It is certainly not enjoyable being shepherded up to a set of guest chambers by Legolas, who spends the entire way up the numerous flights of stairs lecturing us on what we can and cannot do. I strongly resent him for cutting me off from my silent flirting with Glorfindel and the twins, so much so that I hardly appreciate the beauty of all the open air corridors and quaint little balconies we cross on our way to the highest level.

Once my half-brother has left us alone, Alëaren promptly sits down on one of the plush feather beds, her hands clasped tightly in her lap and her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. It's what she usually does when she feels guilty. The amount of times I'd seen her sat quietly like this after we'd all received a telling-off for something that was most likely mine or Telamír's fault. Telamír is currently wandering over to the elegant cupboard beside the window, most likely in search of something to eat or drink.

I spend the first while pacing, fuming. I know I thought I could stand missing the Council if it meant I still got to talk to some attractive ellons later, but I can't seem to get past the fact that I've been shut out of quite literally the most important meeting of the Third Age—perhaps even of all time. There has to be a way for me to get in there, but for all my skill in lying, I can't fathom anything I could say that would get them to let me in. My only option is to sneak there, but even that doesn't seem too reasonable a choice when the sole reason I'm in this situation is because my last attempt at a 'sneak' failed miserably.

After a few too many minutes of silence, I begin to vent. 'This is ridiculous. Suddenly the fate of all Middle Earth is at stake and we, the offspring of the six most powerful people in Rhovanion, aren't allowed to hear a word of it? This entire place can kiss my—' 

'Raini!' Alëaren cuts across me.

'Oh, wait—you're right. Glorfindel hasn't done anything wrong, so—' 

'Can you please keep it down?' says Telamír, who has since vacated to another one of the feather beds and stretched right out across it without even bothering to take his boots off. 'I'm trying to have a nap here.'

'What do you want to nap for? The fate of all Middle—'

'In all honesty, I don't really care,' he interrupts, crossing his arms behind his head, 'but I do want to sleep off the eight glasses of Imladris-exclusive wine I just drank.'

Indeed, there is an empty glass on the table beside his bed, dwarfed by the now half-full wine bottle with a large, bejewelled cork. Valar, I hadn't even noticed. 'You did what?'

'But Uncle Fírion said you shouldn't drink heavily till you're at least a hundred!' cries Alëaren.

'What my father doesn't know won't hurt him,' Telamír assures, 'and I'll be fine in a few hours, just let me sleep.' 

'For Ilúvatar's sake, come on,' I grumble, dragging Alëaren by the arm into the next room—and closing the door behind us just loud enough to keep Telamír awake. 'You know what? We should go anyway. Listen in on the Council. I'd bet my father's library that Legolas comes up with some elaborate tale about how Gollum escaped to tell them. There's no way he'd mortally embarrass our court in front of delegates from all over Middle Earth by saying it was three of the royals' fault. He'll say something about Gollum disappearing up a tree on one of his walks or something—and then there was a convenient orc attack that occupied the guards! It's perfect. Lord Elrond will know the truth, and the rest of the Council will be none the wiser.'

Alëaren begins to gnaw on her bottom lip again. 'The terrible thing is, you're absolutely right. Of course they'll try and cover it up. In fact, Lord Elrond will probably endorse it. If our parents weren't all so arrogant, we'd come clean and apologise to the whole Council. But no, only Lord Elrond is allowed to know the truth while the rest of the world thinks it was a badly timed accident.'

'You see? We have to know what story the council gets told. Just so we know if anyone will suspect anything.'

'Aragorn, perhaps. He seemed quite intuitive.'

'I think that wizard with the enormous hat will have a thing or two to say about it. It's embarrassing enough as it is, you know, that Gollum escaped. Whether it's our fault or not, the kingdom will be the joke of the day. The dwarven emissaries will revel in it.'

'Especially since they themselves slipped past our guards that time nearly eighty years ago,' Alëaren comments. Both of us remember the stories we've been told about that time—the time when our people were caught up in the Battle for Erebor.

'Exactly. You can't tell me you don't want to hear what happens.'

'I don't know, Raini. Last time we tried sneaking around...'

'I know, I know. We got caught. But this time, we have something to our advantage: all the people who could possibly catch us are gathered in one place debating how best to survive the wrath of Sauron. No one's on our trail or even expecting us to leave this room. If we stay unseen—behind a bush, or something—there's no way anyone will find us.'

Alëaren shakes her head. 'If I don't go with you, you'll go anyway.'

'Indeed. But safety in numbers, remember? I need you.' I tilt my head to one side and pout my lips mockingly. 'Please, Lëa?'

'Alright. For the fate of all Middle Earth.'

'Exactly,' I say again, smirking.

***

It's all going to plan until something bumps into my back and promptly screams in terror. Trying to remain crouched as low as I can behind the single thin hedgerow that separates me and the Council, I whip around and clamp my hand over their mouth. To my horror, they are what I believe is a Hobbit. His eyes wide, he gesticulates to the other Hobbit crouched behind him, who proceeds to lean forward and slap my hand away from his companion's mouth.

