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Summary: In the aftermath of the failed healing at the First Grove, learning more about how the corruption is caused, you wish to learn more of the corruption within the realm. Further, you realize that in order to fulfill your healing duty, you must play diplomat even better, especially to win the king's trust.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 5
Author's Note: Hi! Welcome to Chapter 6! This one has some delicious plot set up for the next act as well as the next chapter. I think you guys are going to like the next few chapters a ton :)
Now, I know I said I would post on Fridays...however, I am hella busy tomorrow, so I thought I'd post a tiny little bit early. Thank you guys so much for the likes and the reblogs/comments! It fills me with so much joy whenever I see the notif or when I check and see that someone took the time. Now, enjoy!!!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – A Tenuous Report
“I bring news,” Navë shakes your shoulder roughly. You awaken hazily, more hazily than usual. Wine. Then, you remember: Thranduil.
You sit upright, “Go on!” You bite at your lower lip nervously, the strap of your night dress slouches down your arm, leaving your shoulder bare.
“Well,” your attendant pauses awkwardly. “I don’t know if this is exactly a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Please, just tell me,” your anxiety began to pool in your chest. “Was he furious?”
“He…spent a long time, an unusually long time, in the bath,” she says slowly. You spiral, Great, he literally has to wash himself so thoroughly that he has to spend a long time in the bath. I must have disgusted him. Navë sees your eyes go wide and flit from side to side as you think the worst.
“Oh, no, I– I don’t know how to say this,” she cringes as she goes to soothe you, rubbing your back.
“I promise I am clean, I –” you bury your head in your chest. Navë stops soothing you abruptly.
“Clean? I mean, we bathe together. Of course you are! What are you even–ohh. No, no. I, um, I don’t think that’s what my friend meant about his time spent in his personal baths,” Navë stumbles, unsure of how to say what she means to say. “But the rest of the night, he seemed to pace. He didn’t seem angry, just deep in thought, which is what you wanted to hear, right?”
Forget the bath. He can prune for all I care. I just wanted to help him, you stew. “Not angry is good,” you reply, taking a centering breath. “I can work with ‘not angry.’”
“Definitely!” Navë smiles, happy to see you calming down. “Also, every day poses new challenges for the king, I am sure that yesterday other things might have been going on!”
“It was pretty early in the morning,” you look at her frowning, raising an eyebrow.
“I mean, he hardly rests. Last night he was up all night,” Navë shrugs nonchalantly for such a critical piece of information. Was he worrying about you? Worrying about what happened at the First Grove? Some part of you thinks that worrying is not the way you wish to keep the king up at night. You imagine his brows tiled up, forehead creased in concern, then his forehead creased with…another feeling. You mindlessly touch your fingertips to your lips and trace the underside of your lower lip, letting out an exhale.
“Have you written the report for him yet?” Navë asks. You snap back to reality at the mention of the report. Fuck, what would you even say in it?
“I have not. But let me do so now. Would you mind finding something to wear that conveys my apology. Something convincing? I trust your judgement,” you ramble to your attendant who watches you tug at your hair, almost amused at your frenzy.
“I can,” she lilts, “but what if I’d rather watch you scramble?” You shoot her an exasperated look. “Fine,” she laughs. “I’ll pull something together. You write.”
You shove off the rest of the covers from your plush bed. Your feet hit the mosaic of soft carpets that haphazardly tile the floors of your room. You sit down at your vanity and open the drawer. You grab parchment, lift the ink and quill out, realizing that your letter to Istel is gone. Did I misplace it? You look to find Navë. She is curled around the door about to leave. You quickly shout across the chambers, “Wait! Did you send my letter?”
She pushes herself out of the doorway, rocking back to look at you. “Is that okay?” She looks concerned, like she may have overstepped.
“I’m just grateful,” you assure her. “Thank you.” She bows with a small smile, dipping out of your chambers.
You look back to the task at hand. This daunting, daunting task. What did you want out of this? You want to regain his trust, you want to be able to leave the palace again, out to the forest.
Yes, you visited the First Grove, but where else did you need to heal? Where else did you need to go? Should you write that ‘the king caused the healing ritual to fail and then compounded the corruption’ on your paper?
In your vexation, you feel so lost in your own tension between your twofold mission. Diplomacy: assure the king, regain his trust, get close enough to solve the issue through his memory, openness and your healing. Practically? You healing the woods, with or without his approval, would earn the respect of those relying on you. Unfortunately, the pragmatic task is becoming more impossible without the diplomacy as you learn more about these woods and their connection to the elvenking.
You title the report, ‘Report on the state of the Woodland Realm’s Forest’s Corruption.’ By the time you underline the title of the paper, you realize you need a more complete picture of the future of this project. You need maps of important sites, you need to know of important places to the Silvan elves of Mirkwood.
Throwing on a tunic, leggings, and boots, hair unbraided, you take your incomplete paper out of your room.
“Hey, Navë isn’t back yet,” Candaer says, taking in your disheveled appearance amusedly.
“I know,” you say, striding ahead. “I’ll be back. We are going to the healers’ — I need to do some quick research.” He sighs, pushing back his curly black hair, giving you a tired look.
You practically jog there. Candaer’s armor clinks as he paces in long strides behind you. “For all that is good, spider-slayer,” he swears under his breath as you finally slow at the door.
“Back so soon?” Hareth gives you an amused look, looking up from sipping tea from a ceramic mug, forehead crinkling.
“Yes. Do you or Branniel have a list of sites that have significance to you all, Woodland Elves? I would like to include it in my report to the king,” you ask. She sighs, taking another sip of her tea. The smell of peppermint permeates the room.
“Have at it,” she gestures to her long table, the length of a table one might see at a feast, no spot on the table’s surface is visible. It is entirely covered in multiple layers of her research.
Around the corner, you hear a clatter, then Branniel shouts a muffled, ‘Wait!’
She comes around the corner, apron covering her green tunic and brown leggings, hair completely swept over to one side. “I have a system for Healer Hareth’s table…kind of. What are you looking for again?”
“Impressive that you navigate this,” you laugh, looking back at Hareth who shrugs in response. “Locations of other sites we would need to go to; ones of significance to the king and all of the elves of this realm.”
“Maps or journals?” Branniel unties the apron, draping across the back of a chair approaching the table, hands on her hips as she starts scanning.
“Either work, but lists are preferable,” you peer from behind as she starts peeling back some layers in the upper right hand corner of the table.
“Perhaps a list of the most deeply corrupted sites and cross referencing them with any cultural, ritual sites?” Branniel suggests while she heaves two large tomes off of the bottom right corner of the table.
That’s so much smarter. “Why didn’t I think of that?” You bemoan. “Please, that would be so good.” More rustling sounds come from the strong elleth’s end of the table as she tries to prevent the whole balance of parchment from falling over.
“Ha! Here. A scroll of a map of festival sites, feast locations, and just mapping out the forests.” Branniel unfurls it. Red star marks traditional waypoints for those going through coming-of-age rituals, white for marriages, hazel for funerals. “I know some of these have existed since thousands of years ago.” Branniel leaves you with this map to find the other half of her suggestion.
You trace the outline of the woods, then find the heart of them, Thranduil’s palace. Heart of the woods, indeed, you think, remembering the wake of corruption that was born from him as he rode his horse away.
“I found it,” Branniel holds up a tiny journal that looks like it could have fit in a pocket.
“This is where you put the most significantly corrupted places in the forest that you have thus seen?” You double over laughing.
“Laugh all you want, this notebook does its job,” Branniel huffs, trying to ignore the stifled laughter of Hareth behind her.
Hareth softly adds, “It was Branniel’s first scribe notebook.” The palm-sized, red leather notebook was simple, but the notes were increasingly pristine. Though, they were in Quenya.
“I am more fluent in Sindarin than Quenya,” you apologize. Branniel waves your apology away, and you both get to the hard work of finding the patterns on a time crunch, knowing that you will have to present these ideas in front of the king that afternoon.
‘Report on the state of the Woodland Realm’s Forest’s Corruption.’
In the Woodland Realm, there has been a sickness and corruption that permeates the forest, resulting in harsh muds, stalling rivers and brambles, festering spider nests, unseasonal dying of local flora and fauna, and allowing for extreme and unnatural overgrowth of black roots and vines. This healer believes that there is a correlation of memory and sadness in the Woodland Realm, and that the corruption is curable with the healing of the minds and spirits of the elves of the Woodland Realm following the fall of Sauron. Dol Guldur’s darkness is no longer feeding corruption in this realm.
This healer requests that she and other healers are able to attempt to visit sites of corruption. These include sites of courtship, abandoned gathering places, places of forgotten festivals, places of funerary tribute, the sealed areas of the palace behind the gates, including courtyards and former gardens.
You finish the report on top of a small stack of wooden crates with bandages in them. You say your farewells to Hareth and Branniel, bringing the map and the journal with you back to the room.
“Navë’s going to have been looking for you,” Candaer chastises you with a crooked smile.
You look at him sardonically, “Are you suggesting we jog it back, then?”
He quickly backtracks, “No, no, I think she’ll be fine. I’m sure she is torn between colors of dress.”
“Mhm,” you smirk.
Scene 2 – The Request Earns the Summons
Expecting your attendant to have an outfit prepared and a letter from Galion as to when you are expected by the king, you are entirely shocked when Galion himself waits inside your quarters, sitting on one of the armchairs. His long auburn hair that isn’t tied half up with a loose bun, drapes onto his rust-colored tunic, neatly collared. He checks underneath his nails. Valar, how long had he been waiting? Given Navë’s expression, it has been a long time.
“Ah, our esteemed emissary,” Galion coos as he stood up from the armchair. “You have been summoned by the king to his personal wing to give him the formal report, away from listening ears.”
“Right away?” Navë asks, before correcting herself, “Right away, Master Galion?” You had entirely forgotten that Galion is technically her superior, in charge of her position with you.
“I’m afraid I can only afford you another moment or two to collect your things,” Galion looks you up and down, reconsidering, leaning back, arms crossed. “Mm, perhaps five minutes. I’ll wait outside.” I’ll try not to be too offended, you decide. He steps out, boots clicking against the limestone.
Navë rushes to you with an indigo velvet dress, the purple is the color of the sky after the sun just dips over the horizon. There is a deep cut neckline. You ran your fingers along the pearls sewn delicately along the edge of it. The sleeves were embroidered with white pearlescent beads as well as floral swirls, from your shoulder to your elbow. Navë slips it over your head once you undress. Heavy folds of fabric spill from your elbows and swallow your hands. Your attendant pleats them back with practiced fingers, and instructs you to keep your wrists slightly lifted to catch the fabric before it falls or to rest your hands neatly at the height of your navel.
At least it gave you something to do with your hands. Perhaps intentional so that I do not reach back out to the king…and make the same foolish mistake twice. You grimace at the memory of his shock when you touched him.
When you step out of your quarters with the map, report, and journal, Galion remarks, “You are quite the sight to behold, sea-daughter.” A fitting comment; in this moment, you look like and are every bit the ‘sea-daughter.’ Your hair is loosely pinned back in layers spilling down your back with a dozen small pearl clips, a design that looks so intentional but is done so quickly by Navë’s deft hands. Pearls adorn your neck, fingers, and earlobes. Even a very slight white shimmering powder is applied to the lids of your eyes as she applies a sparing amount of rouge to your cheeks and lips.
Candaer makes to follow you and Galion, but the auburn-haired elf holds out a hand.
“The king has requested privacy in this conversation. I will take her myself. Our lord appreciates your diligence,” Galion orders. Candaer is left opening and closing his mouth, frozen at the doorway, unsure of what to do at that moment but continue to stand there.
You follow Galion around the bends of the palace, through doors and halls, past the throne in the throne room, until you end at a wing of the palace you have never been before. The doors reach the ceiling, thirty feet tall. Galion nods to two guards who pull the doors open.
As if an entirely separate palace exists, chandeliers of candles hang from the ceiling. As you walk in you see a massive shadowed silhouette of the autumnal crown of the king, a shadow only possible by him sitting in front of a large hearth.
Stepping further into the room with the king’s head attendant, you are correct. In this large antechamber with a roaring fire in the heart of the room, several benches and couches for sitting around it. Behind that area is a massive formal dining area being cleared by five different servants, all wearing the sage green robes that Navë wears.
Waiting for you by the fire is Thranduil, not wearing his autumnal crown. Even without the crown holding his hair in place, it perfectly falls from his head, not a strand out of place. His crown sits atop the mantle of the hearth, though the reds of the berries and flowers are much less vibrant than the last time you saw him. It is one of four, a crown for each season sits atop the mantle in the order of the seasons.
Him not wearing the crown within his own wing of his palace isn’t what catches you off guard though.
This antechamber is too formal for comfort between the carved fireplace with a mouth as tall as you are, polished dining room table, a straight back to every chair in the room: pure precision. And yet Thranduil sits diagonally across the couch as if it is the most natural thing in the world; one long leg stretches toward the fire, one arm lays across the back cushions. The posture should have softened him. Instead, it makes the room feel more thoroughly his, as if even ease obeys him.
“Sit.” His voice pulses through you.
“Where would you like me to sit, my lord?” You step into the semi-circle of chairs and chaises, the center couch occupied by him.
He silently gestures to any of the other seats with his hand that’s leaning across the back cushions. Thranduil watches the fire with a firm expression on his face. Despite his icy tone, the orange light of the fire makes his pale skin and pale hair dance with warmth. You imagine running your hands back into his hair, your hands to cup his face. What if you sat with him? The impish thought flickers across your mind for just a moment. You sit to his left, looking into the fire as you look into the briar with Hareth. You follow his gaze.
“Everyone!” The king’s attendant claps twice. “Out! Now!” Galion shoos the last of the staff out of the elvenking’s wing. “Do let me know, my lord, if I may aid in any way to make this conversation more confidential.” Thranduil tilts his chin down a nearly indiscernible amount to acknowledge Galion’s efforts, a part of a code forged between them over the course of a thousand years. With a bow, Galion shuts the massive doors behind him, pulling with all of his might.
Scene 3 – Hearth
You extend the report to Thranduil, head bowed, steadying the rolled map and the small journal on your lap. It’s hard to keep your vision down because your eyes seem to beg to rise to look upon the king in his relaxed state. Your mind seeks to grasp at anything besides your imagination. The carpet pattern is really beautiful, you suppose. You feel him pull the report from your hand.
Finally, you are able to look back up at him.
His busy face as he reads is so tempting, his discernment and appraisal similar to the first time he looked at you. Despite the heat of the hearth, chills drift down your spine at the memory. He reads the paper, eyes flicking back and forth across the lines. You nibble at your lower lip nervously. Say something, you plead to him in your mind.
His eyebrows crease as he reaches the end of the report. “I’m still not convinced,” he settles back, finally dragging his attention over to you. He wears a challenging look in his eyes. His sharp jawline clenches as he rakes his icy gaze stoically up your dress, pausing at your throat, then your lips.
Thranduil’s stare doesn’t make it to your eyes. Why won’t he look me in my eyes? Is he trying to make me dance for what I want?
You stare at him back, even if he won’t meet your gaze. You fix your posture from deferential to determined, rolling your arms back. You decide to cut through whatever game he’s playing. Honesty disarms, you can hear Lord Círdan remind you as you prepared for this. You prepared for this. “My lord, before any requests that I have for you,” you start.
“Too late for that,” he lilts, picking up the refolded report, tapping the edge of it on the arm of his couch.
“Before I reiterate any requests that I wish to make of you, I wanted to discuss yesterday at the First Grove,” you lower your voice. As you say this, you study his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He does an incredible job of keeping it very still, except for his eyes that snap to yours from their previous place, lingering on your lips.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he stiffly states. Then he turns his head to the fire.
“I wanted to apologize,” you offer. You watch him clench his jaw again, eyes narrow, almost like he wants to know where you are going with this, a morbid sort of curiosity. You look at the far hand that is draped across the back of the couch, resting along the back cushion, thumb mindlessly stroking the dark moss-colored fabric. “I – it was instinctual.” You both know you were referring to you grabbing him. You see his hands tense, thumb stopping its sweeping movements and in his other hand, his grip on your parchment tightens.
Yet he doesn’t speak.
“You seemed, taken aback by something. I don’t know if it was my fault or not, but if I upset you, my lord, please accept my most sincere apologies,” you shift to the edge of the chair, trying your best not to waver in his cruel silence, playing with the pearls at your neckline. “And I do not mean to upset your people by asking for vulnerable memories to exploit them. I will never take what is not freely given, my lord.”
You see him take a heavy breath in as you say the last bit.
Thranduil says, “The people of my realm, in the last century, have seen much risk associated with others coming in, offering to help me, yet truly seeking my help, respite at my hands. Now, you ask of me to allow you to lend you the pain of my people who have already lost from this disease upon my woods, lend you unrestricted access to my lands, my home, to —” and his gaze is finally cast to his left forearm, the place where you grabbed him yesterday. He stands, ripping his arm away from how close it was to you, seated to his left. “— to the heart of my realm.”
You watch him move to the fireplace, back facing you. In this tunic, you can see the taper of his broad back to his waist. How were you going to defend your requests — that he admonishes — when you were so distracted by him?
“I believe that what Healer Hareth offered yesterday was willing, and I think my healing only works when responding to positive emotional memories with the space in question, and I have been trying to come up with spaces that I could try to heal while I am here in your service before leaving the remaining sites of corruption in the capable hands of your healers,” you attempt to refocus the elvenking, who seems to be concerned about you committing a greater conspiracy than you could ever pull off.
