him wandering our borders, your highness."

In Silvan, they spoke, the speech gliding like silver over elegant tongues. The guards threw down the heavily armored prisoner, the gloved hands bound behind his back in thin Elvish rope. Above them, the Elvenking stared – his gaze clear and cold, like the color of water glittering beneath winter's pale sun. There grew a harshness to the posture which, before the guards' entrance, had been slouched, yet poised. Now the limbs tangled together in cruel angles as the King sat visibly forward.

Etched into the faded steel gray breast plate was a symbol recognizable by even the youngest among the Woodland elves – the white tree wearing a crown of stars.

"Gondorian armor," he said aloud, waving the guards silently toward the back of the room. They complied, bowing as their King rose with grace from his throne of antlers and dark climbing ivy. "You are far from your borders. Why have you come to this place?"

The figure did not speak. It kneeled before the throne, head and lean shoulders bowed in great weariness.

"No harm will come to you," the King promised, though only he himself knew it was hollow reassurance. "Comply with my policies and you shall be released. Tell me, son of Gondor – why have you come?"

When still, no answer came, the Elvenking became impatient and strode forth – fluid, with the seamless gait of quick running water. Halting before his prisoner, he gripped the crown of the helmet and ripped it harshly away. Without so much as a glance he tossed it from him and the stones echoed the sound of crashing, scraping metal.

Though astonishment crossed the faces of the waiting guards, they did not speak. They stood silent in the shadows and continued to watch from a safe distance in growing fascination.

Long dark hair pooled in the folded lap beneath. The King took into his hand the pointed chin and wrenched it upward to meet his narrowed gaze. They were soft features, though carved and whittled down into sharp hungry angles by long months without food, and unmistakably female.

"A shieldmaiden," said he, tightening his grip so that the long nails pierced white flesh. She winced, but did not give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry aloud. "Now that your secret has been revealed, there is nothing to hide. Tell me or it is the dungeons for you."

Her eyes flared, like a breath across fire. The king had lowered his face, only slightly, so that it was nearly level with her's. She took advantage of the proximity and spat on him, the motion of it cruel and quick. In disgust, he recoiled, drawing his hand upward to wipe away the gob of spit that now warmed in the hollow of his cheek. It gleamed yellow-red in the firelight as he saw it smeared across the back of his hand and his mouth slackened into a heated snarl.

He returned it to her – striking her across the face with a strength she did not anticipate from a creature so slight that it seemed so fragile like spun white glass. It throbbed, angry red, and already a darkness had begun to gather beneath the welted skin. A stark bruise slowly rose to the surface.

The king sneered, towering over her once more. "Do you wish to speak now, shieldmaiden?"

A silence settled over the hall. Behind them, the guards began to tense, prepared to move from their post the moment it was asked of them.

Still, stubbornly, the Elvenking waited for his answer. And as he looked down upon her, it so slowly began to dawn on him that he could sooner pry jewels from the most greedy of dwarves than a word from this woman.

He waved the guards back with a sweep of his long, gracefully curled fingers. "Perhaps a long respite in our friendly dungeons shall loosen your lips."

The guards watched him eagerly for further instruction, fisting their hands in the rough Gondorian wool of her tunic. The prisoner slumped at their feet.

"Take her to the chambers," the King ordered, something of a malevolent smile pricking at the corners of his mouth. "And make certain that no food, water, or light will find her there. Not unless she is ready to give answers in exchange for them."

Nodding only once in understanding, they bowed low to their leader and turned away. The prisoner numbly submitted and followed them out of the throne room –

Hall of Thranduil, Elvenking of the Mirkwood Realm.