I lean back and close my eyes, longing to be out of doors and feel the warmth of sunlight on my skin. Ada says the wintry cold has disappeared for now, signs of early spring beginning to appear, not only in temperature but in the happy buds of pink and white on the trees. It is my favorite season.

It feels like I shall not see it this year. I return my gaze to the crisp parchment on my writing table, the faint outline of a tall, armored figure coming to life. It is the fourth attempt at drawing Thranduil's father, King Oropher, likely not the last. For the life of me, I cannot achieve what I hope for; his eyes and brows always become the same as Thranduil's, and his expression too grim.

What did Oropher look like? Old paintings of him are rudimentary at best. If not for the silvery-blond hair and woodland crown, he could be anyone else. I half wonder if the artist used another model than the King. His face more resembles Lord Celeborn's. Even Thranduil agrees.

But he has been of little help, offering no better description of his father than his tall stature and serious eyes.

These cavern halls, which have never lacked for light or space, are now suffocating. My large scriptorium with its cheerful amber lights and high ceilings is like Gollum's prison cell. My feet long to touch soft grass rather than hard stone.

This particular drawing should have been finished days ago...

But it is the thought of disappointing Thranduil which keeps me crumpling parchment after parchment. His request for me, the realm's only scribe, to copy his father's many battle accounts was not made lightly. Knowing how proficient I am with quill and paintbrush, he asked for accompanying art as well.

I grip the twisted-oak arms of my chair and stand. No one can deny me a walk under sun and sky.

A soft, almost reluctant knock makes me pause. Is it a kind guard bringing me dinner again? If I missed it, the sun has already set...

"You may come in."

The door opens. Instead of a guard, it is an elleth with plaited hair the color of strawberry, her uncertain expression making her appear younger than she likely is. She holds a small, brown book close to her chest. I remember seeing her before, though her name is a mystery.

"May I be of help to you, mellon?"

With a shy smile, she moves closer. "I hope I did not come at an inconvenient time, my lady. You look like you are about to leave. I can return tom--"

"Please." I gesture to the chair in front of my writing table. "Sit down and feel at home."

A wave of embarrassment hits me as I notice the girl observing my unfinished drawing of Oropher. I hurriedly turn the parchment over.

"Was that King Thranduil?"

Another failed attempt, then. "No, it is..." I cannot utter the name. "It is nothing for now."

"You draw beautifully, my lady."

I sit back down and smile, though my cheeks are still warm. I had not wished for anyone to see it. "I am ashamed to say I do not know your name, mellon."

"Gwendes, daughter of Tadion. And you are Lady Rîneth."

Tadion, the gentle-eyed potter who lives in one of the dwellings in the forest village. I have greeted him in passing often, not knowing much about him, nor making time to ask.

"I know of your father, but I did not know he had children."

"Oh, yes. I help him with his pottery work. It is difficult for him to manage it on his own. Sadly, I do not have his natural talent for it. Not that he agrees..."

Gwendes' words come out in a tumble, as though worried she will lose courage before speaking them.

"...but that is enough about me." She places her little book on the table but does not let go of her hands from its worn cover. "This belonged to my brother. I was told you were the one I should see..."

When Gwendes slides the book towards me and releases her hands, I understand. I touch the soft, chestnut-colored leather, noticing its many stains and scratches.

"Your brother...he is no longer living?"

Gwendes shakes her head. "An orc raid, my lady. It was long years ago. He had a flair for storytelling ..."

"Are his stories in this book?"

But I know the answer. Already I am sweeping through the yellowed pages. They carry the vague scent of lamp oil, full of hastily written text and hints of grand adventure. Words such as "sword" and "cave troll" spring forth, catching my attention.

Surely Gwendes will not mind me reading it...

"Yes, my lady. He had a wild imagination." She grins, more comfortable now. Leaning forward, she watches as I continue scanning through the book. "As you can see, his handwriting is hardly legible in parts. More like scribbles. I...I was actually wondering if you might--"

"Yes."

"You will?" Gwendes's hands fly to her chest. "I did not think...I mean to say, I thought you would be too busy. Are you certain you have time for it?"

The younger elf glances at my overturned drawing of Oropher and I feel a fleeting sense of panic rise from my stomach. While the King's task is overwhelming alone, to add another project to my already burdened shoulders would be foolish. Yet I cannot say no to Gwendes now. Not when it clearly means all of Arda to her.

"I shall make time. But my work for the King takes priority over anything else. Whether I wish it or not."

Gwendes nods. "There is no rush, my lady. How may I pay you?"

With her sudden sheepish look and dress sleeves which fray at the seams, I know the potter's daughter does not have an abundance of silver or jewels. Asking her to give what little she has feels cruel.

"The only payment I request in turn is friendship, Lady Gwendes." I stand. "Would you like to go for a walk? I would rather eat a large helping of goblin stew than spend another moment in this cave."

Gwendes' brows shoot upwards. But when I make my way to the door and open it, she hurries to follow.

-----

"I have never been invited to the King's table, let alone for a feast. Are you sure about this, my lady? I do not wish to be an intruder..."

"You will be my guest, not an intruder," I say. "It is a celebration for all our kin, not just a select few."

It is our second walk together, and already we are friends.

A pleasant breeze flutters our hair as we stroll down the winding path, the trees around us with burgeoning green on their branches. The air smells cleaner somehow, but perhaps I have been indoors too long. It is the eve of a new year for the Eldar, and as usual, the forest celebrates renewal with us.