“Bodies remember wounds, and I am sure the forest remembers who it was before this corruption, including who it belongs to,” you add, watching him slow his pacing, watching the careful, linear placement of his boots on the glowing stone floor. But like a cat bathing in the sun, he preens as you say this, languishing in your acknowledgment of his claim on the land.
“Wounds, yet the forest worsened with your touch,” he replies, eyes flashing, like daring you to argue back. Because of you! Because you closed off to the healing of this land. What memories haunt you, Elvenking? You bite your tongue. This time your facade cracks. You narrow your eyes, sucking your teeth, tilting your head.
In a clipped voice you say, “As a healer, the spirit is just as critical to healing the wound as treating the affected area. I believe this forest is incredibly wounded, and I seek to treat its spirit,” you push, wanting to stand and confront him. His command to ‘sit’ echoes in your head.
“How many of my people do you seek to distress as they remember what was taken from them?” He retorts.
One, if he lets me. He extends his pacing to behind your chair. The weight of the room, despite being much smaller than the throne room still feels heavy upon your shoulders. You hear his steps, but do not turn to look at him, refusing to let him intimidate you out of getting what you want. “I seek to distress none. Beyond that, I can only do as you permit, my lord. If you ask me to find another way, I will.” You white-knuckle the rounded, carved ends of the arms of the chair that you are diplomatically bound to.
“Correct,” he smirks, clearly reveling in your frustration. A sort of revenge? He could ask you at any moment to change your plan. You fix your mind on attempting to get what you seek: access to the locations, access to records, access. Fuck, why did I suggest that? You curse yourself. Then, a plan starts to form.
“You surprise me with the level of love and care for your subjects,” you give a light laugh. He immediately stops his pacing as he makes his way around the back of the couch he was initially on, trying to determine if what you said was a deep insult or a questionable compliment.
“Though, to find another way, I do need access to those areas to experiment with various alternative methods.” You raise a challenging eyebrow at him. Your move, elvenking. You could have told him that you didn’t need his subjects, just him, but you didn’t think he’d go for that plan either. Plus, you didn’t want to overstate what you could not immediately or firmly prove to him. Granted, it was strong and founded speculation.
He considers this, adorned fingers resting along the carved arm of the couch.
“You ask to walk wounded ground,” he says at last. “You want to use the joy and nostalgia of my people to help your healing, you ask for locked areas, old memories, and the trust of those who owe you none.”
His gaze moves over the report once more, then returns to you.
“No. Not yet.”
Your fingers tighten around the journal in your lap.
He considers amusedly, running adorned fingers along the edge of the upholstery, formulating a counterstrike. “But if it is the joy and nostalgia of my people you require to help your healing, then, spider-slayer, come to the Feast of Stars. As an emissary representing such powers from the other elven realms, you will attend as my honored guest. It is in six days time. I can send over a list of some approved locations from this…lengthy list.”
You blink, thrown by his turn. His honored guest? “That is too kind, too generous, I —” you begin.
“It is controlled,” he corrects, calm as winter. “Do not mistake the two.” You recoil.
“You ask to walk wounded grounds,” he says. “Despite not being one of my subjects, you are in my care. What I saw was explosive vines, deep magics in the earth.”
The warmth of the fire is suddenly too warm. Was he scared of your healing power? He’s seen so much more danger in his life.
“Yet I offer you something safer: memories of what stood before the corruption. Speak to my subjects, ask them for memories then, if it is their joy and revelry you seek.”
How did he turn the tables so quickly? How was he so good at giving you everything but what you asked for? A feast, but not access to his full palace. Yet you could not deny him. Not when his breath sent chills down your neck, down your spine.
“Then I thank you for the honor, my lord. Though I suspect you have not given me quite as little as you intended.” This time you dare to look up at him from your chair. He straightens before your noses almost touch. He does not offer you a hand to help you rise, rather he backs up, hands clasped behind his back. He almost smiles when he sees your inner written all over your face. Your chest feels tight.
“Galion shall deliver your list,” he walks towards the door. I didn’t even need the map, the journal. You clutch your materials to your chest. As he approaches, Galion opens the doors. Guards are not there. A matter of confidentiality, surely.
“Until then, healer of Mithlond.” Thranduil’s practiced voice returns, so neutral, except for the glint in his eye.
Unsure of how to say goodbye, you settle on a curtsy. Thranduil nods to Galion who extends a hand, guiding you from the antechamber of Mirkwood’s king. Thranduil retreats back inside. You don’t see him look back over his shoulder to watch you walk away before his guards return and close the doors.
Summary: In the aftermath of the failed healing at the First Grove, learning more about how the corruption is caused, you wish to learn more of the corruption within the realm. Further, you realize that in order to fulfill your healing duty, you must play diplomat even better, especially to win the king's trust.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 5
Author's Note: Hi! Welcome to Chapter 6! This one has some delicious plot set up for the next act as well as the next chapter. I think you guys are going to like the next few chapters a ton :)
Now, I know I said I would post on Fridays...however, I am hella busy tomorrow, so I thought I'd post a tiny little bit early. Thank you guys so much for the likes and the reblogs/comments! It fills me with so much joy whenever I see the notif or when I check and see that someone took the time. Now, enjoy!!!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – A Tenuous Report
“I bring news,” Navë shakes your shoulder roughly. You awaken hazily, more hazily than usual. Wine. Then, you remember: Thranduil.
You sit upright, “Go on!” You bite at your lower lip nervously, the strap of your night dress slouches down your arm, leaving your shoulder bare.
“Well,” your attendant pauses awkwardly. “I don’t know if this is exactly a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Please, just tell me,” your anxiety began to pool in your chest. “Was he furious?”
“He…spent a long time, an unusually long time, in the bath,” she says slowly. You spiral, Great, he literally has to wash himself so thoroughly that he has to spend a long time in the bath. I must have disgusted him. Navë sees your eyes go wide and flit from side to side as you think the worst.
“Oh, no, I– I don’t know how to say this,” she cringes as she goes to soothe you, rubbing your back.
“I promise I am clean, I –” you bury your head in your chest. Navë stops soothing you abruptly.
“Clean? I mean, we bathe together. Of course you are! What are you even–ohh. No, no. I, um, I don’t think that’s what my friend meant about his time spent in his personal baths,” Navë stumbles, unsure of how to say what she means to say. “But the rest of the night, he seemed to pace. He didn’t seem angry, just deep in thought, which is what you wanted to hear, right?”
Forget the bath. He can prune for all I care. I just wanted to help him, you stew. “Not angry is good,” you reply, taking a centering breath. “I can work with ‘not angry.’”
“Definitely!” Navë smiles, happy to see you calming down. “Also, every day poses new challenges for the king, I am sure that yesterday other things might have been going on!”
“It was pretty early in the morning,” you look at her frowning, raising an eyebrow.
“I mean, he hardly rests. Last night he was up all night,” Navë shrugs nonchalantly for such a critical piece of information. Was he worrying about you? Worrying about what happened at the First Grove? Some part of you thinks that worrying is not the way you wish to keep the king up at night. You imagine his brows tiled up, forehead creased in concern, then his forehead creased with…another feeling. You mindlessly touch your fingertips to your lips and trace the underside of your lower lip, letting out an exhale.
“Have you written the report for him yet?” Navë asks. You snap back to reality at the mention of the report. Fuck, what would you even say in it?
“I have not. But let me do so now. Would you mind finding something to wear that conveys my apology. Something convincing? I trust your judgement,” you ramble to your attendant who watches you tug at your hair, almost amused at your frenzy.
“I can,” she lilts, “but what if I’d rather watch you scramble?” You shoot her an exasperated look. “Fine,” she laughs. “I’ll pull something together. You write.”
You shove off the rest of the covers from your plush bed. Your feet hit the mosaic of soft carpets that haphazardly tile the floors of your room. You sit down at your vanity and open the drawer. You grab parchment, lift the ink and quill out, realizing that your letter to Istel is gone. Did I misplace it? You look to find Navë. She is curled around the door about to leave. You quickly shout across the chambers, “Wait! Did you send my letter?”
She pushes herself out of the doorway, rocking back to look at you. “Is that okay?” She looks concerned, like she may have overstepped.
“I’m just grateful,” you assure her. “Thank you.” She bows with a small smile, dipping out of your chambers.
You look back to the task at hand. This daunting, daunting task. What did you want out of this? You want to regain his trust, you want to be able to leave the palace again, out to the forest.
Yes, you visited the First Grove, but where else did you need to heal? Where else did you need to go? Should you write that ‘the king caused the healing ritual to fail and then compounded the corruption’ on your paper?
In your vexation, you feel so lost in your own tension between your twofold mission. Diplomacy: assure the king, regain his trust, get close enough to solve the issue through his memory, openness and your healing. Practically? You healing the woods, with or without his approval, would earn the respect of those relying on you. Unfortunately, the pragmatic task is becoming more impossible without the diplomacy as you learn more about these woods and their connection to the elvenking.
You title the report, ‘Report on the state of the Woodland Realm’s Forest’s Corruption.’ By the time you underline the title of the paper, you realize you need a more complete picture of the future of this project. You need maps of important sites, you need to know of important places to the Silvan elves of Mirkwood.
Throwing on a tunic, leggings, and boots, hair unbraided, you take your incomplete paper out of your room.
“Hey, Navë isn’t back yet,” Candaer says, taking in your disheveled appearance amusedly.
“I know,” you say, striding ahead. “I’ll be back. We are going to the healers’ — I need to do some quick research.” He sighs, pushing back his curly black hair, giving you a tired look.
You practically jog there. Candaer’s armor clinks as he paces in long strides behind you. “For all that is good, spider-slayer,” he swears under his breath as you finally slow at the door.
“Back so soon?” Hareth gives you an amused look, looking up from sipping tea from a ceramic mug, forehead crinkling.
“Yes. Do you or Branniel have a list of sites that have significance to you all, Woodland Elves? I would like to include it in my report to the king,” you ask. She sighs, taking another sip of her tea. The smell of peppermint permeates the room.
“Have at it,” she gestures to her long table, the length of a table one might see at a feast, no spot on the table’s surface is visible. It is entirely covered in multiple layers of her research.
Around the corner, you hear a clatter, then Branniel shouts a muffled, ‘Wait!’
She comes around the corner, apron covering her green tunic and brown leggings, hair completely swept over to one side. “I have a system for Healer Hareth’s table…kind of. What are you looking for again?”
“Impressive that you navigate this,” you laugh, looking back at Hareth who shrugs in response. “Locations of other sites we would need to go to; ones of significance to the king and all of the elves of this realm.”
“Maps or journals?” Branniel unties the apron, draping across the back of a chair approaching the table, hands on her hips as she starts scanning.
“Either work, but lists are preferable,” you peer from behind as she starts peeling back some layers in the upper right hand corner of the table.
“Perhaps a list of the most deeply corrupted sites and cross referencing them with any cultural, ritual sites?” Branniel suggests while she heaves two large tomes off of the bottom right corner of the table.
That’s so much smarter. “Why didn’t I think of that?” You bemoan. “Please, that would be so good.” More rustling sounds come from the strong elleth’s end of the table as she tries to prevent the whole balance of parchment from falling over.
“Ha! Here. A scroll of a map of festival sites, feast locations, and just mapping out the forests.” Branniel unfurls it. Red star marks traditional waypoints for those going through coming-of-age rituals, white for marriages, hazel for funerals. “I know some of these have existed since thousands of years ago.” Branniel leaves you with this map to find the other half of her suggestion.
You trace the outline of the woods, then find the heart of them, Thranduil’s palace. Heart of the woods, indeed, you think, remembering the wake of corruption that was born from him as he rode his horse away.
“I found it,” Branniel holds up a tiny journal that looks like it could have fit in a pocket.
“This is where you put the most significantly corrupted places in the forest that you have thus seen?” You double over laughing.
“Laugh all you want, this notebook does its job,” Branniel huffs, trying to ignore the stifled laughter of Hareth behind her.
Hareth softly adds, “It was Branniel’s first scribe notebook.” The palm-sized, red leather notebook was simple, but the notes were increasingly pristine. Though, they were in Quenya.
“I am more fluent in Sindarin than Quenya,” you apologize. Branniel waves your apology away, and you both get to the hard work of finding the patterns on a time crunch, knowing that you will have to present these ideas in front of the king that afternoon.
‘Report on the state of the Woodland Realm’s Forest’s Corruption.’
In the Woodland Realm, there has been a sickness and corruption that permeates the forest, resulting in harsh muds, stalling rivers and brambles, festering spider nests, unseasonal dying of local flora and fauna, and allowing for extreme and unnatural overgrowth of black roots and vines. This healer believes that there is a correlation of memory and sadness in the Woodland Realm, and that the corruption is curable with the healing of the minds and spirits of the elves of the Woodland Realm following the fall of Sauron. Dol Guldur’s darkness is no longer feeding corruption in this realm.
This healer requests that she and other healers are able to attempt to visit sites of corruption. These include sites of courtship, abandoned gathering places, places of forgotten festivals, places of funerary tribute, the sealed areas of the palace behind the gates, including courtyards and former gardens.
You finish the report on top of a small stack of wooden crates with bandages in them. You say your farewells to Hareth and Branniel, bringing the map and the journal with you back to the room.
“Navë’s going to have been looking for you,” Candaer chastises you with a crooked smile.
You look at him sardonically, “Are you suggesting we jog it back, then?”
He quickly backtracks, “No, no, I think she’ll be fine. I’m sure she is torn between colors of dress.”
“Mhm,” you smirk.
Scene 2 – The Request Earns the Summons
Expecting your attendant to have an outfit prepared and a letter from Galion as to when you are expected by the king, you are entirely shocked when Galion himself waits inside your quarters, sitting on one of the armchairs. His long auburn hair that isn’t tied half up with a loose bun, drapes onto his rust-colored tunic, neatly collared. He checks underneath his nails. Valar, how long had he been waiting? Given Navë’s expression, it has been a long time.
“Ah, our esteemed emissary,” Galion coos as he stood up from the armchair. “You have been summoned by the king to his personal wing to give him the formal report, away from listening ears.”
“Right away?” Navë asks, before correcting herself, “Right away, Master Galion?” You had entirely forgotten that Galion is technically her superior, in charge of her position with you.
“I’m afraid I can only afford you another moment or two to collect your things,” Galion looks you up and down, reconsidering, leaning back, arms crossed. “Mm, perhaps five minutes. I’ll wait outside.” I’ll try not to be too offended, you decide. He steps out, boots clicking against the limestone.
Navë rushes to you with an indigo velvet dress, the purple is the color of the sky after the sun just dips over the horizon. There is a deep cut neckline. You ran your fingers along the pearls sewn delicately along the edge of it. The sleeves were embroidered with white pearlescent beads as well as floral swirls, from your shoulder to your elbow. Navë slips it over your head once you undress. Heavy folds of fabric spill from your elbows and swallow your hands. Your attendant pleats them back with practiced fingers, and instructs you to keep your wrists slightly lifted to catch the fabric before it falls or to rest your hands neatly at the height of your navel.
At least it gave you something to do with your hands. Perhaps intentional so that I do not reach back out to the king…and make the same foolish mistake twice. You grimace at the memory of his shock when you touched him.
When you step out of your quarters with the map, report, and journal, Galion remarks, “You are quite the sight to behold, sea-daughter.” A fitting comment; in this moment, you look like and are every bit the ‘sea-daughter.’ Your hair is loosely pinned back in layers spilling down your back with a dozen small pearl clips, a design that looks so intentional but is done so quickly by Navë’s deft hands. Pearls adorn your neck, fingers, and earlobes. Even a very slight white shimmering powder is applied to the lids of your eyes as she applies a sparing amount of rouge to your cheeks and lips.
Candaer makes to follow you and Galion, but the auburn-haired elf holds out a hand.
“The king has requested privacy in this conversation. I will take her myself. Our lord appreciates your diligence,” Galion orders. Candaer is left opening and closing his mouth, frozen at the doorway, unsure of what to do at that moment but continue to stand there.
You follow Galion around the bends of the palace, through doors and halls, past the throne in the throne room, until you end at a wing of the palace you have never been before. The doors reach the ceiling, thirty feet tall. Galion nods to two guards who pull the doors open.
As if an entirely separate palace exists, chandeliers of candles hang from the ceiling. As you walk in you see a massive shadowed silhouette of the autumnal crown of the king, a shadow only possible by him sitting in front of a large hearth.
Stepping further into the room with the king’s head attendant, you are correct. In this large antechamber with a roaring fire in the heart of the room, several benches and couches for sitting around it. Behind that area is a massive formal dining area being cleared by five different servants, all wearing the sage green robes that Navë wears.
Waiting for you by the fire is Thranduil, not wearing his autumnal crown. Even without the crown holding his hair in place, it perfectly falls from his head, not a strand out of place. His crown sits atop the mantle of the hearth, though the reds of the berries and flowers are much less vibrant than the last time you saw him. It is one of four, a crown for each season sits atop the mantle in the order of the seasons.
Him not wearing the crown within his own wing of his palace isn’t what catches you off guard though.
This antechamber is too formal for comfort between the carved fireplace with a mouth as tall as you are, polished dining room table, a straight back to every chair in the room: pure precision. And yet Thranduil sits diagonally across the couch as if it is the most natural thing in the world; one long leg stretches toward the fire, one arm lays across the back cushions. The posture should have softened him. Instead, it makes the room feel more thoroughly his, as if even ease obeys him.
“Sit.” His voice pulses through you.
“Where would you like me to sit, my lord?” You step into the semi-circle of chairs and chaises, the center couch occupied by him.