'I'm sorry about that,' I whisper to them. 'We have to be quiet, or someone will find us. You're... Hobbits, aren't you?'

'Merry, the elf's talking to me,' murmurs the first Hobbit, a youthful-looking male with curly brown hair.

'They can still hear you, Pip,' says his friend, whose hand is still threateningly near to slapping my own again.

'My name's Erainiel. This is Alëaren.' I indicate the elleth squatting, frozen, on my other side.

'Merry,' says the Slap Hobbit.

'Pippin,' says the other. 'Were you not allowed at the council either?'

'No, and we're royalty, as well! It's outrageous. Why didn't they let you two in?'

'No idea,' says Merry, 'we're very important people. We journeyed all the way here with Frodo so we should be allowed to stay with him, shouldn't we?'

'I don't know who made these rules but they clearly made a mistake,' adds Pippin.

'My father was the one who said we couldn't go,' I say bitterly.

'Your father's the one with the really angry eyebrows?' Questioningly, Pippin indicates Lord Elrond, who is mid-speech in front of the semicircle of councillors.  I try to resist the temptation to watch Glorfindel as he runs a hand absentmindedly through his flawless hair.

'Oh, no,' I reply quickly, 'no way. That's Lord Elrond. I hadn't even met him until today, but I'd heard about his angry eyebrows. My father is King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.'

'I don't know where that is, but it sounds very nice,' says Pippin.

Merry, meanwhile, is peering through the bushes at the Council, which has since erupted into heated arguing.  'Do you know what they're all shouting about in there?'

'Listen,' says Alëaren, 'they're talking about the One Ring.'

'I can't hear a Valar-damned thing!' I hiss. 'They're all talking over each other!'

'I can hear that one's explaining how the Ring will be beneficial to Gondor.'

I look at the man to whom Alëaren is gesturing, and indeed, his patriotic moaning is drowning out all the interesting pieces of conversation.  'Someone tell him to be quiet,' I mutter.

The nervous-looking Hobbit with curly dark hair suddenly speaks up, interrupting the chaos of incessant quarrelling. The entire council falls silent and turns to him in utter shock at his words.

'What did that Hobbit just volunteer for?' I ask Alëaren.

'To destroy the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom.' 

'Mount where?' asks Pippin.

'Shh.' I silence the young Hobbit by gently patting the top of his curly-haired head.

Mount Doom is in Mordor. That's the other side of the world. Kingdoms upon kingdoms lie between here and that valley of smoke and ash. Great plains and mountains and rivers stand as barriers before the Black Gate, along with the Valar know what other horrors. To enter there is to seal your own death sentence, and the small, dark-haired Hobbit has just put his name down to die.

I wonder, if I'd been at the council myself, would I have known why this Hobbit feels as though it is his burden to carry the Ring all that way? Perhaps so. Perhaps I would also know why the grey-clad wizard has just agreed to help him bear it.

Now Aragorn swiftly crosses over to the Hobbit and kneels before him. It takes me a second to realise that he's swearing his sword to the Hobbit—and his loyalty. Another guardian for the quest to Mordor.

The next one to volunteer makes my heart stop.

And it isn't Glorfindel.

None other than Legolas has stridden over to Aragorn's side, and... and pledged his bow to the Hobbit.

'My Valar... what's he doing?' I mutter, despite knowing full well what kind of madness my half-brother can pull.

'I don't know, but my mother doesn't look happy at all,' says Alëaren.

She's right. Fíria has ceased to look angry and appears instead in a state of numb disbelief. She has no words, nor movement, and that's what unnerves me. Fíria Fínegeliel, who always has something to say, something to explain, some remark to make, is reduced to total speechlessness.

'He can't be going to Mount Doom too,' I try to convince myself, 'that's absurd.'

But it isn't. Not really. Legolas is exactly the kind of ellon who would do something like this. What's beyond me is how little regard he's showing for his wife, who is now on the verge of tears, and for his two close friends Fírion and Tauriel, who are both too baffled to intervene. He's not even looking back at them as he stands proudly behind the Hobbit—and is unable to hide his look of disgust when a dwarf with a ruddy brown beard steps forward to volunteer himself too.

'But look, there needs to be a representative from each race,' Alëaren says. 'I think... I think he is going.'

I turn to see Alëaren's face drain of colour and her teeth sink into her lip.

It's already too late to stop them when I notice Merry and Pippin have run off—right into the middle of the council, breezing past a very disgruntled Lord Elrond. They've obviously volunteered themselves in order to stay with the other two Hobbits who now stand in the group with Legolas and Aragorn. And I want to run too. I want to run right up to Legolas and tell him he's lost his mind—he has to stay, he's my brother, he can't leave us—

But I stay where I am, rooted to the spot. Alëaren doesn't move either. She remains crouched beside me while her hand clasps mine with a death grip.

I don't think either of us really care that we never got to hear the cover story for Gollum's escape—not while the Fellowship of the Ring stand before us with our kinsman in the mix.

***