I desire Gwendes to experience Yestarë, the feast of the New Year, as I always have: tall lanterns flickering around platters of warm sweet rolls, fish from the Long Lake, fresh fruit and berry tarts, and the Greenwood wine free flowing, with long-remembered songs and stories which tell of beginnings. 

"I suppose you are right. But what shall I wear? I do not have a dress suitable..."

I survey Gwendes' current garment, a shapeless dove-gray dress which blends with our surroundings. "This is Yestarë, not a wedding. But perhaps you have a brighter color?"

"Yes..." She looks away, still appearing uncertain. "Shall there be dancing?"

It has been question after question since the invitation was given. I have spent most of our walk answering them, but she is never reassured. Perhaps I should not have invited her. It would have at least kept her from fretting.

"Of course, though not as much as during Mereth Nuin Giliath. When the feast ends and the King makes his speech regarding the New Year, the music shall play again. That is when the dancing starts."

The path turns to meet the larger main road leading through the heart of the woodland village. We come upon a crowd of people gathered to listen to a minstrel standing on the ledge of the center fountain. In a high-pitched voice which does not fit him, he sings a ballad from Gondolin, one usually reserved for Yestarë.

Soon after we join the audience, a straw-haired elf strides up to Gwendes and greets her, his grin nearly reaching his large ears.

"Sírdor! This is indeed a happy surprise." Gwendes' returning smile is even wider. "You must meet my new friend, Lady Rîneth."

"Mae govannen, Sírdor."

He bows his head to me, but his gaze does not linger. "It is always a pleasure to meet a friend of Gwendes'."

When his eyes return to Gwendes, I know he never wants to look upon anyone else again, save her. With his eager expression and the way his weed-thin frame leans in her direction, there is no doubting his feelings fly above friendship, above the treetops and to the firmament beyond.

"I was just speaking with your father," he says. "I asked for you, but of course you were not home. It is only by luck I saw you here."

Gwendes' eyes turn downwards, showing her lashes. "Good luck or bad?"

"Very good."

Not wishing to intrude, I turn back to the enthusiastic minstrel. But instead of listening to his song, my ears are still tuned to their conversation.

"Have you had the chance to read the book I lent you?" Gwendes asks.

"Not yet, but I assure you as soon as I find time to rest, I shall start it. I am busier than usual during springtime..."

"Yes, yes, of course. I thought of you the entire time I first read it. I knew you would appreciate the depictions of the battles, and the..."

The minstrel's volume seems to increase with every word, making it impossible to continue listening to their exchange.

Though I cannot question the singer's courage, I question his talent. But his loyal group of listeners does not depart. Two elflings stand at the fountain near his feet, their small faces peering upwards to watch his every move with wonder. It is surely the special air of spring and Yestarë which keeps them captivated.

Sírdor does not stay long, reluctantly saying he has more work to attend to. Before Gwendes' attention becomes distracted by the minstrel's ballad, I lead her away from the entranced throng and back down the forest path.

"Sírdor is very fond of you."

She smiles. "Oh, yes. He grew close with Ada after helping him with our garden and leaking roof last summer. Ada invited him to dine with us and...well, we have been friends ever since."

The gentle song from a finch in one of the beech trees is a more pleasing tune than the minstrel's.

"It seems to me you are far more than friends."

There is a tinge of pink at Gwendes' temples. "Perhaps. He is always kind to me, you see. And helpful...not only to me but to my family. And he admires my pottery work and believes I too often underestimate myself."

"You do. I see that now more than ever..."

"What do you mean, my lady?" She stops walking.

"You fail to see that any ellon in the realm would believe themselves lucky to have you, not only Sírdor."

Her forehead furrows. "Lady Rîneth, you are far too kind. But I am Silvan. Nana taught me those of higher ranking do not mix blood with Wood-elves."

An unpleasant sensation winds through me. So, this is what the Silvans have been teaching their children. It is as I have feared. But have they been given reason to believe otherwise? I do not know for certain, and it troubles me.

"I shall never understand it," I say. "The fact your people did not cross the Sea thousands of years ago should not mean anything."

"It means everything, my lady. Tis why we live amongst the trees and you live in your cavern halls."

"I know a few of your kind who live there. Most of you refuse to leave your homes in the forest. The King does not deny anyone safety within the caves if they wish it, especially in these dark times."

Gwendes does not reply, turning her vision to the rushing river nearby.

"You must know something, mellon. My mother is Silvan, the daughter of a smith, little different from you. Ada was not so high-minded to think her below his station."

"You believe there are others like him?"

"I do."

"But...do you not believe Sírdor is a good match for me?" The lines of her mouth settle into a frown.

"While he is very kind, I fear you feel there is no other option. I shall not stand in the way of your happiness, but let me prove to you tomorrow night there are others who would deem you worthy."

"Then perhaps I should borrow one of your dresses..."

A nasty hacking sound rents the air, ruining the peaceful birdsong. It comes from a large gnarled beech tree in the distance, near the riverbank. I spot two guards standing at its trunk, one with flaming hair which can only belong to Tauriel. Another miserable cough, and a whining voice follows, but I cannot discern the words. There is a movement in the branches.

"What is that?" Gwendes asks.

"Gollum."

A/N: Thanks so much for reading, sweet readers! Next up, a spring celebration and more interaction with our matchmaking heroine and the King. Please vote if you like!