He silently gestures to any of the other seats with his hand that’s leaning across the back cushions. Thranduil watches the fire with a firm expression on his face. Despite his icy tone, the orange light of the fire makes his pale skin and pale hair dance with warmth. You imagine running your hands back into his hair, your hands to cup his face. What if you sat with him? The impish thought flickers across your mind for just a moment. You sit to his left, looking into the fire as you look into the briar with Hareth. You follow his gaze.
“Everyone!” The king’s attendant claps twice. “Out! Now!” Galion shoos the last of the staff out of the elvenking’s wing. “Do let me know, my lord, if I may aid in any way to make this conversation more confidential.” Thranduil tilts his chin down a nearly indiscernible amount to acknowledge Galion’s efforts, a part of a code forged between them over the course of a thousand years. With a bow, Galion shuts the massive doors behind him, pulling with all of his might.
Scene 3 – Hearth
You extend the report to Thranduil, head bowed, steadying the rolled map and the small journal on your lap. It’s hard to keep your vision down because your eyes seem to beg to rise to look upon the king in his relaxed state. Your mind seeks to grasp at anything besides your imagination. The carpet pattern is really beautiful, you suppose. You feel him pull the report from your hand.
Finally, you are able to look back up at him.
His busy face as he reads is so tempting, his discernment and appraisal similar to the first time he looked at you. Despite the heat of the hearth, chills drift down your spine at the memory. He reads the paper, eyes flicking back and forth across the lines. You nibble at your lower lip nervously. Say something, you plead to him in your mind.
His eyebrows crease as he reaches the end of the report. “I’m still not convinced,” he settles back, finally dragging his attention over to you. He wears a challenging look in his eyes. His sharp jawline clenches as he rakes his icy gaze stoically up your dress, pausing at your throat, then your lips.
Thranduil’s stare doesn’t make it to your eyes. Why won’t he look me in my eyes? Is he trying to make me dance for what I want?
You stare at him back, even if he won’t meet your gaze. You fix your posture from deferential to determined, rolling your arms back. You decide to cut through whatever game he’s playing. Honesty disarms, you can hear Lord Círdan remind you as you prepared for this. You prepared for this. “My lord, before any requests that I have for you,” you start.
“Too late for that,” he lilts, picking up the refolded report, tapping the edge of it on the arm of his couch.
“Before I reiterate any requests that I wish to make of you, I wanted to discuss yesterday at the First Grove,” you lower your voice. As you say this, you study his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He does an incredible job of keeping it very still, except for his eyes that snap to yours from their previous place, lingering on your lips.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he stiffly states. Then he turns his head to the fire.
“I wanted to apologize,” you offer. You watch him clench his jaw again, eyes narrow, almost like he wants to know where you are going with this, a morbid sort of curiosity. You look at the far hand that is draped across the back of the couch, resting along the back cushion, thumb mindlessly stroking the dark moss-colored fabric. “I – it was instinctual.” You both know you were referring to you grabbing him. You see his hands tense, thumb stopping its sweeping movements and in his other hand, his grip on your parchment tightens.
Yet he doesn’t speak.
“You seemed, taken aback by something. I don’t know if it was my fault or not, but if I upset you, my lord, please accept my most sincere apologies,” you shift to the edge of the chair, trying your best not to waver in his cruel silence, playing with the pearls at your neckline. “And I do not mean to upset your people by asking for vulnerable memories to exploit them. I will never take what is not freely given, my lord.”
You see him take a heavy breath in as you say the last bit.
Thranduil says, “The people of my realm, in the last century, have seen much risk associated with others coming in, offering to help me, yet truly seeking my help, respite at my hands. Now, you ask of me to allow you to lend you the pain of my people who have already lost from this disease upon my woods, lend you unrestricted access to my lands, my home, to —” and his gaze is finally cast to his left forearm, the place where you grabbed him yesterday. He stands, ripping his arm away from how close it was to you, seated to his left. “— to the heart of my realm.”
You watch him move to the fireplace, back facing you. In this tunic, you can see the taper of his broad back to his waist. How were you going to defend your requests — that he admonishes — when you were so distracted by him?
“I believe that what Healer Hareth offered yesterday was willing, and I think my healing only works when responding to positive emotional memories with the space in question, and I have been trying to come up with spaces that I could try to heal while I am here in your service before leaving the remaining sites of corruption in the capable hands of your healers,” you attempt to refocus the elvenking, who seems to be concerned about you committing a greater conspiracy than you could ever pull off.
“Bodies remember wounds, and I am sure the forest remembers who it was before this corruption, including who it belongs to,” you add, watching him slow his pacing, watching the careful, linear placement of his boots on the glowing stone floor. But like a cat bathing in the sun, he preens as you say this, languishing in your acknowledgment of his claim on the land.
“Wounds, yet the forest worsened with your touch,” he replies, eyes flashing, like daring you to argue back. Because of you! Because you closed off to the healing of this land. What memories haunt you, Elvenking? You bite your tongue. This time your facade cracks. You narrow your eyes, sucking your teeth, tilting your head.
In a clipped voice you say, “As a healer, the spirit is just as critical to healing the wound as treating the affected area. I believe this forest is incredibly wounded, and I seek to treat its spirit,” you push, wanting to stand and confront him. His command to ‘sit’ echoes in your head.
“How many of my people do you seek to distress as they remember what was taken from them?” He retorts.
One, if he lets me. He extends his pacing to behind your chair. The weight of the room, despite being much smaller than the throne room still feels heavy upon your shoulders. You hear his steps, but do not turn to look at him, refusing to let him intimidate you out of getting what you want. “I seek to distress none. Beyond that, I can only do as you permit, my lord. If you ask me to find another way, I will.” You white-knuckle the rounded, carved ends of the arms of the chair that you are diplomatically bound to.
“Correct,” he smirks, clearly reveling in your frustration. A sort of revenge? He could ask you at any moment to change your plan. You fix your mind on attempting to get what you seek: access to the locations, access to records, access. Fuck, why did I suggest that? You curse yourself. Then, a plan starts to form.
“You surprise me with the level of love and care for your subjects,” you give a light laugh. He immediately stops his pacing as he makes his way around the back of the couch he was initially on, trying to determine if what you said was a deep insult or a questionable compliment.
“Though, to find another way, I do need access to those areas to experiment with various alternative methods.” You raise a challenging eyebrow at him. Your move, elvenking. You could have told him that you didn’t need his subjects, just him, but you didn’t think he’d go for that plan either. Plus, you didn’t want to overstate what you could not immediately or firmly prove to him. Granted, it was strong and founded speculation.
He considers this, adorned fingers resting along the carved arm of the couch.
“You ask to walk wounded ground,” he says at last. “You want to use the joy and nostalgia of my people to help your healing, you ask for locked areas, old memories, and the trust of those who owe you none.”
His gaze moves over the report once more, then returns to you.
“No. Not yet.”
Your fingers tighten around the journal in your lap.
He considers amusedly, running adorned fingers along the edge of the upholstery, formulating a counterstrike. “But if it is the joy and nostalgia of my people you require to help your healing, then, spider-slayer, come to the Feast of Stars. As an emissary representing such powers from the other elven realms, you will attend as my honored guest. It is in six days time. I can send over a list of some approved locations from this…lengthy list.”
You blink, thrown by his turn. His honored guest? “That is too kind, too generous, I —” you begin.
“It is controlled,” he corrects, calm as winter. “Do not mistake the two.” You recoil.
“You ask to walk wounded grounds,” he says. “Despite not being one of my subjects, you are in my care. What I saw was explosive vines, deep magics in the earth.”
The warmth of the fire is suddenly too warm. Was he scared of your healing power? He’s seen so much more danger in his life.
“Yet I offer you something safer: memories of what stood before the corruption. Speak to my subjects, ask them for memories then, if it is their joy and revelry you seek.”
How did he turn the tables so quickly? How was he so good at giving you everything but what you asked for? A feast, but not access to his full palace. Yet you could not deny him. Not when his breath sent chills down your neck, down your spine.
“Then I thank you for the honor, my lord. Though I suspect you have not given me quite as little as you intended.” This time you dare to look up at him from your chair. He straightens before your noses almost touch. He does not offer you a hand to help you rise, rather he backs up, hands clasped behind his back. He almost smiles when he sees your inner written all over your face. Your chest feels tight.
“Galion shall deliver your list,” he walks towards the door. I didn’t even need the map, the journal. You clutch your materials to your chest. As he approaches, Galion opens the doors. Guards are not there. A matter of confidentiality, surely.
“Until then, healer of Mithlond.” Thranduil’s practiced voice returns, so neutral, except for the glint in his eye.
Unsure of how to say goodbye, you settle on a curtsy. Thranduil nods to Galion who extends a hand, guiding you from the antechamber of Mirkwood’s king. Thranduil retreats back inside. You don’t see him look back over his shoulder to watch you walk away before his guards return and close the doors.
Summary: You arrive at the First Grove, the first site within the king's palace grounds, but further from the palace. You travel with Navë, Hareth, Branniel, and your guards, planning on using Hareth's memory as fuel for your healing of the corruption. What you don't expect is for the Elvenking to witness this experimental attempt.
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Previous Part: Chapter 4
Author's Note: Hi folks! I've been so excited to post this chapter! We are really getting into the weeds of this corruption in Mirkwood. I love how it turned out. Your comments and kudos mean so much to me! I literally freak out every time I see one. I can't believe people are liking this lil long fic of mine. Blows my mind.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Preparing for the Grove
“So he said yes?” Navë pokes her yellow-haired head out of the door to your quarters.
“Yes, he did,” you smile, knowingly. Candaer also smiles at her excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they look upon your happy attendant. “You’re coming.”
That afternoon, you and Navë go back to the healer’s storeroom to get more vials, a small blade to scrape, and basic healing supplies in case someone gets injured later. With Fergrath now on-watch outside of your door, it is just you and Navë remaining in your quarters. You prepare some less-delicate clothes for tomorrow, and begin to walk Navë through the basics of healing while sprawled on the covered floor, a richly red carpet cushioning your repose. The skirts of your blue-grey dress fan out like ice over blood.
“Here,” you hand her some gauze. “So now pretend that here –” you gesture to a spot on your arm with a beauty mark for a reference point. “– is a stab wound. How would you wrap it?” The amber-eyed elleth squinted her eyes at you, slowly lowering the gauze. As she lowers it, a smile creeps onto your face.
“No. I must clean it first before I dress it,” Navë tilts her head, challengingly.
“Well done, but clean it with what?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at the array of herbs in front of you.
“With…athelas?” She asks, gesturing to the curly leafed stalks bundled together tightly.
“Not alone, or at least, when the men brought this plant from the West, they taught others to boil it for its best properties, so either reach for this, which we already extracted –” you gesture to a small bottle with a greenish liquid in it. “– but more importantly, you must also call the spirit of the person to come and aid you in healing their wound.”
You extend a hand to her, and she takes it softly, looking up to you. “Healing the spirit comes with will and song. Sing a song of old to me,” you ask.
“Of old? What do you mean?”
“Of your history, a song from the Woodland Realm that I would not otherwise be familiar with.”
“The Feast of the Stars is coming up, and there is this one…this one often gets sung,” she clears her throat. It is not in Sindarin, my lady. You may need some practice to learn it. The more simple translation says, ‘I go walking/Beyond the forest/Where the world falls away/And the white light/Of forever fills the air.’”
“That’s so beautiful,” you melt into the ethereal meaning. “Please sing it to me so that I might join you come the festival.” Navë smiles and begins to bind the wrappings upon your arm – just as you showed her – singing softly,
“Hae ephadron
Theri thaur
Am na dhû
Ias fîr i ambar
A trehil I ‘alad ‘lân uir ‘wilith”
The sound of her voice rings delicately and serenely off of the natural curves of the walls of your rooms. You hum in appreciation, closing your eyes for the duration of the song. Your arm is fully bandaged – and bandaged well – by the time she finishes the song, humming the melody again for you almost as another verse.
“I’m glad you like it,” Navë smiles, pausing and setting down your arm. “Do you think the forest can truly hold onto such memories?”
You pause and consider, then tell her, “Bodies can remember pain, no matter how well you heal them,” you hold up your beautifully bandaged arm, realizing it is the arm that was choked by mud in the tumultuous woods. “So, at least in theory, if bodies remember, then – perhaps – forests do too.”
“In theory?” Navë bites her bottom lip nervously.
“That’s all we have for now,” you sigh. “We should rest before tomorrow, but thank you. I shall practice your song.” Navë stands from the floor, and helps you ready for bed before leaving for her own rest. Not many more words are said, yet you find yourself in the most content of company.
Scene 2 – Arrival at the First Grove
Hareth and Branniel meet you, Navë, Candaer, and a very tired Fergrath at the large palace doors, all of you dressed practically for the mission ahead of you – much more practically than for a simple medical errand.
Doors open with a gust of biting wind, and guards call out to each other as you make your way outside.
It has been nearly a week since you were last outside of the walls of the king’s palace. Judging by the tense looks on all three elleths’ faces, the whiteness of their knuckles, you can’t be sure how long it has been since they have left. The wet stone of the bridge splashes droplets around the ankles of your boots, but your boots rise to just below your knee. Leggings tuck into your boots, a light sleeveless ranger’s tunic with a mock neck peaking just above your mother’s clasp that rests back where your throat meets your collarbone. You wear your dark blue cloak of Mithlond, the Grey Havens. Your hair is pulled back with clips that look like the vines of the forest, a detail Navë felt quite clever adding.
Hareth’s shoulders nearly reach the lobes of her pointed ears, tense. Her face twists with every step.
“Lead on,” you encourage her, placing a hand on her shoulder. You give her a warm smile, “You know the way better than I.”
“You have a map, don’t you?” She snaps. I’d be emotional too, your heart squeezes thinking of how difficult it must be to leave along the path you once walked with your great love. Branniel carries a small rucksack of supplies over her shoulder, a few paces behind, more in step with Candaer and Fergrath. She watches Hareth closely, brows furrowing at Hareth’s tone.
Navë is uncharacteristically quiet, taking cautious steps, walking next to Candaer who helps her jump over larger puddles instead of having her move ahead. Cute.
“I do have a map, if you’d prefer,” you swing your small pack around, about to dig through it when she puts a hand on yours to stop you.
“No, it –” she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Follow me.” You nod, bowing subtly. She takes a breath and starts down a very bumpy path, littered with vines and roots, leaves and debris. You all watch the woman weave and bob through the vines, her brows knit together in memory, her lips pursed. Her eyes trace the ceiling of trees that must have been green before. Nimbly for her age, she moves with pace, intentionally, and it does take some effort for the rest of you to keep up. You follow the flashes of silvery-grey hair as she traces the nearly forgotten trail to the First Grove.
As you got more of a look at the back of her head, it suddenly occurred to you that Hareth wore her long grey hair down today – with the exception of only two small braids that tucked behind her ears. It’s not like her, you realize, to wear her hair down at all instead of a practical and tight, low bun.
You turn to Branniel to ask her about it. “I think she wore it like this with her husband,” she says. “Though, this is the first time I am seeing it.” You clutch at the swans of your clasp, bowing to each other.
In your vigorous pace to follow the senior healer, after only ten minutes on foot, you come to a dome of branches, bound together like a shell, great trees with roots as tall as you form a massive circle the size of a grand courtyard. The dome covers a large pit of briar. Within the pit are cracked stone benches, carved arches and large roots that drop down into the pit to form archways. You imagine couples arm in arm, imagining where they once passed. Pale white buds peppered the thorny briars, flowers that would never bloom in this corruption or cold. Blackened vines choke old stone walking paths.
Hareth stops at the very edge of the path and goes very still.
Scene 3 – White Flowers
“Is this –” You begin to ask. Hareth gives a solemn nod.
“The Grove,” she says, voice tight.
“How have we never come across this place before, Fer?” Candaer remarks in awe.
“Did you see how bad the path was to get here?” Fergrath replies, pulling a twig from the buckle of his boot.
You shoot them a glare, nodding over to Hareth who seems frozen in thought. Navë steps on his boot sharply to double down. He cringes in realization, mouthing an apology.
You step to her side, lacing your arm through hers. She clutches onto you, her eyes still fixed ahead. “Tell me about him,” you encourage softly, trying to follow her gaze down into the thorny courtyard.
She gave a teary but sharp HA! “You’re just trying to get me to tell you so you can use it,” she retreats defensively, pressing her eyes shut, as if trying to keep her memories of her husband hidden behind her eyelids, keeping them for herself alone.
“Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?” You ask, earnestly. She doesn’t reply, but she releases the tension on her eyelids. You pause in consideration, then speak again; “Was he handsome?”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” she laughs despite herself, blinking softly. The wall of salty tears wobbles in the waterline of her tired eyes. She lifts her hand to blot them away, but it just gives permission for more tears to patter upon the bleeding earth.
You wait for her to continue. The rest of the group waits a few yards behind the two of you who were at the edge of the vine dome. After a moment, she squeezes your arm, encouraging you to look where she points. With a sniff and a straightening of her posture, she says, “We met each other while he was courting another elleth, taking her around the Grove. The problem was that she and I were…seeing each other privately.”
“Hareth!” Branniel exclaims.
“I used to have my fun too,” she smiles slyly back at her apprentice. “But she and I were not each other's One. We knew this. Though, I did not want to admit it at the time. I completely tripped him on their way out. He got covered in mud and she laughed at him. He was so embarrassed that I felt horribly. I smeared mud on my own outfit, and she thought me so strange. She left. And we spent hours together that day. Every day we would try to look out for each other in this grove. There,” she pointed to a bench across the way, “he would bring me ridiculously large flowers. I didn’t even know what to do with them, but he’d tuck them behind my ears.”
