Search parties are sent out for Gollum—parties led chiefly by Legolas, who understandably doesn't offer for myself, Alëaren, or Telamír to accompany him.  Each time he brings with him the best trackers in the Guard, and a selection of what had been Gollum's personal guard who had been tasked with taking him to climb trees every day rather than keep him permanently cooped up inside.  The creature often used to refuse to come down from the trees, so Legolas's thinking is that he made his way through the forest via the treetops.  There has been no luck so far, and day after day Legolas returns with a dwindling supply of hope until it seems he has none.

The arguments are rife. Of course, it is never total peace what with the multitude of strong personalities in our court, but this is worse than it has been in years. After every court meeting, my father will emerge fuming and my mother the very height of stress. The tensions remind me of that era of my childhood in which Fíria and Fírion were first interacting with us and preparing for war against their father. I fear this coming war that everyone has been speaking of will put even that to shame.

I don't have the slightest clue as to what strategies the court and higher guards are discussing behind those oaken doors every day.  It reminds me more than ever that I'm just a symbol rather than a player in this game, and my attempt at an excitement to rival their warfare just landed me in trouble. Trouble such as being grounded within the lower halls and not allowed outside. My parents may as well be keeping me prisoner.

Though I suppose I may have earned it. I should have thought my plan through far more carefully; acting on impulse is more Telamír's area of expertise. There were other ways we could have had an adventure, but I let my desire for it get the better of me. Next time I won't be quite so foolish.

Next time should be sometime soon, as this afternoon we depart for Imladris, just in time to make it for Lord Elrond's meeting. I've also been separated from Alëaren and Telamír these past few days, so as far as I know, Alëaren could have drafted a full hour-long apology speech for him.  I myself am planning to improvise.

Just after straightening out my brand new teal riding gown, I hear my parents breeze into their chamber next door in the middle of a heated conversation.  I stop in my tracks, my hand frozen before the door handle.  This isn't just any marriage dispute—it never is with my parents.  It's always something concerning people's lives.  That is what you get when you're King and Queen, after all.

'Meleth, we have to tell them,' my father says sincerely. 'We've waited this long. I have endured sharing my kingdom, my rule with them for over sixty years. This throne doesn't feel like mine anymore.'

He means Fírion and Tauriel.  And Fíria and Legolas, to some extent.  I can hardly recall the days before they were here all the time, holding their own authority and raising their children.  Part of my court, and part of my family.

'We can't do that. Not now,' my mother replies, 'there's already too much going on, and they'll be off on their journey in an hour.'

'When they return, we find a solution. A place for them. I'd only just felt like these lands were mine again, and then they came. They took from me one of the only things I was sure of, Elena.'

'But not everything?'

'Not everything. I still have you, and our daughter. But I was, first and foremost, a King. I stood for this compromise for decades, but a King should know what is his and what is not his.'

I hadn't noticed that my hand in front of the door handle is shaking.  He cannot be serious.  Now, of all times, right when Sauron's forces declared themselves hostile for all to see... now my father decides to dredge up old grudges.  It's ridiculous.  Ridiculous and selfish.  He needs the others—we need them.  This kingdom needs them to help rule it, and if he cannot see that, then he is more blind than anyone could have thought.  Have they not shown themselves to be worthy of staying here forever?  Is that not what the deal was?

'We've been trying to find a solution since this whole thing started, and we've come up with nothing,' my mother says, 'who's to say that we'll find a plausible option while they're gone? What if we never find one?'

'We will. We have to. I do not wish to resort to pushing them out by force. I let you allow them in with the thought that this would only be temporary. That within a few years, we'd think of something better. But His Majesty of the Black Fire has been getting far too comfortable.'

The tone of my father's voice sends chills skittering across my skin.  If he feels this threatened by Fírion, I can only imagine how he would feel if it was Fíria on the throne and not her more reasonable brother.

'I know, alright? I always knew this would be hard for you. And you've been doing brilliantly.'

'But because of my pretence, they think there's nothing wrong. They think they can keep taking this place away from me, piece by piece.'

'This was the only way. Have you forgotten that? Because I racked my brain that day, and this was the only way.'

'I know, meleth. I know. But this has been going on long enough. Promise me we will not give up until we find another option. Promise me we will find a place for them before it's too late.'

'I can't—'

'Promise me, Elena,' my father cuts across her.

