Halfway down the path, Iestiel sensed something shift high above in the autumn trees. Amid the fiery colors of the changing season, a presence lurked in the canopy. She now wished she had taken her father's advice and brought along a guard when she'd left camp to relieve herself. 

At the time, she hadn't thought it necessary. After all, she was nearly three hundred years old. She had lived her whole life in this land, a Sinda born and raised under the starry eaves of Doriath. A pupil of the great Lady herself, the maia incarnate. Melian, their beloved queen. 

But times were changing. The stinking mists slinking at dawn and choking the ground fallow was proof enough. The enemy was growing in confidence. Just because they did not feel the inky touch of Morgoth safe behind the protective mantle of Melian, didn't mean it wasn't poisoning the rest of Endor. 

Resting her hand on the sword at her side, she casually ambled back to her people on the eastern edge of Lake Mithrim. The blade, of course, was only a precaution if all else failed. She could wield it, but she wasn't strong enough to be truly proficient.

No, Iestial's true strength was in the arts that she'd learned from the Queen herself.

A damp breeze stirred the rich brown waves from her shoulders. Wetting her bow shaped lips, Iestial paused and listened. Whoever it was following her in the trees above had stopped as well. 

If she ran, she might make it to camp in time to raise the alarm. If she wasn't killed or captured first. Perhaps she had a better chance if she sent up a warning that her father would understand. She turned slowly. 

Closing her dark blue eyes against the dying light of day, she drew a swift breath. Dipping deep into her fëa like drawing fresh water from a well, Iestial clasped her hands together and spoke the words. Melian had always said her best element was command of the air. The queen had said Iestial's handling of the winds would make even Manwe proud. 

Cupping her hands around her mouth, she blew a low whistle. The sound echoed through the thick wood. A great wind built up behind her, sending papery leaves into a swirling frenzy. The branches shook as Iestial sent the wind up into the eaves of the forest, pulling back the foliage and exposing whoever might be lurking overhead.

A figure leaped to the ground as his hiding place was exposed. Slowly he rose to his feet, a bow clutched in his hand. Iestial let her hands fall to her sides, the wind dying down around her. A shower of golden leaves fell over her, catching in her tangled hair. She eyed the ellon inquisitively.

"You do not strike me as a servant of the enemy," she stated succinctly. "But some of Morgoth's lackeys have the ability to appear fair."

The ellon stuck out his lower lip and nodded sagely, storm cloud eyes appraising her from under white brows. "So you think me fair?"

She blinked back at him, unsure how to respond. "Who are you and why are you following me? What do you want?"

The white haired ellon gave a ghost of a smile, his gaze darting over her shoulder. She turned to find her father shaking his head at the elf.

"Vantaro," her father, Lalvon the master stonemason, groused. "I should have known."

"My lord," the elf dipped into a bow, the arrogant smirk still on his mouth.

Vantaro. A Quenyan name. Iestiel cocked her head to the side and studied him. He was young, perhaps a year or so from reaching full adulthood at fifty years of age. The smirk disappeared from his face as Lalvon swiveled to call to their panicked companions close behind. Vantaro sensed Iestiel's silent assessment and glanced back at her. Straight faced, he gave her a quick wink.

Iestiel scoffed. "You are one of the Strangers. A Prince of the West."

"Well. I wouldn't say I'm very princely. Not like some of my kin." Vantaro gave a sharp whistle. The thud of horse hooves sounded down the forest path behind him. "Now Fingon. He is a true Prince of the Noldor."

The two elves on horseback were as dissimilar as midnight and dawn. Like Vantaro, they both were clad in green and brown. One was tall even in the saddle, shoulders broad, his thick black hair plaited into several braids around his square jawed face. His eyes were keen and bright, but there was a friendliness to his mouth, not like the pale headed ellon before her. He bore a fine bow at his side and a cache of arrows at his hip.

The other ellon had hair to match the falling leaves around them, rusty and gleaming. Thick curls of it fell to his shoulders. Interestingly enough, his chin bore a light beard, odd in an elf as young as him. In fact, Iestiel couldn't recall seeing a beard on an elf in her entire existence, she had only heard of it. He leaped down from his white horse, his body long and lean.

"And what of me, cousin?" The red head asked haughtily, his dark brown eyes drifting over the company before them. "Am I not to be counted among the princes of our people?"

"No, Amras. You belch like a troll and smoke too much pipe weed to be considered a dignified prince. Nothing like our esteemed Fingon over here," Vantaro quipped.

Fingon dismounted. "That's enough, Vantaro. Lalvon, I hope my young friend here did not give you a scare." 

"It was my daughter who found him," Lalvon laughed in response.

"Or more like I found her," Vantaro muttered. "Till she roosted me out of my hiding place."

Iestiel let out a bemused chuckle. "You were following me like a kitten in the trees. You should have called out and let yourself be known."