When she drops your arm to touch the place behind her ear, you let the story course through you, reaching out to the vines of the dome.
Hareth continues as you begin to channel your energy into the place in the dome where it swallows the stone path down into the grove. An entrance should be here, you intuit. You focus in, closing your eyes.
“We argued about what plants work better for treating head pains. I told him he gave me head pains. I can’t tell if he made me laugh or if I was too clever in teasing him, making myself laugh. Either way, we laughed here.”
Navë instinctively reaches for Candaer’s arm, and he extends it, blushing. She rests her head against his shoulder. His black hair contrasts with her golden straw-colored hair.
White light blooms from your palms, and Hareth heaves a shaky breath, muttering, “A healer from the sea indeed.”
The rot loosens. Some of the vines begin to shrink back into the earth, pulling and parting in the shape of an entrance way. Some of the flower buds begin to open and bloom. “Yes!” Hareth claps her hands, exclaiming with tearful delight. “Flowers like these ones.” You allow her memory to course through you like a song, proud of the joy you are bringing her. For a brief moment, even as she is done speaking her memory, when the healing should have run its course, you feel a momentary surge where you more deeply connect with the ground. The path’s roots uncurl from their walking stone captives.
Then, as soon as the surge starts, it stops. The roots slow their descent into the earth. They stutter. Your palms don’t lose energy, but rather you feel the tug of something much more challenging to overcome. The entrance into the First Grove courtyard is not entirely open, though the roots have braided themselves into an arch around it, only one or two roots stretch across the opening. There’s a resistance to going further. You open your eyes.
Across the First Grove, atop a horse of white, the elvenking watches, a violent expression across his face.
Scene 4 – Projections in the Mire
The Elvenking sends for his horse at the break of day. He informs his guard that he will be personally witnessing the healer that was given to him. Thranduil, donning his silver armor, makes his way from the palace tenuously, waiting for your party to go ahead. Taking a longer path around to the grove than the one his senior healer would most likely take, he canters cautiously among the trees, using their dark cover to observe from a distance. He imagines that he should be concerned that his guards do not notice him, or appreciative that they do not react if they do notice him.
Icy blue, discerning eyes seek to make their judgement. He finds you across the way, slightly obscured by the dome of vines, but his sharp vision and sharp hearing never fails him. Wholly absorbed in trying to hear you speak to Healer Hareth, Thranduil catches your voice, soft, lilting, persuasive: “Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?”
His mind drifts to things he remembers truly wanting. What did he want with you…he imagines the slope of your neck in the dress yesterday, the shape of your waist. What did you truly want with him?
Finally, he sees the light, the glow pouring from your hands engulfs your body in a halo of light – its purity unseen since the likes of Galadriel. He considers, purity, yet you are covered in mud. Thranduil leans forward, drawn in by your beauty. There is serenity in your face, yet an intense focus. You are clearly powerful, yet so unguarded.
His lips part in shock when he sees it. Your will and light begins to move the vines around the dome. They pull back into the earth. He felt an unfamiliar stirring beneath his armor, his heart speeding up at the thrill of watching you. You, this new thing to behold, a weapon much sharper than promised.
What if you did fix this forest for him? Hareth, whom he has known since he was a young ellon, is an incredibly hard person to get through to. Was memory truly so powerful when combined with your touch? Hareth, of all people, letting herself be guided…
Thranduil ponders his own memories here. Imagining her. The mother of his child. His late wife. Had they not walked here in the Grove together? She carried their son in these gardens. She listened to his woes. Yes, their marriage was political, but they shared so much. He presses his eyes shut, trying to keep his grief at bay.
Atop his horse of white, the platinum-haired ellon opens his eyes to gaze on the grove. He can’t help himself. Looking below him, he faintly pictures the First Grove when it was greener, imagining his family whole. He pictured the shape of a life before loneliness hardened around him. The most painful form of hope pierces his heart; a yearning for what might never be again until he is nothing but the spirit which holds his long memory.
How long it has been since his life felt like this memory, bittersweet as their marriage was. He imagines her long pale eyelashes as they closed when they kissed under one of the arches at dawn. He remembers when they closed for the last time.
This pain, at first a dull yearning for this place to be healed, the dull yearning of nostalgia corrupts like the black branches above him. He wants to cry out in anguish as the projections of his own mind dissipate until he stares plainly at the briar that separates you from him. Guarded by armor, he feels bare as you open your eyes, the glow gone, and you see him.
You. Have you done this? Had you pulled him into your magic? Your healing process?
“My Lord! I am so honored to see that you came to witness this! The grove responded to the theory!” You shout across the thicket. You are too far away to read your expression entirely. Thranduil scowls at this, for how dare you be joyful at misery being the cure for this sick wood.
Once you call out, Hareth whips around to look at him with alarm, worry plastered across her face at how vulnerable she had been in front of the Elvenking.
Shame and wrath rise within him, guarding him better than silver armor could ever. “Quiet!” He hisses across the way, cutting through the tightening air. He rides his horse almost all the way around the grove. Then, he dismounts, storming over to you.
He towers above, every bit the wrathful king Elrond said he would be. You immediately turn red, realizing that you forgot yourself in your excitement. You bow down, curtsying deeply, gaze on the forest floor. You hear your guard companions clink as they drop into a deep bow behind you. The other healers join your curtsy.
Every step towards you, he allows the knife of memory to twist in his heart, glaring at you, you sharp thing.
As you look at the ground, waiting for his approach, to your horror, the vines begin to creep back. Slowly at first, then as he gets closer to you, they roar out of the ground. You turn before he storms over to you, curtsy be damned. You rush to the spot where you had healed the wounded grove, and attempt to save it, wildly willing your healing to come to these vines to no avail. The entrance is doubly covered in brush with the king’s tandem wrath.
The flowers wilt within seconds. You drop to your knees, cupping the dead petals, he doesn’t halt his stride, even as you kneel on the ground. His boots stop just feet from your knees.
Hareth, who never dropped her gaze when she curtsied, stands to her full height when the kind stops. She looks between the king’s seething countenance and the corrupted and wild growth. And then she understands.
Scene 5 – Hareth’s Stash
Looking down at the half-elf curled on the ground, cupping a dying flower, Thranduil seethingly bends down, silver crown atop his head shining. “Rise, healer of Mithlond,” he commands calmly, summoning surprising coolness despite his apparent anger. Rather, his eyes are piercing in his analysis of the vengeful vines. “I would like an explanation of how you did this. I watched you have some limited success before the vines returned, something I have not seen from my healers yet.” He moues a disappointed frown to compliment his bored expression, as he shoots a look over to Hareth who purses her lips, but does not lower her gaze.
“They were entirely instrumental in my work today,” you say in your party’s defense. You brush off your tunic, standing from your despair at the failure of the vines in holding down. It hurts to drop the petals to the ground, just for them to become another layer in the earth. “I listened to Healer Hareth speak of her late husband and their times here. The story…it helped me channel my own healing.”
“You would make grief into a tool, and call the result healing?” He scoffs mirthfully. You have to tilt your head back just to look up at him, the already tall elf feels like he casts a menacing shadow over you. You feel a burning feeling of shame across your cheeks. You did fail. You failed like you did with the river vines.
“I offered my memories, my lord, they were not exploited. They were freely given, to be used to repair this grove.” Hareth says, her own expression icing over. Branniel adjusts the bag on her shoulder, her expression fixed and firm in agreement with her teacher.
“I require a full report, and until you can tell me how you mean to prevent this backlash, you do not leave the grounds of my palace just to further corrupt my kingdom,” Thranduil says, eyes flashing as they meet yours. Your eyes sting in guilt and apology, but through it all, as you hold his intense stare, you swear you see pain beneath his commanding gaze. Just as he turns, you catch his arm at the silver bracer.
“I never meant to –” Your heart feels pulled towards his pain. He heaves, breath heavy with anger. His eyes snap to your hand. His mouth barely parts, then closes again. He snatches his hand away. His chin lifts. He looks stricken – eyes wide before they narrow and look past you as he regains control of his expression.
Thranduil mounts his horse.
“Go back to your quarters,” he says in a surprisingly soft yet still commanding voice that you’ve never heard before. The thrumming of your own heartbeat in your ears overwhelms you. He rides off, back down the main trail, the white haired ellon on his great white steed.
“What in Valar’s name were you about to do?” Hareth snaps at you incredulously, face full of concern. “Give the king a hug?”
“I - I don’t know. I just…” your words trail off as you see, in the king’s wake roots burst out of the ground, thorns and thickets grow. The roots finish pouring back, reclaiming most of the progress you made and then some, closing up most of your way back.
“Did you bring your sword?” Fergrath asks you, heading towards nature's wrath and beginning the hard work of chopping at the new vines.
“Come now, this worked!” Hareth nudges you. It makes you smile faintly, though the shame of disappointing the Elvenking was still sitting heavily on your sternum.
“And you were quite the cynic, too, no?” Navë says to Hareth, trying to encourage you.
“Listen. I’m happy to be proven wrong. This grove accepted your help. You have something very special, child. A powerful gift,” Hareth admits. She then drops her voice to a low and hushed tone so as to speak only to you, “However, we do need to speak privately.” You look over to her, the pit in your stomach and pressure on your chest only deepening. You nod.
You cut and chop your way through with the help of Breeze, Fergrath, and Candaer. You come back to the front entrance. Knowing that you had a looming limitation on exiting once you entered those doors made it feel like you were entering into a form of imprisonment, though you knew you could leave at any time and go back to Rivendell. Though, it would mean another treacherous journey back, just to admit that you had failed your lords when they entrusted you with such a mission. Perhaps you couldn’t just leave at any time: bound by your mission and the Elvenking.
The party makes their way to their respective rooms, Fergrath following you and Hareth to the healing wing.
“Please wait outside,” Hareth says before slamming the door in the red-haired ellon’s face.
“Hareth!” You exclaim at her rudeness.
“We need to talk about the king, and like it or not – friend or not – his responsibility is to the king. I would say, I’ve lived longer than King Thranduil has. My responsibility is to the realm.” You let that sink in, pulling a worn chair away from one of her large tome-ridden tables. She doesn’t sit.
Hareth moves to a back cupboard, stained a dark and rich brown. She opens it up, pulling out a bottle of wine, grabbing a knife and beginning to open it. She does not ask if you want a glass, pouring rich blood-red wine into a silver chalice. You have no idea until she hands it to you just how full the cup is. It is very full.
Sitting down in front of you, she takes a long swig of her wine. “Drink.”
You take a sip of the wine, the bombastic scent of cherry and flowers and rich verdant soil hits your nose before the rich drink touches your tongue. “Wow, this is beautiful,” you go back for another sip.
“Don’t mention it,” Hareth waves, clearly trying to focus the conversation. “Did you see him as you were healing?” The elder healer did not need to clarify who he was. The silver-crowned Elvenking was at the forefront of your mind.
“No, only at the very end. I usually need to close my eyes to focus on the healing, if I know that it is a larger amount of energy that I need to summon.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I saw,” Hareth leans back in a chair, starting to tie her hair back into a tight knot.
“When I spoke of my husband, when you were working, the grove seemed very open. And when King Thranduil watched at first it looked like your healing held well.” Hareth tips her glass to you.
“Do you think the king…so, you think the king helped?” Your mind races.
“I know he was looking at you. I’m not sure. He seemed fairly neutral, and the roots were moving well into the ground. Then he changed to this dark, dark expression. It was quite sinister.” Her voice darkens as she imagines it again.
“And that’s when the roots stopped moving?” You ask, trying to follow her logic.
“Exactly. And when he rode away, after you tried to reach out to him – which we still need to unpack whatever that was –” she looks at you sharply as you start to blush, looking down into your goblet of wine. “– I know you also saw his distress and the wake of corruption that bloomed behind him.”
“I did see that. So, you’re saying that he’s causing this or that he’s…what?”
“If he didn’t cause this, then he certainly – at the very least – has a significant role to play with you being able to heal any of this,” Hareth stops rocking on the back legs of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, smoothing her hair back with the hand that isn’t holding the wine, unnerved. She looks and sees your bewildered expression.
Sighing, she adds, “In other words, if your healing is a door, we can open the damn thing, but the king has to stop slamming it shut. Even better, is if he could open the door all the way and keep it open for you to do what you need to do.”
“What if it was a coincidence?” You ask, weakly.
“Do you honestly believe that after what we saw?” Hareth rolls her eyes, finishing her goblet. You now see why she poured you a cup.
“I don’t know what to think right now, nor do I have a good explanation for grabbing his arm, I don’t know. Do you think he hates me after this? I have absolutely killed this whole effort by not thinking!”
“Drink.” Hareth repeats. You take a shaky sip. “Our king is a passionate one. He cares very deeply about the safety of the realm,” she grants.
“I can’t imagine how scary it must be to see the vines come back stronger after I healed them,” you say softly. “He just looked so…hurt. I –” you almost, even now, wish you could reach out. Heal that broken look in his eyes. Grief…but for what? You recall your preparations for going to Mirkwood, how Elrond had warned you of the king’s temperamental nature, and warned you that he lost his wife over a millenia ago. You knew they were an arranged marriage, but were they in love? Did they stroll together in the First Grove? Did they kiss under the arches like Hareth and her husband?
A knot forms in your gut as you imagine Thranduil bending down, gently cupping an elleth’s face in his hands, her similarly white-blonde hair long and perfect as he kissed her passionately, filled with the care he had for his home. You imagine him melting into the kiss. How he would shift and sigh. How you would pull him in by his arms. How you would soothe him with your lips. How –
“Valar, tell me you’ve had wine before,” Hareth curses, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink, hard. Fuck…what were you thinking?
“I have, it’s just been a long day,” you explain, though you can feel the warmth of the wine beginning to spread to your fingers and chest. You do feel lighter, but so warm. The heady flavor of the wine lingers on your tongue.
“Mhm,” Hareth looks at you askance. “You should still meet with the king for the report. I suspect you’ll want to clear the air as well,” she pours some more wine into your cup before you can protest.
By nightfall, conversation flows…more loosely between you.
“Be honest, do you think he hates me?” You palm your forehead in tipsy anguish. Navë taps at the door, cracking it open.
Hareth assures you sleepily, “My love, you have absolutely no way of knowing that, nor can I condone you wallowing in your own anxiety! All. Will. Be. Well.”
“My lady, it is such a late hour. Candaer was looking to relieve Fergrath at your chambers but you are still…here,” she pauses, taking in the now drunk bottle of wine in front of you.
“Decompressing, are we?” Navë laughs.
You give a small nod.
“Let’s get you to bed though,” she giggles, as you stand. You don’t wobble. You weren’t too lost in your cups, but you did feel a pleasant buzz across your skin. You give her a smile and a laugh as she ushers you out the door.
“Did you save me a glass?” Fergrath jokes, eyes floating shut from exhaustion.
“Oh, no! Was I supposed to bring you a glass? Is that a thing here?” You wonder aloud, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. A light dizziness hums in the back of your neck, a welcome buzz from the wine.
“No, it’s not. Now, walk us back and you must go to bed as well,” Navë scolds your guard. You make your way back the winding path into your hallway, passing a few elves who glance in your direction, but most of them tipsy or destination-focused themselves.
You make it to your quarters, greeting the dark-haired ellon at your door. You push inside with Navë, stripping with every step as you go further into the room. “I have to report to the king tomorrow, Navë,” you start. “I really do think he hates me, and I’ve lost all favor with him. Now, what will I report to my lords back home and in Rivendell?”
You slip on a comfortable night garment, and crawl into bed.
“How desperately do you believe him to hate you?” Navë asks, regret already pouring into her words as she asks. She looks upon you, your whole countenance wracked with anxiety. “I do have a…person I know who tends to the king in his quarters,” she whispers, looking towards the door.
“I used to see him before…”
“Before you and Candaer?” You ask, oblivious to her attempt at stealth.
“Shhhhh!” She covers your mouth with her hand. “Yes, but he is now married and very happy. We are friends alone. Still, you have to promise not to say anything. He works as an attendant to the king. I can ask after the mood of King Thranduil tonight, see if his behavior is out of the norm. He owes me a favor, but obviously he would get in trouble if you reveal that you know anything.”
You vigorously nod, agreeing to these very agreeable terms.
“Very well. I will try to find him tonight. You’ll owe me then,” Navë smiles at you. “Now, rest.” You feel your heart float to ease. Your forehead releases its tension that it has been carrying subconsciously. You sink into your mattress and allow your dreamless rest to take you.
Ok I know I'm mainly a Star Wars blog but this story has me in a CHOKEHOLD and I have to share it. When I tell you I was RAVENOUS waiting for this chapter this week, I am HUNGRYYYYY FOR MORE OKAY?
As if Fridays didn't come slowly as it is 😭
PLSSSSSSS I am so happy you're enjoying this story so much! I have a backlog of chapters ready to go, and I think/hope that you're going to love the rest of Act I! If you're ravenous, good news is that I've been in the kitchen COOKIN' up some plot.
Thank you so much for commenting, literally makes my freaking dayyyyyyyy!
I LOVE YOU, YOUR WRITING AND 'WHAT YOU DENY' HOLYYYYYYY bro I'm just wow I'm in so so so wow omg so enamoured by this ff, it's genuinely so good I haven't read something this good in a hot minute. I love theanduil sm mmmdngmgmgmdjcj, I also love love love the reader and her origins
I hope you dont stop writing for this, Please make sure to take breaks whenever needed and don't pressure yourself, I LOVE YOUUU
LOVE YOU TOOOOOO! Wow thank you so much for taking the time to write out this message, anon!