'I promise.'

The hand poised above the door handle falls. 'You can't! You can't send them away!' I cry, almost stumbling into their room.

'Erainiel, get out,' my father snaps.

My mother swallows her annoyance.  'Your father and I are having a private conversation. Please let us finish.'

Undeterred, I press on.  'I know what you're talking about!  I know you want King Fírion and the Dû-edhil to live somewhere else. But they make up so much of our court—and I love them. Alëaren and Telamír, they're my best friends.'

'One day you'll understand why we have to do this,' my father says with an unnerving heaviness to his voice.

'But you don't have to!' I retort.

What infuriates me is how my mother now glides across the room towards me and begins ushering me towards the other door, a forced sweetness to her words. 'Why don't you go and pack some food, Erainiel?'

'They're your friends! You can't do this!'

'Go.' My mother nudges me out through the door and into the corridor.

My father has turned his back.  Valar, I can't even look at him anymore.  I can't accept that my own father wants to break apart the court that they all fought so hard to form so many years ago.  They all thought he was better than this.  They all thought they could trust him.

But they can't. 

***

Before we left on this journey, I embraced my mother. She told me to be careful, and I told her I would. Then I turned my back and mounted my horse, calling goodbye to her over my shoulder.

But I didn't say anything to him. What I would give now to go back and say 'le melin, Ada.' He had been stood there a couple of paces back from her, silent as the mountains, and just as ominous.

Right now, I can't believe I brought myself to even go near my mother after she agreed to my father's plan.  I'm fuming at both of them, and yet I embraced her and blatantly ignored him.  I'm hoping this long trek will help take my mind off what they're plotting, but the presence of the oblivious other royals is only reminding me that my parents want them gone more than ever. I can't bring myself to tell them.  It's an issue to be resolved after this strange upcoming war has passed.

Legolas manages to lighten up somewhat after days of despondency at the fruitless searches for Gollum.  I'm putting it down to the freedom he has now he's away from the stress of giving commands to the Guard, and is surrounded by family and friends.  The seven of us seem to be trying to enjoy our journey before being faced with a deadly serious matter at our destination—which is understandable particularly for Legolas and Fírion, who will likely be acquainted with many of the key members of Elrond's council.  I'm actually rather excited to meet people in Imladris, despite us all being gathered to figure out a way to avoid doom at the hands of Sauron.

We ride through the nights, conversing animatedly as the colours of warm autumn dusk bleed into the sky, and falling into a content silence as we speed across the plains beneath miles and miles of stars.  We hardly stop at all over the days.  Out of Mirkwood onto the west edge via the old elven path; southward along the blackness of the thundering river Anduin in the dark; then veering east across Rohan and crossing the Fords of Isen on the fifth day.  The next days bring us north up the North-South road, then following the rivers Gwathló and Bruinen up the opposite side of the Misty Mountains into the region of Rhudaur.  To think that just on the other side of those great peaks lies the forest I call home, and to get here we've had to travel countless leagues south to get around the mountains.  I have asked multiple times whether there was another, shorter route, but I've either been abruptly silenced by Legolas, or told that the Misty Mountains are too harsh and dangerous a territory to cross.

Rhudaur is partially forested—though this forest feels thinner and lighter than the one across the mountains.  The whole air of it feels different, partly because I know the elves who live deep in the heart of this territory aren't like my kind.  My kind seems wild and dangerous compared to these placid people under the rule of Lord Elrond.  People say that despite them obviously knowing combat to a fairly formidable standard, their skill lies more in scholarly work and choral singing than on the battlefield.  Their surrounding forest really reflects the rumours about them, alive with the sounds of chirruping birds and bathed in sunlight.  This forest doesn't carry the burdens that mine does.

We ride slowly in a careful line out of the trees, and down through a narrow pass that snakes through a series of huge rocks.  The sound of tumbling waterfalls up ahead meets my ears, and the rocks either side of me feel damp and clammy beneath my fingers.  Fírion is at the helm, closely followed by Legolas, the two ellons leading us through a cleft that they have walked time and time again.  My legs sore after days and days of riding—as tireless as elves are, it gets to us eventually—I follow the back of the line around the corner of the last rock, one large enough to be called a cliff.

And the sight of Imladris, Rivendell, the Hidden Valley, the Last Homely House East of the Sea, makes my Mirkwood-born eyes widen with awe.

***