Amras chuckled and nudged Vantaro. "Enjoying the view a little too much perhaps?"

Vantaro shoved him back. Fingon cleared his throat and stepped forward. "We are returning from a scouting mission east. My father was hoping... he is still attempting to-"

"To find the missing prince," Lalvon finished the sentence for him with a sad nod of his dark head. "Even after all these years?"

Fingon sighed through his nose. "We haven't given up hope yet. We can't until we know for sure what happened to my cousin."

"Well. I will certainly continue to ask around in my journeys. Perhaps one among the Morben elves or Green elves might have a clue from their wanderings. But these times we find ourselves in, they are dark." Lalvon eyed the night drunk sky overhead warily. "Would you like to make camp with us tonight?"

Fingon smiled broadly and Iestiel immediately took a liking to him. "Thank you, my old friend. We would appreciate that."

Vantaro had been right in his assessment of Amras. The Noldo did smoke too much, drink too much wine, then promptly passed out and started snoring to wake the dead. Certainly nothing like one of the noblemen of Doriath. Vantaro punched him in the leg when he got too loud and Amras merely scratched his beard before turning over and starting to snore once again.

"I apologize for my friend," Fingon said with a grimace as he tore into a piece of lembas. "Amras isn't all that bad once you get to know him."

"He's worse," Vantaro added with a snort.

"How did you meet?" Iestiel asked her father, nodding towards their guests.

Lalvon brushed the crumbs from his leathery hands, finishing the bite in his mouth. "On my travels north to aid in the building of homes for the Green elves. I have been passing this way for many years."

"We settled on the south side of Lake Mithrim thirty years ago," Fingon explained. "That was when we first met your father."

"Why didn't you tell me about them?" She asked Lalvon.

Her father gritted his teeth in thought. "The king. He is not keen on the idea of these newcomers from the west, even though some are our kin. His kin even. I thought it best to remain a secret that I had seen them."

Fingon turned to Iestiel. "You see, we are trying to gain an audience with the king of Doriath, but he refuses to lift the veil that protects your land. He will not allow us passage."

That sounded like Thingol to Iestiel, though she didn't say this out loud as not to appear disloyal. Sometimes she wondered if Doriath would be better off ruled only by Melian. 

Vantaro sat on a rock across from her, his hair gleaming pure white in the firelight. Surely he was much younger than her, but his mannerisms appeared mature as he carefully whittled a piece of wood into the shape of a stag. His tone was jaded, cynical. Nothing like the optimistic youths she knew back in Doriath. He noticed her studying him, the corner of his thin mouth lifting as snowy strands of hair drifted over his shoulders.

"And what are you doing bringing your daughter so far from the protective cradle of the Maia's power, Lalvon?" He asked lightly as though she wasn't sitting right across from him.

Lalvon sighed and turned to her. "I have wondered that myself on several occasions during this trip."

"My childhood friend recently married a Silvan elf and journeyed with him out here. We were passing close to where she lives now and I wanted to pay a visit," she explained congenially, refusing to allow the pup to rile her nerves. "See a little more of the world while I was at it, I suppose."

Vantaro shrugged and looked back down at the stag slowly taking form in his hands. "The wild is no place for a maid who does not reach for her blade at the first sign of danger. Regardless of how many magic tricks she knows."

Lalvon's apprentices, who were both close to Vantaro's age, stopped eating and stared at Iestiel in silent shock. Lalvon set down his cup, passing a look of wary amusement to Fingon. "My daughter was under the tutelage of Queen Melian herself for one hundred years, hand picked as a child when she first showed aptitude for the arts."

"What my father is saying is that these are not mere tricks for amusement," Iestiel said coolly, cupping her hands around a knee and leaning back, her eyes not leaving Vantaro's.

Vantaro sat up, setting his work aside. A white eyebrow quirked as he set his dimpled jaw forward with determination. "Show me then."

One of the apprentices choked on a bite and coughed, his companion slapping him on the back. Iestiel glanced over at Fingon as though for permission. The Noldo prince extended a hand towards his kinsmen in silent allowance. 

She stood and smiled calmly down on Vantaro. "I'll do my best not to hurt you."

"Oh. But I do wish you'd do your worst, lady," he replied, his mouth remaining parted as he peered up at her. 

The way he steadily gazed at her made Iestiel feel like a maid again, young and untried. Not like his senior by two hundred years. Clearing her mind of such foolishness, she closed her eyes. The air around her stirred, the fire dimming as she drew deep into her fëa. Pressing her hands forward with palms out, the flames danced high, illuminating her face, drawn in concentration.

A great wind popped up behind Vantaro, launching him from the rock where he sat and into the air. He sailed over them, the wind dying as he reached the water's edge. He landed in the shallows with a splash. Surprisingly, she heard a deep bellow of a laugh come from the soaked elf.

"No- no, thank you. No mutton for me," Amras muttered as he turned over and fell back asleep, a thin line of drool caught in his beard.