I’m so glad you love What You Deny!!! Happy to add you to a tag list if you’d like!!
I’ve written quite a bit of this already and the whole plot is mapped out, so I do plan on finishing this long fic as soon as possible.
The reader character’s origins stem from the most fascinating Tolkien concepts to me - cool elf lore and half elves! And yayyyyy I’m so glad you like Thranduil! He’s so fun to write!!!
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Summary: You arrive at the First Grove, the first site within the king's palace grounds, but further from the palace. You travel with Navë, Hareth, Branniel, and your guards, planning on using Hareth's memory as fuel for your healing of the corruption. What you don't expect is for the Elvenking to witness this experimental attempt.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 4
Author's Note: Hi folks! I've been so excited to post this chapter! We are really getting into the weeds of this corruption in Mirkwood. I love how it turned out. Your comments and kudos mean so much to me! I literally freak out every time I see one. I can't believe people are liking this lil long fic of mine. Blows my mind.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Preparing for the Grove
“So he said yes?” Navë pokes her yellow-haired head out of the door to your quarters.
“Yes, he did,” you smile, knowingly. Candaer also smiles at her excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they look upon your happy attendant. “You’re coming.”
That afternoon, you and Navë go back to the healer’s storeroom to get more vials, a small blade to scrape, and basic healing supplies in case someone gets injured later. With Fergrath now on-watch outside of your door, it is just you and Navë remaining in your quarters. You prepare some less-delicate clothes for tomorrow, and begin to walk Navë through the basics of healing while sprawled on the covered floor, a richly red carpet cushioning your repose. The skirts of your blue-grey dress fan out like ice over blood.
“Here,” you hand her some gauze. “So now pretend that here –” you gesture to a spot on your arm with a beauty mark for a reference point. “– is a stab wound. How would you wrap it?” The amber-eyed elleth squinted her eyes at you, slowly lowering the gauze. As she lowers it, a smile creeps onto your face.
“No. I must clean it first before I dress it,” Navë tilts her head, challengingly.
“Well done, but clean it with what?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at the array of herbs in front of you.
“With…athelas?” She asks, gesturing to the curly leafed stalks bundled together tightly.
“Not alone, or at least, when the men brought this plant from the West, they taught others to boil it for its best properties, so either reach for this, which we already extracted –” you gesture to a small bottle with a greenish liquid in it. “– but more importantly, you must also call the spirit of the person to come and aid you in healing their wound.”
You extend a hand to her, and she takes it softly, looking up to you. “Healing the spirit comes with will and song. Sing a song of old to me,” you ask.
“Of old? What do you mean?”
“Of your history, a song from the Woodland Realm that I would not otherwise be familiar with.”
“The Feast of the Stars is coming up, and there is this one…this one often gets sung,” she clears her throat. It is not in Sindarin, my lady. You may need some practice to learn it. The more simple translation says, ‘I go walking/Beyond the forest/Where the world falls away/And the white light/Of forever fills the air.’”
“That’s so beautiful,” you melt into the ethereal meaning. “Please sing it to me so that I might join you come the festival.” Navë smiles and begins to bind the wrappings upon your arm – just as you showed her – singing softly,
“Hae ephadron
Theri thaur
Am na dhû
Ias fîr i ambar
A trehil I ‘alad ‘lân uir ‘wilith”
The sound of her voice rings delicately and serenely off of the natural curves of the walls of your rooms. You hum in appreciation, closing your eyes for the duration of the song. Your arm is fully bandaged – and bandaged well – by the time she finishes the song, humming the melody again for you almost as another verse.
“I’m glad you like it,” Navë smiles, pausing and setting down your arm. “Do you think the forest can truly hold onto such memories?”
You pause and consider, then tell her, “Bodies can remember pain, no matter how well you heal them,” you hold up your beautifully bandaged arm, realizing it is the arm that was choked by mud in the tumultuous woods. “So, at least in theory, if bodies remember, then – perhaps – forests do too.”
“In theory?” Navë bites her bottom lip nervously.
“That’s all we have for now,” you sigh. “We should rest before tomorrow, but thank you. I shall practice your song.” Navë stands from the floor, and helps you ready for bed before leaving for her own rest. Not many more words are said, yet you find yourself in the most content of company.
Scene 2 – Arrival at the First Grove
Hareth and Branniel meet you, Navë, Candaer, and a very tired Fergrath at the large palace doors, all of you dressed practically for the mission ahead of you – much more practically than for a simple medical errand.
Doors open with a gust of biting wind, and guards call out to each other as you make your way outside.
It has been nearly a week since you were last outside of the walls of the king’s palace. Judging by the tense looks on all three elleths’ faces, the whiteness of their knuckles, you can’t be sure how long it has been since they have left. The wet stone of the bridge splashes droplets around the ankles of your boots, but your boots rise to just below your knee. Leggings tuck into your boots, a light sleeveless ranger’s tunic with a mock neck peaking just above your mother’s clasp that rests back where your throat meets your collarbone. You wear your dark blue cloak of Mithlond, the Grey Havens. Your hair is pulled back with clips that look like the vines of the forest, a detail Navë felt quite clever adding.
Hareth’s shoulders nearly reach the lobes of her pointed ears, tense. Her face twists with every step.
“Lead on,” you encourage her, placing a hand on her shoulder. You give her a warm smile, “You know the way better than I.”
“You have a map, don’t you?” She snaps. I’d be emotional too, your heart squeezes thinking of how difficult it must be to leave along the path you once walked with your great love. Branniel carries a small rucksack of supplies over her shoulder, a few paces behind, more in step with Candaer and Fergrath. She watches Hareth closely, brows furrowing at Hareth’s tone.
Navë is uncharacteristically quiet, taking cautious steps, walking next to Candaer who helps her jump over larger puddles instead of having her move ahead. Cute.
“I do have a map, if you’d prefer,” you swing your small pack around, about to dig through it when she puts a hand on yours to stop you.
“No, it –” she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Follow me.” You nod, bowing subtly. She takes a breath and starts down a very bumpy path, littered with vines and roots, leaves and debris. You all watch the woman weave and bob through the vines, her brows knit together in memory, her lips pursed. Her eyes trace the ceiling of trees that must have been green before. Nimbly for her age, she moves with pace, intentionally, and it does take some effort for the rest of you to keep up. You follow the flashes of silvery-grey hair as she traces the nearly forgotten trail to the First Grove.
As you got more of a look at the back of her head, it suddenly occurred to you that Hareth wore her long grey hair down today – with the exception of only two small braids that tucked behind her ears. It’s not like her, you realize, to wear her hair down at all instead of a practical and tight, low bun.
You turn to Branniel to ask her about it. “I think she wore it like this with her husband,” she says. “Though, this is the first time I am seeing it.” You clutch at the swans of your clasp, bowing to each other.
In your vigorous pace to follow the senior healer, after only ten minutes on foot, you come to a dome of branches, bound together like a shell, great trees with roots as tall as you form a massive circle the size of a grand courtyard. The dome covers a large pit of briar. Within the pit are cracked stone benches, carved arches and large roots that drop down into the pit to form archways. You imagine couples arm in arm, imagining where they once passed. Pale white buds peppered the thorny briars, flowers that would never bloom in this corruption or cold. Blackened vines choke old stone walking paths.
Hareth stops at the very edge of the path and goes very still.
Scene 3 – White Flowers
“Is this –” You begin to ask. Hareth gives a solemn nod.
“The Grove,” she says, voice tight.
“How have we never come across this place before, Fer?” Candaer remarks in awe.
“Did you see how bad the path was to get here?” Fergrath replies, pulling a twig from the buckle of his boot.
You shoot them a glare, nodding over to Hareth who seems frozen in thought. Navë steps on his boot sharply to double down. He cringes in realization, mouthing an apology.
You step to her side, lacing your arm through hers. She clutches onto you, her eyes still fixed ahead. “Tell me about him,” you encourage softly, trying to follow her gaze down into the thorny courtyard.
She gave a teary but sharp HA! “You’re just trying to get me to tell you so you can use it,” she retreats defensively, pressing her eyes shut, as if trying to keep her memories of her husband hidden behind her eyelids, keeping them for herself alone.
“Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?” You ask, earnestly. She doesn’t reply, but she releases the tension on her eyelids. You pause in consideration, then speak again; “Was he handsome?”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” she laughs despite herself, blinking softly. The wall of salty tears wobbles in the waterline of her tired eyes. She lifts her hand to blot them away, but it just gives permission for more tears to patter upon the bleeding earth.
You wait for her to continue. The rest of the group waits a few yards behind the two of you who were at the edge of the vine dome. After a moment, she squeezes your arm, encouraging you to look where she points. With a sniff and a straightening of her posture, she says, “We met each other while he was courting another elleth, taking her around the Grove. The problem was that she and I were…seeing each other privately.”
“Hareth!” Branniel exclaims.
“I used to have my fun too,” she smiles slyly back at her apprentice. “But she and I were not each other's One. We knew this. Though, I did not want to admit it at the time. I completely tripped him on their way out. He got covered in mud and she laughed at him. He was so embarrassed that I felt horribly. I smeared mud on my own outfit, and she thought me so strange. She left. And we spent hours together that day. Every day we would try to look out for each other in this grove. There,” she pointed to a bench across the way, “he would bring me ridiculously large flowers. I didn’t even know what to do with them, but he’d tuck them behind my ears.”
When she drops your arm to touch the place behind her ear, you let the story course through you, reaching out to the vines of the dome.
Hareth continues as you begin to channel your energy into the place in the dome where it swallows the stone path down into the grove. An entrance should be here, you intuit. You focus in, closing your eyes.
“We argued about what plants work better for treating head pains. I told him he gave me head pains. I can’t tell if he made me laugh or if I was too clever in teasing him, making myself laugh. Either way, we laughed here.”
Navë instinctively reaches for Candaer’s arm, and he extends it, blushing. She rests her head against his shoulder. His black hair contrasts with her golden straw-colored hair.
White light blooms from your palms, and Hareth heaves a shaky breath, muttering, “A healer from the sea indeed.”
The rot loosens. Some of the vines begin to shrink back into the earth, pulling and parting in the shape of an entrance way. Some of the flower buds begin to open and bloom. “Yes!” Hareth claps her hands, exclaiming with tearful delight. “Flowers like these ones.” You allow her memory to course through you like a song, proud of the joy you are bringing her. For a brief moment, even as she is done speaking her memory, when the healing should have run its course, you feel a momentary surge where you more deeply connect with the ground. The path’s roots uncurl from their walking stone captives.
Then, as soon as the surge starts, it stops. The roots slow their descent into the earth. They stutter. Your palms don’t lose energy, but rather you feel the tug of something much more challenging to overcome. The entrance into the First Grove courtyard is not entirely open, though the roots have braided themselves into an arch around it, only one or two roots stretch across the opening. There’s a resistance to going further. You open your eyes.
Across the First Grove, atop a horse of white, the elvenking watches, a violent expression across his face.
Scene 4 – Projections in the Mire
The Elvenking sends for his horse at the break of day. He informs his guard that he will be personally witnessing the healer that was given to him. Thranduil, donning his silver armor, makes his way from the palace tenuously, waiting for your party to go ahead. Taking a longer path around to the grove than the one his senior healer would most likely take, he canters cautiously among the trees, using their dark cover to observe from a distance. He imagines that he should be concerned that his guards do not notice him, or appreciative that they do not react if they do notice him.
Icy blue, discerning eyes seek to make their judgement. He finds you across the way, slightly obscured by the dome of vines, but his sharp vision and sharp hearing never fails him. Wholly absorbed in trying to hear you speak to Healer Hareth, Thranduil catches your voice, soft, lilting, persuasive: “Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?”
His mind drifts to things he remembers truly wanting. What did he want with you…he imagines the slope of your neck in the dress yesterday, the shape of your waist. What did you truly want with him?
Finally, he sees the light, the glow pouring from your hands engulfs your body in a halo of light – its purity unseen since the likes of Galadriel. He considers, purity, yet you are covered in mud. Thranduil leans forward, drawn in by your beauty. There is serenity in your face, yet an intense focus. You are clearly powerful, yet so unguarded.
His lips part in shock when he sees it. Your will and light begins to move the vines around the dome. They pull back into the earth. He felt an unfamiliar stirring beneath his armor, his heart speeding up at the thrill of watching you. You, this new thing to behold, a weapon much sharper than promised.
What if you did fix this forest for him? Hareth, whom he has known since he was a young ellon, is an incredibly hard person to get through to. Was memory truly so powerful when combined with your touch? Hareth, of all people, letting herself be guided…
Thranduil ponders his own memories here. Imagining her. The mother of his child. His late wife. Had they not walked here in the Grove together? She carried their son in these gardens. She listened to his woes. Yes, their marriage was political, but they shared so much. He presses his eyes shut, trying to keep his grief at bay.
Atop his horse of white, the platinum-haired ellon opens his eyes to gaze on the grove. He can’t help himself. Looking below him, he faintly pictures the First Grove when it was greener, imagining his family whole. He pictured the shape of a life before loneliness hardened around him. The most painful form of hope pierces his heart; a yearning for what might never be again until he is nothing but the spirit which holds his long memory.
How long it has been since his life felt like this memory, bittersweet as their marriage was. He imagines her long pale eyelashes as they closed when they kissed under one of the arches at dawn. He remembers when they closed for the last time.
This pain, at first a dull yearning for this place to be healed, the dull yearning of nostalgia corrupts like the black branches above him. He wants to cry out in anguish as the projections of his own mind dissipate until he stares plainly at the briar that separates you from him. Guarded by armor, he feels bare as you open your eyes, the glow gone, and you see him.
You. Have you done this? Had you pulled him into your magic? Your healing process?
“My Lord! I am so honored to see that you came to witness this! The grove responded to the theory!” You shout across the thicket. You are too far away to read your expression entirely. Thranduil scowls at this, for how dare you be joyful at misery being the cure for this sick wood.
Once you call out, Hareth whips around to look at him with alarm, worry plastered across her face at how vulnerable she had been in front of the Elvenking.
Shame and wrath rise within him, guarding him better than silver armor could ever. “Quiet!” He hisses across the way, cutting through the tightening air. He rides his horse almost all the way around the grove. Then, he dismounts, storming over to you.
He towers above, every bit the wrathful king Elrond said he would be. You immediately turn red, realizing that you forgot yourself in your excitement. You bow down, curtsying deeply, gaze on the forest floor. You hear your guard companions clink as they drop into a deep bow behind you. The other healers join your curtsy.
Every step towards you, he allows the knife of memory to twist in his heart, glaring at you, you sharp thing.
As you look at the ground, waiting for his approach, to your horror, the vines begin to creep back. Slowly at first, then as he gets closer to you, they roar out of the ground. You turn before he storms over to you, curtsy be damned. You rush to the spot where you had healed the wounded grove, and attempt to save it, wildly willing your healing to come to these vines to no avail. The entrance is doubly covered in brush with the king’s tandem wrath.
The flowers wilt within seconds. You drop to your knees, cupping the dead petals, he doesn’t halt his stride, even as you kneel on the ground. His boots stop just feet from your knees.
Hareth, who never dropped her gaze when she curtsied, stands to her full height when the kind stops. She looks between the king’s seething countenance and the corrupted and wild growth. And then she understands.
Scene 5 – Hareth’s Stash
Looking down at the half-elf curled on the ground, cupping a dying flower, Thranduil seethingly bends down, silver crown atop his head shining. “Rise, healer of Mithlond,” he commands calmly, summoning surprising coolness despite his apparent anger. Rather, his eyes are piercing in his analysis of the vengeful vines. “I would like an explanation of how you did this. I watched you have some limited success before the vines returned, something I have not seen from my healers yet.” He moues a disappointed frown to compliment his bored expression, as he shoots a look over to Hareth who purses her lips, but does not lower her gaze.
“They were entirely instrumental in my work today,” you say in your party’s defense. You brush off your tunic, standing from your despair at the failure of the vines in holding down. It hurts to drop the petals to the ground, just for them to become another layer in the earth. “I listened to Healer Hareth speak of her late husband and their times here. The story…it helped me channel my own healing.”
“You would make grief into a tool, and call the result healing?” He scoffs mirthfully. You have to tilt your head back just to look up at him, the already tall elf feels like he casts a menacing shadow over you. You feel a burning feeling of shame across your cheeks. You did fail. You failed like you did with the river vines.
“I offered my memories, my lord, they were not exploited. They were freely given, to be used to repair this grove.” Hareth says, her own expression icing over. Branniel adjusts the bag on her shoulder, her expression fixed and firm in agreement with her teacher.
“I require a full report, and until you can tell me how you mean to prevent this backlash, you do not leave the grounds of my palace just to further corrupt my kingdom,” Thranduil says, eyes flashing as they meet yours. Your eyes sting in guilt and apology, but through it all, as you hold his intense stare, you swear you see pain beneath his commanding gaze. Just as he turns, you catch his arm at the silver bracer.
“I never meant to –” Your heart feels pulled towards his pain. He heaves, breath heavy with anger. His eyes snap to your hand. His mouth barely parts, then closes again. He snatches his hand away. His chin lifts. He looks stricken – eyes wide before they narrow and look past you as he regains control of his expression.
Thranduil mounts his horse.
“Go back to your quarters,” he says in a surprisingly soft yet still commanding voice that you’ve never heard before. The thrumming of your own heartbeat in your ears overwhelms you. He rides off, back down the main trail, the white haired ellon on his great white steed.
“What in Valar’s name were you about to do?” Hareth snaps at you incredulously, face full of concern. “Give the king a hug?”
“I - I don’t know. I just…” your words trail off as you see, in the king’s wake roots burst out of the ground, thorns and thickets grow. The roots finish pouring back, reclaiming most of the progress you made and then some, closing up most of your way back.
“Did you bring your sword?” Fergrath asks you, heading towards nature's wrath and beginning the hard work of chopping at the new vines.
“Come now, this worked!” Hareth nudges you. It makes you smile faintly, though the shame of disappointing the Elvenking was still sitting heavily on your sternum.
“And you were quite the cynic, too, no?” Navë says to Hareth, trying to encourage you.
“Listen. I’m happy to be proven wrong. This grove accepted your help. You have something very special, child. A powerful gift,” Hareth admits. She then drops her voice to a low and hushed tone so as to speak only to you, “However, we do need to speak privately.” You look over to her, the pit in your stomach and pressure on your chest only deepening. You nod.
You cut and chop your way through with the help of Breeze, Fergrath, and Candaer. You come back to the front entrance. Knowing that you had a looming limitation on exiting once you entered those doors made it feel like you were entering into a form of imprisonment, though you knew you could leave at any time and go back to Rivendell. Though, it would mean another treacherous journey back, just to admit that you had failed your lords when they entrusted you with such a mission. Perhaps you couldn’t just leave at any time: bound by your mission and the Elvenking.
The party makes their way to their respective rooms, Fergrath following you and Hareth to the healing wing.
“Please wait outside,” Hareth says before slamming the door in the red-haired ellon’s face.
“Hareth!” You exclaim at her rudeness.
“We need to talk about the king, and like it or not – friend or not – his responsibility is to the king. I would say, I’ve lived longer than King Thranduil has. My responsibility is to the realm.” You let that sink in, pulling a worn chair away from one of her large tome-ridden tables. She doesn’t sit.
Hareth moves to a back cupboard, stained a dark and rich brown. She opens it up, pulling out a bottle of wine, grabbing a knife and beginning to open it. She does not ask if you want a glass, pouring rich blood-red wine into a silver chalice. You have no idea until she hands it to you just how full the cup is. It is very full.
Sitting down in front of you, she takes a long swig of her wine. “Drink.”
You take a sip of the wine, the bombastic scent of cherry and flowers and rich verdant soil hits your nose before the rich drink touches your tongue. “Wow, this is beautiful,” you go back for another sip.
“Don’t mention it,” Hareth waves, clearly trying to focus the conversation. “Did you see him as you were healing?” The elder healer did not need to clarify who he was. The silver-crowned Elvenking was at the forefront of your mind.
“No, only at the very end. I usually need to close my eyes to focus on the healing, if I know that it is a larger amount of energy that I need to summon.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I saw,” Hareth leans back in a chair, starting to tie her hair back into a tight knot.
“When I spoke of my husband, when you were working, the grove seemed very open. And when King Thranduil watched at first it looked like your healing held well.” Hareth tips her glass to you.
“Do you think the king…so, you think the king helped?” Your mind races.
“I know he was looking at you. I’m not sure. He seemed fairly neutral, and the roots were moving well into the ground. Then he changed to this dark, dark expression. It was quite sinister.” Her voice darkens as she imagines it again.
“And that’s when the roots stopped moving?” You ask, trying to follow her logic.
“Exactly. And when he rode away, after you tried to reach out to him – which we still need to unpack whatever that was –” she looks at you sharply as you start to blush, looking down into your goblet of wine. “– I know you also saw his distress and the wake of corruption that bloomed behind him.”
“I did see that. So, you’re saying that he’s causing this or that he’s…what?”
“If he didn’t cause this, then he certainly – at the very least – has a significant role to play with you being able to heal any of this,” Hareth stops rocking on the back legs of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, smoothing her hair back with the hand that isn’t holding the wine, unnerved. She looks and sees your bewildered expression.
Sighing, she adds, “In other words, if your healing is a door, we can open the damn thing, but the king has to stop slamming it shut. Even better, is if he could open the door all the way and keep it open for you to do what you need to do.”
“What if it was a coincidence?” You ask, weakly.
“Do you honestly believe that after what we saw?” Hareth rolls her eyes, finishing her goblet. You now see why she poured you a cup.
“I don’t know what to think right now, nor do I have a good explanation for grabbing his arm, I don’t know. Do you think he hates me after this? I have absolutely killed this whole effort by not thinking!”
“Drink.” Hareth repeats. You take a shaky sip. “Our king is a passionate one. He cares very deeply about the safety of the realm,” she grants.
“I can’t imagine how scary it must be to see the vines come back stronger after I healed them,” you say softly. “He just looked so…hurt. I –” you almost, even now, wish you could reach out. Heal that broken look in his eyes. Grief…but for what? You recall your preparations for going to Mirkwood, how Elrond had warned you of the king’s temperamental nature, and warned you that he lost his wife over a millenia ago. You knew they were an arranged marriage, but were they in love? Did they stroll together in the First Grove? Did they kiss under the arches like Hareth and her husband?
A knot forms in your gut as you imagine Thranduil bending down, gently cupping an elleth’s face in his hands, her similarly white-blonde hair long and perfect as he kissed her passionately, filled with the care he had for his home. You imagine him melting into the kiss. How he would shift and sigh. How you would pull him in by his arms. How you would soothe him with your lips. How –
“Valar, tell me you’ve had wine before,” Hareth curses, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink, hard. Fuck…what were you thinking?
“I have, it’s just been a long day,” you explain, though you can feel the warmth of the wine beginning to spread to your fingers and chest. You do feel lighter, but so warm. The heady flavor of the wine lingers on your tongue.
“Mhm,” Hareth looks at you askance. “You should still meet with the king for the report. I suspect you’ll want to clear the air as well,” she pours some more wine into your cup before you can protest.
By nightfall, conversation flows…more loosely between you.
“Be honest, do you think he hates me?” You palm your forehead in tipsy anguish. Navë taps at the door, cracking it open.
Hareth assures you sleepily, “My love, you have absolutely no way of knowing that, nor can I condone you wallowing in your own anxiety! All. Will. Be. Well.”
“My lady, it is such a late hour. Candaer was looking to relieve Fergrath at your chambers but you are still…here,” she pauses, taking in the now drunk bottle of wine in front of you.
“Decompressing, are we?” Navë laughs.
You give a small nod.
“Let’s get you to bed though,” she giggles, as you stand. You don’t wobble. You weren’t too lost in your cups, but you did feel a pleasant buzz across your skin. You give her a smile and a laugh as she ushers you out the door.
“Did you save me a glass?” Fergrath jokes, eyes floating shut from exhaustion.
“Oh, no! Was I supposed to bring you a glass? Is that a thing here?” You wonder aloud, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. A light dizziness hums in the back of your neck, a welcome buzz from the wine.
“No, it’s not. Now, walk us back and you must go to bed as well,” Navë scolds your guard. You make your way back the winding path into your hallway, passing a few elves who glance in your direction, but most of them tipsy or destination-focused themselves.
You make it to your quarters, greeting the dark-haired ellon at your door. You push inside with Navë, stripping with every step as you go further into the room. “I have to report to the king tomorrow, Navë,” you start. “I really do think he hates me, and I’ve lost all favor with him. Now, what will I report to my lords back home and in Rivendell?”
You slip on a comfortable night garment, and crawl into bed.
“How desperately do you believe him to hate you?” Navë asks, regret already pouring into her words as she asks. She looks upon you, your whole countenance wracked with anxiety. “I do have a…person I know who tends to the king in his quarters,” she whispers, looking towards the door.
“I used to see him before…”
“Before you and Candaer?” You ask, oblivious to her attempt at stealth.
“Shhhhh!” She covers your mouth with her hand. “Yes, but he is now married and very happy. We are friends alone. Still, you have to promise not to say anything. He works as an attendant to the king. I can ask after the mood of King Thranduil tonight, see if his behavior is out of the norm. He owes me a favor, but obviously he would get in trouble if you reveal that you know anything.”
You vigorously nod, agreeing to these very agreeable terms.
“Very well. I will try to find him tonight. You’ll owe me then,” Navë smiles at you. “Now, rest.” You feel your heart float to ease. Your forehead releases its tension that it has been carrying subconsciously. You sink into your mattress and allow your dreamless rest to take you.
My fave chapter yet…I was STRUCK with th description of the dress over the carpet being “ice over blood” I WAS GAGGED. Also healing asf to read that the way to heal the forest is to heal ourselves #hopecore. I don’t really know how to put into words how well you write. I’m not the writer here! But the emotion you’re able to express for these characters is phenomenal and does Tolkien and his world justice. THANK YOU POOKIE FOR PUTTING ME ON THE TAGLIST ALSO 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶
Favorite yet?!!! Ahhhh I'm so glad you enjoyed this one!
So cool that you are picking up on the motifs and themes of the forest conflict. #hopecore ALWAYS. Ice over blood will be coming up more as the late fall season crumbles to winter and as they get into more strife.
Hearing that you believe that I can do Tolkien's beautiful world a semblance of justice is beyond flattering.
And pookie, always happy to tag you. Thank you so much for taking the time to leave your kind words, they truly keep me pushing ahead.
Summary: You arrive at the First Grove, the first site within the king's palace grounds, but further from the palace. You travel with Navë, Hareth, Branniel, and your guards, planning on using Hareth's memory as fuel for your healing of the corruption. What you don't expect is for the Elvenking to witness this experimental attempt.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 4
Author's Note: Hi folks! I've been so excited to post this chapter! We are really getting into the weeds of this corruption in Mirkwood. I love how it turned out. Your comments and kudos mean so much to me! I literally freak out every time I see one. I can't believe people are liking this lil long fic of mine. Blows my mind.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Preparing for the Grove
“So he said yes?” Navë pokes her yellow-haired head out of the door to your quarters.
“Yes, he did,” you smile, knowingly. Candaer also smiles at her excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they look upon your happy attendant. “You’re coming.”
That afternoon, you and Navë go back to the healer’s storeroom to get more vials, a small blade to scrape, and basic healing supplies in case someone gets injured later. With Fergrath now on-watch outside of your door, it is just you and Navë remaining in your quarters. You prepare some less-delicate clothes for tomorrow, and begin to walk Navë through the basics of healing while sprawled on the covered floor, a richly red carpet cushioning your repose. The skirts of your blue-grey dress fan out like ice over blood.
“Here,” you hand her some gauze. “So now pretend that here –” you gesture to a spot on your arm with a beauty mark for a reference point. “– is a stab wound. How would you wrap it?” The amber-eyed elleth squinted her eyes at you, slowly lowering the gauze. As she lowers it, a smile creeps onto your face.
“No. I must clean it first before I dress it,” Navë tilts her head, challengingly.
“Well done, but clean it with what?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at the array of herbs in front of you.
“With…athelas?” She asks, gesturing to the curly leafed stalks bundled together tightly.
“Not alone, or at least, when the men brought this plant from the West, they taught others to boil it for its best properties, so either reach for this, which we already extracted –” you gesture to a small bottle with a greenish liquid in it. “– but more importantly, you must also call the spirit of the person to come and aid you in healing their wound.”
You extend a hand to her, and she takes it softly, looking up to you. “Healing the spirit comes with will and song. Sing a song of old to me,” you ask.
“Of old? What do you mean?”
“Of your history, a song from the Woodland Realm that I would not otherwise be familiar with.”
“The Feast of the Stars is coming up, and there is this one…this one often gets sung,” she clears her throat. It is not in Sindarin, my lady. You may need some practice to learn it. The more simple translation says, ‘I go walking/Beyond the forest/Where the world falls away/And the white light/Of forever fills the air.’”
“That’s so beautiful,” you melt into the ethereal meaning. “Please sing it to me so that I might join you come the festival.” Navë smiles and begins to bind the wrappings upon your arm – just as you showed her – singing softly,
“Hae ephadron
Theri thaur
Am na dhû
Ias fîr i ambar
A trehil I ‘alad ‘lân uir ‘wilith”
The sound of her voice rings delicately and serenely off of the natural curves of the walls of your rooms. You hum in appreciation, closing your eyes for the duration of the song. Your arm is fully bandaged – and bandaged well – by the time she finishes the song, humming the melody again for you almost as another verse.
“I’m glad you like it,” Navë smiles, pausing and setting down your arm. “Do you think the forest can truly hold onto such memories?”
You pause and consider, then tell her, “Bodies can remember pain, no matter how well you heal them,” you hold up your beautifully bandaged arm, realizing it is the arm that was choked by mud in the tumultuous woods. “So, at least in theory, if bodies remember, then – perhaps – forests do too.”
“In theory?” Navë bites her bottom lip nervously.
“That’s all we have for now,” you sigh. “We should rest before tomorrow, but thank you. I shall practice your song.” Navë stands from the floor, and helps you ready for bed before leaving for her own rest. Not many more words are said, yet you find yourself in the most content of company.
Scene 2 – Arrival at the First Grove
Hareth and Branniel meet you, Navë, Candaer, and a very tired Fergrath at the large palace doors, all of you dressed practically for the mission ahead of you – much more practically than for a simple medical errand.
Doors open with a gust of biting wind, and guards call out to each other as you make your way outside.
It has been nearly a week since you were last outside of the walls of the king’s palace. Judging by the tense looks on all three elleths’ faces, the whiteness of their knuckles, you can’t be sure how long it has been since they have left. The wet stone of the bridge splashes droplets around the ankles of your boots, but your boots rise to just below your knee. Leggings tuck into your boots, a light sleeveless ranger’s tunic with a mock neck peaking just above your mother’s clasp that rests back where your throat meets your collarbone. You wear your dark blue cloak of Mithlond, the Grey Havens. Your hair is pulled back with clips that look like the vines of the forest, a detail Navë felt quite clever adding.
Hareth’s shoulders nearly reach the lobes of her pointed ears, tense. Her face twists with every step.
“Lead on,” you encourage her, placing a hand on her shoulder. You give her a warm smile, “You know the way better than I.”
“You have a map, don’t you?” She snaps. I’d be emotional too, your heart squeezes thinking of how difficult it must be to leave along the path you once walked with your great love. Branniel carries a small rucksack of supplies over her shoulder, a few paces behind, more in step with Candaer and Fergrath. She watches Hareth closely, brows furrowing at Hareth’s tone.
Navë is uncharacteristically quiet, taking cautious steps, walking next to Candaer who helps her jump over larger puddles instead of having her move ahead. Cute.
“I do have a map, if you’d prefer,” you swing your small pack around, about to dig through it when she puts a hand on yours to stop you.
“No, it –” she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Follow me.” You nod, bowing subtly. She takes a breath and starts down a very bumpy path, littered with vines and roots, leaves and debris. You all watch the woman weave and bob through the vines, her brows knit together in memory, her lips pursed. Her eyes trace the ceiling of trees that must have been green before. Nimbly for her age, she moves with pace, intentionally, and it does take some effort for the rest of you to keep up. You follow the flashes of silvery-grey hair as she traces the nearly forgotten trail to the First Grove.
As you got more of a look at the back of her head, it suddenly occurred to you that Hareth wore her long grey hair down today – with the exception of only two small braids that tucked behind her ears. It’s not like her, you realize, to wear her hair down at all instead of a practical and tight, low bun.
You turn to Branniel to ask her about it. “I think she wore it like this with her husband,” she says. “Though, this is the first time I am seeing it.” You clutch at the swans of your clasp, bowing to each other.
In your vigorous pace to follow the senior healer, after only ten minutes on foot, you come to a dome of branches, bound together like a shell, great trees with roots as tall as you form a massive circle the size of a grand courtyard. The dome covers a large pit of briar. Within the pit are cracked stone benches, carved arches and large roots that drop down into the pit to form archways. You imagine couples arm in arm, imagining where they once passed. Pale white buds peppered the thorny briars, flowers that would never bloom in this corruption or cold. Blackened vines choke old stone walking paths.
Hareth stops at the very edge of the path and goes very still.
Scene 3 – White Flowers
“Is this –” You begin to ask. Hareth gives a solemn nod.
“The Grove,” she says, voice tight.
“How have we never come across this place before, Fer?” Candaer remarks in awe.
“Did you see how bad the path was to get here?” Fergrath replies, pulling a twig from the buckle of his boot.
You shoot them a glare, nodding over to Hareth who seems frozen in thought. Navë steps on his boot sharply to double down. He cringes in realization, mouthing an apology.
You step to her side, lacing your arm through hers. She clutches onto you, her eyes still fixed ahead. “Tell me about him,” you encourage softly, trying to follow her gaze down into the thorny courtyard.
She gave a teary but sharp HA! “You’re just trying to get me to tell you so you can use it,” she retreats defensively, pressing her eyes shut, as if trying to keep her memories of her husband hidden behind her eyelids, keeping them for herself alone.
“Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?” You ask, earnestly. She doesn’t reply, but she releases the tension on her eyelids. You pause in consideration, then speak again; “Was he handsome?”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” she laughs despite herself, blinking softly. The wall of salty tears wobbles in the waterline of her tired eyes. She lifts her hand to blot them away, but it just gives permission for more tears to patter upon the bleeding earth.
You wait for her to continue. The rest of the group waits a few yards behind the two of you who were at the edge of the vine dome. After a moment, she squeezes your arm, encouraging you to look where she points. With a sniff and a straightening of her posture, she says, “We met each other while he was courting another elleth, taking her around the Grove. The problem was that she and I were…seeing each other privately.”
“Hareth!” Branniel exclaims.
“I used to have my fun too,” she smiles slyly back at her apprentice. “But she and I were not each other's One. We knew this. Though, I did not want to admit it at the time. I completely tripped him on their way out. He got covered in mud and she laughed at him. He was so embarrassed that I felt horribly. I smeared mud on my own outfit, and she thought me so strange. She left. And we spent hours together that day. Every day we would try to look out for each other in this grove. There,” she pointed to a bench across the way, “he would bring me ridiculously large flowers. I didn’t even know what to do with them, but he’d tuck them behind my ears.”
When she drops your arm to touch the place behind her ear, you let the story course through you, reaching out to the vines of the dome.
Hareth continues as you begin to channel your energy into the place in the dome where it swallows the stone path down into the grove. An entrance should be here, you intuit. You focus in, closing your eyes.
“We argued about what plants work better for treating head pains. I told him he gave me head pains. I can’t tell if he made me laugh or if I was too clever in teasing him, making myself laugh. Either way, we laughed here.”
Navë instinctively reaches for Candaer’s arm, and he extends it, blushing. She rests her head against his shoulder. His black hair contrasts with her golden straw-colored hair.
White light blooms from your palms, and Hareth heaves a shaky breath, muttering, “A healer from the sea indeed.”
The rot loosens. Some of the vines begin to shrink back into the earth, pulling and parting in the shape of an entrance way. Some of the flower buds begin to open and bloom. “Yes!” Hareth claps her hands, exclaiming with tearful delight. “Flowers like these ones.” You allow her memory to course through you like a song, proud of the joy you are bringing her. For a brief moment, even as she is done speaking her memory, when the healing should have run its course, you feel a momentary surge where you more deeply connect with the ground. The path’s roots uncurl from their walking stone captives.
Then, as soon as the surge starts, it stops. The roots slow their descent into the earth. They stutter. Your palms don’t lose energy, but rather you feel the tug of something much more challenging to overcome. The entrance into the First Grove courtyard is not entirely open, though the roots have braided themselves into an arch around it, only one or two roots stretch across the opening. There’s a resistance to going further. You open your eyes.
Across the First Grove, atop a horse of white, the elvenking watches, a violent expression across his face.
Scene 4 – Projections in the Mire
The Elvenking sends for his horse at the break of day. He informs his guard that he will be personally witnessing the healer that was given to him. Thranduil, donning his silver armor, makes his way from the palace tenuously, waiting for your party to go ahead. Taking a longer path around to the grove than the one his senior healer would most likely take, he canters cautiously among the trees, using their dark cover to observe from a distance. He imagines that he should be concerned that his guards do not notice him, or appreciative that they do not react if they do notice him.
Icy blue, discerning eyes seek to make their judgement. He finds you across the way, slightly obscured by the dome of vines, but his sharp vision and sharp hearing never fails him. Wholly absorbed in trying to hear you speak to Healer Hareth, Thranduil catches your voice, soft, lilting, persuasive: “Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?”
His mind drifts to things he remembers truly wanting. What did he want with you…he imagines the slope of your neck in the dress yesterday, the shape of your waist. What did you truly want with him?
Finally, he sees the light, the glow pouring from your hands engulfs your body in a halo of light – its purity unseen since the likes of Galadriel. He considers, purity, yet you are covered in mud. Thranduil leans forward, drawn in by your beauty. There is serenity in your face, yet an intense focus. You are clearly powerful, yet so unguarded.
His lips part in shock when he sees it. Your will and light begins to move the vines around the dome. They pull back into the earth. He felt an unfamiliar stirring beneath his armor, his heart speeding up at the thrill of watching you. You, this new thing to behold, a weapon much sharper than promised.
What if you did fix this forest for him? Hareth, whom he has known since he was a young ellon, is an incredibly hard person to get through to. Was memory truly so powerful when combined with your touch? Hareth, of all people, letting herself be guided…
Thranduil ponders his own memories here. Imagining her. The mother of his child. His late wife. Had they not walked here in the Grove together? She carried their son in these gardens. She listened to his woes. Yes, their marriage was political, but they shared so much. He presses his eyes shut, trying to keep his grief at bay.
Atop his horse of white, the platinum-haired ellon opens his eyes to gaze on the grove. He can’t help himself. Looking below him, he faintly pictures the First Grove when it was greener, imagining his family whole. He pictured the shape of a life before loneliness hardened around him. The most painful form of hope pierces his heart; a yearning for what might never be again until he is nothing but the spirit which holds his long memory.
How long it has been since his life felt like this memory, bittersweet as their marriage was. He imagines her long pale eyelashes as they closed when they kissed under one of the arches at dawn. He remembers when they closed for the last time.
This pain, at first a dull yearning for this place to be healed, the dull yearning of nostalgia corrupts like the black branches above him. He wants to cry out in anguish as the projections of his own mind dissipate until he stares plainly at the briar that separates you from him. Guarded by armor, he feels bare as you open your eyes, the glow gone, and you see him.
You. Have you done this? Had you pulled him into your magic? Your healing process?
“My Lord! I am so honored to see that you came to witness this! The grove responded to the theory!” You shout across the thicket. You are too far away to read your expression entirely. Thranduil scowls at this, for how dare you be joyful at misery being the cure for this sick wood.
Once you call out, Hareth whips around to look at him with alarm, worry plastered across her face at how vulnerable she had been in front of the Elvenking.
Shame and wrath rise within him, guarding him better than silver armor could ever. “Quiet!” He hisses across the way, cutting through the tightening air. He rides his horse almost all the way around the grove. Then, he dismounts, storming over to you.
He towers above, every bit the wrathful king Elrond said he would be. You immediately turn red, realizing that you forgot yourself in your excitement. You bow down, curtsying deeply, gaze on the forest floor. You hear your guard companions clink as they drop into a deep bow behind you. The other healers join your curtsy.
Every step towards you, he allows the knife of memory to twist in his heart, glaring at you, you sharp thing.
As you look at the ground, waiting for his approach, to your horror, the vines begin to creep back. Slowly at first, then as he gets closer to you, they roar out of the ground. You turn before he storms over to you, curtsy be damned. You rush to the spot where you had healed the wounded grove, and attempt to save it, wildly willing your healing to come to these vines to no avail. The entrance is doubly covered in brush with the king’s tandem wrath.
The flowers wilt within seconds. You drop to your knees, cupping the dead petals, he doesn’t halt his stride, even as you kneel on the ground. His boots stop just feet from your knees.
Hareth, who never dropped her gaze when she curtsied, stands to her full height when the kind stops. She looks between the king’s seething countenance and the corrupted and wild growth. And then she understands.
Scene 5 – Hareth’s Stash
Looking down at the half-elf curled on the ground, cupping a dying flower, Thranduil seethingly bends down, silver crown atop his head shining. “Rise, healer of Mithlond,” he commands calmly, summoning surprising coolness despite his apparent anger. Rather, his eyes are piercing in his analysis of the vengeful vines. “I would like an explanation of how you did this. I watched you have some limited success before the vines returned, something I have not seen from my healers yet.” He moues a disappointed frown to compliment his bored expression, as he shoots a look over to Hareth who purses her lips, but does not lower her gaze.
“They were entirely instrumental in my work today,” you say in your party’s defense. You brush off your tunic, standing from your despair at the failure of the vines in holding down. It hurts to drop the petals to the ground, just for them to become another layer in the earth. “I listened to Healer Hareth speak of her late husband and their times here. The story…it helped me channel my own healing.”
“You would make grief into a tool, and call the result healing?” He scoffs mirthfully. You have to tilt your head back just to look up at him, the already tall elf feels like he casts a menacing shadow over you. You feel a burning feeling of shame across your cheeks. You did fail. You failed like you did with the river vines.
“I offered my memories, my lord, they were not exploited. They were freely given, to be used to repair this grove.” Hareth says, her own expression icing over. Branniel adjusts the bag on her shoulder, her expression fixed and firm in agreement with her teacher.
“I require a full report, and until you can tell me how you mean to prevent this backlash, you do not leave the grounds of my palace just to further corrupt my kingdom,” Thranduil says, eyes flashing as they meet yours. Your eyes sting in guilt and apology, but through it all, as you hold his intense stare, you swear you see pain beneath his commanding gaze. Just as he turns, you catch his arm at the silver bracer.
“I never meant to –” Your heart feels pulled towards his pain. He heaves, breath heavy with anger. His eyes snap to your hand. His mouth barely parts, then closes again. He snatches his hand away. His chin lifts. He looks stricken – eyes wide before they narrow and look past you as he regains control of his expression.
Thranduil mounts his horse.
“Go back to your quarters,” he says in a surprisingly soft yet still commanding voice that you’ve never heard before. The thrumming of your own heartbeat in your ears overwhelms you. He rides off, back down the main trail, the white haired ellon on his great white steed.
“What in Valar’s name were you about to do?” Hareth snaps at you incredulously, face full of concern. “Give the king a hug?”
“I - I don’t know. I just…” your words trail off as you see, in the king’s wake roots burst out of the ground, thorns and thickets grow. The roots finish pouring back, reclaiming most of the progress you made and then some, closing up most of your way back.
“Did you bring your sword?” Fergrath asks you, heading towards nature's wrath and beginning the hard work of chopping at the new vines.
“Come now, this worked!” Hareth nudges you. It makes you smile faintly, though the shame of disappointing the Elvenking was still sitting heavily on your sternum.
“And you were quite the cynic, too, no?” Navë says to Hareth, trying to encourage you.
“Listen. I’m happy to be proven wrong. This grove accepted your help. You have something very special, child. A powerful gift,” Hareth admits. She then drops her voice to a low and hushed tone so as to speak only to you, “However, we do need to speak privately.” You look over to her, the pit in your stomach and pressure on your chest only deepening. You nod.
You cut and chop your way through with the help of Breeze, Fergrath, and Candaer. You come back to the front entrance. Knowing that you had a looming limitation on exiting once you entered those doors made it feel like you were entering into a form of imprisonment, though you knew you could leave at any time and go back to Rivendell. Though, it would mean another treacherous journey back, just to admit that you had failed your lords when they entrusted you with such a mission. Perhaps you couldn’t just leave at any time: bound by your mission and the Elvenking.
The party makes their way to their respective rooms, Fergrath following you and Hareth to the healing wing.
“Please wait outside,” Hareth says before slamming the door in the red-haired ellon’s face.
“Hareth!” You exclaim at her rudeness.
“We need to talk about the king, and like it or not – friend or not – his responsibility is to the king. I would say, I’ve lived longer than King Thranduil has. My responsibility is to the realm.” You let that sink in, pulling a worn chair away from one of her large tome-ridden tables. She doesn’t sit.
Hareth moves to a back cupboard, stained a dark and rich brown. She opens it up, pulling out a bottle of wine, grabbing a knife and beginning to open it. She does not ask if you want a glass, pouring rich blood-red wine into a silver chalice. You have no idea until she hands it to you just how full the cup is. It is very full.
Sitting down in front of you, she takes a long swig of her wine. “Drink.”
You take a sip of the wine, the bombastic scent of cherry and flowers and rich verdant soil hits your nose before the rich drink touches your tongue. “Wow, this is beautiful,” you go back for another sip.
“Don’t mention it,” Hareth waves, clearly trying to focus the conversation. “Did you see him as you were healing?” The elder healer did not need to clarify who he was. The silver-crowned Elvenking was at the forefront of your mind.
“No, only at the very end. I usually need to close my eyes to focus on the healing, if I know that it is a larger amount of energy that I need to summon.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I saw,” Hareth leans back in a chair, starting to tie her hair back into a tight knot.
“When I spoke of my husband, when you were working, the grove seemed very open. And when King Thranduil watched at first it looked like your healing held well.” Hareth tips her glass to you.
“Do you think the king…so, you think the king helped?” Your mind races.
“I know he was looking at you. I’m not sure. He seemed fairly neutral, and the roots were moving well into the ground. Then he changed to this dark, dark expression. It was quite sinister.” Her voice darkens as she imagines it again.
“And that’s when the roots stopped moving?” You ask, trying to follow her logic.
“Exactly. And when he rode away, after you tried to reach out to him – which we still need to unpack whatever that was –” she looks at you sharply as you start to blush, looking down into your goblet of wine. “– I know you also saw his distress and the wake of corruption that bloomed behind him.”
“I did see that. So, you’re saying that he’s causing this or that he’s…what?”
“If he didn’t cause this, then he certainly – at the very least – has a significant role to play with you being able to heal any of this,” Hareth stops rocking on the back legs of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, smoothing her hair back with the hand that isn’t holding the wine, unnerved. She looks and sees your bewildered expression.
Sighing, she adds, “In other words, if your healing is a door, we can open the damn thing, but the king has to stop slamming it shut. Even better, is if he could open the door all the way and keep it open for you to do what you need to do.”
“What if it was a coincidence?” You ask, weakly.
“Do you honestly believe that after what we saw?” Hareth rolls her eyes, finishing her goblet. You now see why she poured you a cup.
“I don’t know what to think right now, nor do I have a good explanation for grabbing his arm, I don’t know. Do you think he hates me after this? I have absolutely killed this whole effort by not thinking!”
“Drink.” Hareth repeats. You take a shaky sip. “Our king is a passionate one. He cares very deeply about the safety of the realm,” she grants.
“I can’t imagine how scary it must be to see the vines come back stronger after I healed them,” you say softly. “He just looked so…hurt. I –” you almost, even now, wish you could reach out. Heal that broken look in his eyes. Grief…but for what? You recall your preparations for going to Mirkwood, how Elrond had warned you of the king’s temperamental nature, and warned you that he lost his wife over a millenia ago. You knew they were an arranged marriage, but were they in love? Did they stroll together in the First Grove? Did they kiss under the arches like Hareth and her husband?
A knot forms in your gut as you imagine Thranduil bending down, gently cupping an elleth’s face in his hands, her similarly white-blonde hair long and perfect as he kissed her passionately, filled with the care he had for his home. You imagine him melting into the kiss. How he would shift and sigh. How you would pull him in by his arms. How you would soothe him with your lips. How –
“Valar, tell me you’ve had wine before,” Hareth curses, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink, hard. Fuck…what were you thinking?
“I have, it’s just been a long day,” you explain, though you can feel the warmth of the wine beginning to spread to your fingers and chest. You do feel lighter, but so warm. The heady flavor of the wine lingers on your tongue.
“Mhm,” Hareth looks at you askance. “You should still meet with the king for the report. I suspect you’ll want to clear the air as well,” she pours some more wine into your cup before you can protest.
By nightfall, conversation flows…more loosely between you.
“Be honest, do you think he hates me?” You palm your forehead in tipsy anguish. Navë taps at the door, cracking it open.
Hareth assures you sleepily, “My love, you have absolutely no way of knowing that, nor can I condone you wallowing in your own anxiety! All. Will. Be. Well.”
“My lady, it is such a late hour. Candaer was looking to relieve Fergrath at your chambers but you are still…here,” she pauses, taking in the now drunk bottle of wine in front of you.
“Decompressing, are we?” Navë laughs.
You give a small nod.
“Let’s get you to bed though,” she giggles, as you stand. You don’t wobble. You weren’t too lost in your cups, but you did feel a pleasant buzz across your skin. You give her a smile and a laugh as she ushers you out the door.
“Did you save me a glass?” Fergrath jokes, eyes floating shut from exhaustion.
“Oh, no! Was I supposed to bring you a glass? Is that a thing here?” You wonder aloud, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. A light dizziness hums in the back of your neck, a welcome buzz from the wine.
“No, it’s not. Now, walk us back and you must go to bed as well,” Navë scolds your guard. You make your way back the winding path into your hallway, passing a few elves who glance in your direction, but most of them tipsy or destination-focused themselves.
You make it to your quarters, greeting the dark-haired ellon at your door. You push inside with Navë, stripping with every step as you go further into the room. “I have to report to the king tomorrow, Navë,” you start. “I really do think he hates me, and I’ve lost all favor with him. Now, what will I report to my lords back home and in Rivendell?”
You slip on a comfortable night garment, and crawl into bed.
“How desperately do you believe him to hate you?” Navë asks, regret already pouring into her words as she asks. She looks upon you, your whole countenance wracked with anxiety. “I do have a…person I know who tends to the king in his quarters,” she whispers, looking towards the door.
“I used to see him before…”
“Before you and Candaer?” You ask, oblivious to her attempt at stealth.
“Shhhhh!” She covers your mouth with her hand. “Yes, but he is now married and very happy. We are friends alone. Still, you have to promise not to say anything. He works as an attendant to the king. I can ask after the mood of King Thranduil tonight, see if his behavior is out of the norm. He owes me a favor, but obviously he would get in trouble if you reveal that you know anything.”
You vigorously nod, agreeing to these very agreeable terms.
“Very well. I will try to find him tonight. You’ll owe me then,” Navë smiles at you. “Now, rest.” You feel your heart float to ease. Your forehead releases its tension that it has been carrying subconsciously. You sink into your mattress and allow your dreamless rest to take you.
You should have known better than to have asked him this.
Initially, he had regarded your request with an entertained scoff and no less amount of smugness.
But Astarion did find enjoyment in showing off his skills whenever the situation called for it.
And that was what landed you on your knees, inside some dingy cave near Baldur's Gate.
“You do need to focus, darling.”
You repositioned yourself and straightened your back to properly eye-level with the rusty chest in front of you, thieves’ tools in hand, prodding the stubborn lock.
Astarion was down on one knee, right behind you, body pressed faintly against yours.
An unwanted distraction, no doubt.
His cool hands gripped yours as expert fingers twisted and turned the sharp tools inside the opening.
He always made it look so easy, unlocking doors and chests in the blink of an eye.
“Maybe the lock is faulty,” you huffed in annoyance, allowing him to guide your fingers. “Should we try another one?”
“You're too impatient,” he said disapprovingly, his voice but a whisper next to your ear. “The lock isn't faulty, but it requires some tender love and caring to pry it open.”
Your brows furrowed as you took a deep breath, taking the reins and twisting both tools to the right.
His fingers gripped yours in an instant, and he took control once again, but all to no avail.
You let out a low growl of frustration.
“Darling, lockpicking is like making sweet love,” he chuckled briefly, fingertips grazing the back of your hand. “You need to exercise patience and focus.” You could feel his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Just as a lover, you must listen to them and tend to their needs.”
You nearly rolled your eyes. “You did not just make that comparison.”
“You'll find it to be true. Every lock is different and requires not only the right tools but the right amount of dedication.”
An innuendo?
“That is nothing like love-making.”
A metallic click.
“Did I not just describe how I make love to you, then?”
Inadvertently, your heart jolted into a quicker thrum, and heat rushed to your cheeks as his words caught you off guard.
“Must you be so vulgar?”
He rotated the metallic rods in your hands effortlessly, his body pressing further into yours.
“It's simply the truth, darling,” he said with a click of his tongue. “It's not my fault that dexterity comes in handy in various situations.”
This entire ordeal felt strangely intimate all of a sudden, as if you were both dancing to a tune only Astarion was privy to.
The mechanism clicked once more.
“You're doing good.”
Being sincerely praised by him provided the kind of pleasure that you wouldn't easily find anywhere else.
He rubbed the back of your hand tenderly, effectively letting you know you were on the right path.
“Grip it tighter with the tips of your fingers,” he urged before pressing a fleeting kiss just behind your ear. “You must keep a firm grip.”
Shivers spread across your body at the feel of his cold lips caressing your sensitive skin.
You swallowed hard, finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on the task at hand with your lover actively working against you.
Your hands jittered, and you nearly dropped one rod.
“You're awfully distracted.”
The familiar pool of heat in your lower abdomen flared at his taunting words, but you cleared your throat and shoved one of his hands away, wanting to keep your focus and sanity intact.
“I've got this.”
He scoffed. “Have it your way, then.”
You expected a snarky remark and triumphantly smiled to yourself as you were met with his silence instead.
Narrowing your eyes, you kept prodding the opening with renewed focus, following his previous instructions.
You heard a few more clicks, but not the one you were in search of.
And then you felt his free hand grazing the waistband of your trousers, fiddling with the buckle of your belt.
And just like that, your concentration was broken yet again.
“What are you doing?”
Silence.
Experienced fingers pulled on the strap until it was set loose.
Your eyes widened, and the tools in your hands quivered as you came to a halt. “...Astarion?”
He undid the button next and gently tugged on the fabric. “As you said, you've got this,” he whispered dangerously low in your ear. “And I've got you,” he finished before slipping his hand inside.
Your mouth dropped open as his finger trailed past your undergarments and settled between your folds.
Immediately, your hips jerked, and you let out a strained gasp as the throb intensified.
“Focus,” he cooed, rubbing gentle circles. “You're nearly there.”
His other hand steadied your grip around the tool.
“Try rotating it to the left.”
Your hands were getting sweaty and far too jittery, and you nearly dropped the one on your left when he began drawing circles anti-clockwise to match his words.
Words failed you, and you could only gasp, allowing him to take control, using the tool to turn the mechanism.
“Hear that sound?”
You heard a faint metallic pang coming from the opening.
“Focus on the sound coming from the lock,” he said in between kisses on your neck. “Make it sing, and it will open up for you.”
He increased the pace, and you moaned loudlier than intended, eyes fluttering shut as you rolled your hips against him, yearning for more and more friction.
“Hear how beautiful it sounds?”
“Yes…”
At this point, you weren't sure if he was indeed referring to the locking mechanism or to how you kept whimpering under his touch.
He then bucked his hips into you, and you felt the unmistakable print of his strained erection pressed against your lower back.
The motion nearly had you tumbling forward had it not been for his free hand that steadied you.
“Easy now, darling,” he teased, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Maybe you should part your legs. For balance, of course,” he added, but you doubted that was the real motive.
Even so, you quickly shifted your knees apart just enough to grant him further access.
“Good girl.”
You had to bite down hard on your lip to suppress a moan.
One finger circled your entrance, and you felt a gush of wetness spilling from you with each stroke.
Your hands quivered from the stimulation, rattling the metal rods inside the lock.
He brought his hand back to yours, his thumb caressing your unsteady fingers. “You're nearly there… just a little more prodding…”
“Astarion…” you groaned in frustration.
He immediately hushed you. “Careful… we don't want to draw unwanted attention, do we?”
Just as he finished delivering his taunt, he dragged his finger to spread your wetness across the throbbing swell in between your folds.
The overwhelming sensation was too much to bear, and your hand dropped to your thigh, gripping the rod tightly as if holding on for dear life.
He paused his ministrations in an instant.
“You'll need to slide that one inside to unlock it, darling.”
You couldn't care less about the damned chest, as the need for release took over you.
But Astarion seemed to have other plans.
“Slide it in,” he said, gripping your wrists. “Go on… I'll help.”
You slumped lightly against him, enjoying how his cock kept on hardening against you, and how he was beginning to lose his composure, low grunts erupting from the back of his throat.
He lifted your hand, and just as he slid the tool back inside, you felt a finger slip inside your entrance until he was knuckle-deep.
“See how easily it slides in?”
You rolled your hips, wanting to fuck yourself on his finger, riding it desperately.
The increasing pressure in your lower abdomen began to blur your vision as your mouth fell agape, your senses taken over by him.
You were close.
Too close.
Deliciously close.
And he knew it.
Of course he did.
Astarion was a dedicated and devoted lover who didn't shy away from having you come undone for him.
“Nearly there…” he said, rolling his own hips into you.
You kept on riding his finger, the heel of his palm pressing down between your folds, further pushing you over the ends on your sanity.
His free hand still covered yours, his slender fingers fully guiding you, and you couldn't even understand how he was able to keep his focus on the damned lock as you rode him.
Your head fell back against his shoulder, and he seized the moment to tease your exposed skin with his fangs.
Somewhere in the distance, you heard a familiar clicking sound.
“Let go, darling… I've got you.”
His sweet guidance was all you needed from him to finally tip over the edge, plunging headfirst into the blinding wave of pleasure that began tearing through your body like lightning.
He added a second finger just in time, prompting the neediest sobs to erupt from deep within you, and he quickly covered your mouth with his other hand, muffling your cries of pleasure.
“There you go.” He cooed sweetly.
You immediately dropped the tools to the floor with a loud pang and gripped his wrist in the hopes that would be enough to anchor you.
For a split second, you considered biting his hand to suppress the uncontrollable moans but decided against it, enjoying how your voice reverberated across his palm.
And as you began spasming against him, you heard the most delicious hiss spill from him, his strained cock rutting further into your lower back.
You clenched hard and rhythmically around his fingers, riding out your wave of pleasure.
His hand eventually dropped from your face, and he planted the softest kiss to the flushed skin of your cheek.
“Well done, darling.”
You gradually went limp against him, struggling to control your breaths and hearing your heart still pounding hard in your ears.
“Gods… that was…”
The words died in your throat as he slid out of you, earning a whimper from you.
As you regained some of your strength and battled your sore muscles, you turned your head to face him.
“How are you so good with your fingers?"
He chuckled as he tasted your wetness that dripped from his fingers.
“In which way?”
Your gaze was fixed on how his tongue expertly wiped you clean from him.
“Don't play coy. I wish I could be this skilled…"
His crimson eyes narrowed deviously. “I'm sure you'll get there, eventually – well, probably not, though.”
You gave him an offended glare.
He nudged his head to the chest in front of you, and you watched in perplexity as the lid had slightly shifted.
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What You Deny – Chapter 4, "Turning Theory to Practice"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 3.6k
Summary: The reader goes with Fergrath and Candaer to investigate the lower cisterns underneath the palace, discovering a new way to heal the corruption, even if it is only in part. Given this new discovery, the reader takes to the healer's wing to discuss these new findings, and then to the Elvenking himself to get approval to further experiment just outside of the walls of his palace, out in the miasma.
AO3 Link
Previous part: Chapter 3
Author's note: Hi folks, I am amped to show you guys this new chapter. We are definitely proceeding with the plot. Read on, spider-slayers!
Reblogs and comments are very welcome!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Memories Under the Hall
At first light, you find yourself dressed in a tunic of blue and light breathable pants that you tuck into dark black boots. A black belt with a built in satchel accentuates your waist, and your hair is twisted fully back. You move with Candaer and Fergrath, both of them exhausted from taking mismatched shifts to cover their ranger duties as well as travel with you. They take you to where you have grown most suspicious — the sound of the rushing water underneath the structures. Not just bath sounds, but ones as loud as a hidden river. Seeking expedient findings or evidence of corruption within the walls of the palace, the lower cisterns and layers of the palace were a decent place to start.
Your two tired guards take you down from elegant and fresh feeling halls into older, dank stone, chatting with you all the while. As you walk down corridors, you find tall sealed gates that block corridors, roots curling around the bottoms of the metal work. It is sealed with a symbol of a great oak tree that is surrounded by stars. Fergrath walks slightly ahead for most of the descent, checking passages before you enter.
They try to convince you that it is not so bad living in this palace. Of course it isn’t; they did not have to convince you of this palace’s beauty. Your reservations about this come from your limitations, how closely you are watched…still, you allow them to convince you of the joys of living here with their stories.
“Do you remember, Fer, when we used to take the boats into the river, just as it was getting quicker underneath the gate?” Candaer gives a hearty laugh. You smile, walking in step with your guards upon carved stone walkways, slick with mist and trickling drips of what you assume is water from the river.
Fergrath twirls a knife between his fingers skillfully, “Yes, but the best part was never the boats, nor the rapids.” You glance along your walkway, noting the old boat rings rusted into the limestone, and dipping below the pathway are the carved water channels that look more like natural veins below skin's surface.
“What are you talking about? The bonds of friendship?” Candaer chuckles, lightly shoving his taller, red-haired companion. You pause, leaning down, gathering a small sample of the water, then jogging to catch up with them.
“The — agh, what are they called?” Fergrath throws his head back covering his eyes, trying to think. “Festival passages. Yes! There used to be this incredible passage that all of the children would go down, and there was a nook in the river path. Though, they did close it off after an incident with some dwarves and a grand escape.”
Candaer frowns for a moment. You understood the bittersweetness; the feeling of change is unsettling for most.
“Well, what of the nook that we used to hide in? Should that not be close by?” Candaer peers around the corners. He stops, scanning around. In an attempt to catch up to them, you nearly trip over a small root in the ground, stubbing your toe, cursing lightly.
Fergrath completely ignores you, now grinning in memory replies, “You might be right!” Despite your toe, you can’t help but grin along with them.
“Wait, one second,” you kneel down, trying to ignore the wetness of the stone floor soaking into the knee of your fabric pants. Your escorts wait, staring at you, ready to observe your healing. It’s silent save for the plops of fat water droplets from the ceiling. You put your hand up to the root, humming an old song of the sea from Mithlond. Your palm slightly glows with your melody, but the black, slimy wood stays. The root curls and shimmies within the limestone crack; it does not turn green or retract, much to your dismay.
As your hand blinks out, unsuccessful, Candaer and Fergrath resume their storytelling from their times sneaking into the nooks and crannies of this place. Before you stand, you look just beyond Candaer and Fergrath in the periphery of the cisterns and the older water channels beneath the halls.
“Sorry, let’s move on,” you sigh.
As you explore down here below the palace, following the trail of the dripping river water that seemed to escape and run in thread-like streams down the slant of the deep storage area into the castle’s water channels, you notice that there seems to be no true rhyme or reason to the areas of corruption down here.
You begin to collect samples of roots where they are most corrupted. You scrape at the bark, just for it to grow a knot back in its place. Like a hydra, cutting one thing off seems to make it grow back twofold.
As you go from root to root, corruption seems to grow — not along the most cragged walls — but in inlets where a young couple might have a tryst. Corruption grows extra mold in spaces like the nooks and play-forts of Candaer and Fergrath’s childhoods. Extra river scum sticks to docks that did food and wine trade under the castle. Spores and corruption down here are erratic, but as time passes…you begin to see the pattern.
The rot grows where life seems to have been interrupted. You are unsure, but perhaps it is where life was interrupted by conflict, or perhaps marked by a loss of some kind. Emotional loss?
“Here it is, I think,” Candaer crouches, inspecting an especially corrupted scene. Dark roots, slimy with muck and mire curl in a nest. “My sister used to tell us stories of the fish that would swim from this river all the way to Valinor.” With his words, despite the lack of wind in this cavernous area, despite the fact that it is cold and Autumn, there seems to be a whisper of warm air brushing your neck delicately. The roots — gnarled and dense — seem to shift with the wind in a way very uncharacteristic of the wooden roots.
Quickly, you bend down to the root, willing your healing magic to come to the surface of your palm, imagining the laughter of young children, imagining the laughter of Fergrath and Candaer, their joy. The root slowly slurps back into the stone. When your hand finishes its glow, just ten or so seconds later, the vine peers back out of the crack, returning. But it doesn’t return all the way or bounce back more extremely. This worked. Something had worked. Even partially. It worked. Their stories with my healing…work.
You look up to Candaer and Fergrath, all three of you wide-eyed. “Please, tell me more memories of this place.”
Scene 2 – A Theory Posed
The three of you bolt back up to the surface, up winding walks, up carved stairs, seeking out the senior healer, Hareth. Panting, you shove open the door, calling a breathless ‘hello’ into the room.
“You again, child! Yes, come in, come in,” Hareth calls from the supply closet around the corner. She steps out to greet you. Her eyes look you up and down, gaze landing on your very wet and muck-stained knees. “Aha. You’ve been…busy.”
“Yes, we were just in the lower layers of the palace,” you unclip your satchel from your belt, starting to unload the various samples that you collected. “I had heard water noises most nights here, like coursing water noises. Though, I did not find them there.”
“Uh huh,” Hareth lifts a corse, thin brow, crossing her arms impatiently.
“Then, Candaer and Fergrath were talking about their childhoods, and stories from down there by the waterways under the palace. But they weren’t when I tried healing the roots the first time, which failed. But then I tried while they were in the middle of telling a story about a spot that was extra corrupted. Hareth,” you entreat her, eyebrows knit together. “It worked.”
She sucks in a breath, putting a wrinkled hand shakily up to cover her mouth. “Worked how?” The senior healer whispers cautiously.
“Some of the roots retracted back into the stone. It did bounce back like the samples I scraped, but not nearly as much. They’re almost gone.” Hareth’s eyes widen.
“I have a theory. Please, bear with me,” you continue slowly. She nods. “My theory is twofold. One, I think the rot clusters in — largely — emotionally meaningful places to the people of this realm.”
“That’s absurd!” Hareth jerks her hand away from her face, balling it up at her side incredulously. She looks furious that she ever was so bought into your findings. You relay the corners that looked like they were places that couples might go in the late hours of the night, the former rigs for the trade boats, or the secret doors and nooks that children played in.
“What kind of fatuous sea-poetry is this?” She scoffs, slowly dropping her defenses with every example you rattle off.
“You said you’d hear me out,” you remind her firmly.
Turning away, she mumbles with curious reluctance, “What else?”
“Secondly, to heal the corruption, it only worked with my healing once they were telling a story or memory from this place. I wonder if story and memory are critical to this healing process.” You see the apprehension across her face.
“I know. It’s not a perfect theory.”
“No, but I’d be an idiot to dismiss any lead,” she sighs reluctantly, moving now to the table with your samples. She traces the glass of the samples, lightly.
“What would you need to test this properly?”
“I would need a true attempt at a controlled healing at a known corrupted site with known memory. I can ask Navë for suggestions.”
“I also do know a few places,” Hareth offers, looking surprised at herself the moment she says it. You raise your eyebrows just as surprised at her change of heart. “But bring your attendant. I know you’re training her.”
“I will. Thank you,” you give a subtle curtsy.
The elder elf leaned against the desk and pinched her nose bridge, grimacing, “So now we’re treating nostalgia. Lovely.”
Scene 3 – The First Grove
You spend the afternoon chopping herbs, boiling oil, and making infusions. Hareth sits on a chair, biting into an apple. Mouth full, she rattles off places that are deeply thicketed in corruption that matches the samples you had collected that morning.
“But,” she takes another chomp of her apple. “There is one place that might be particularly relevant. There’s a place that used to be a garden. It was a place where young couples would court, taking walks and things.”
“Who might remember it the best?” You ask, thinking of who the king might allow you to take if you were to pitch going.
“It’s the place I got to know my late husband. He loved the berry bushes that grew along the edges of it. It deteriorated quite early into the corruption taking hold of the woods.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband, my condolences,” you give her a sympathetic look, putting down the spatula you were using to stir the dried petals into the oil. “Blackberries?” You ask.
“Yes, how’d you know?” Hareth cocks her head suspiciously, lowering the apple to her lap.
“They’re incredible from here. I’ve never tasted anything like them.”
Hareth closes her eyes, giving a somber chuckle. “Yeah, they are pretty good, huh?”
“Hey,” you point at the spatula and her with a sideways smile. “Your husband had great taste.”
“Don’t I know it,” she laughed heartily.
“What’s the name of this place?” You lower the spatula back into the oil, stirring gently, before resting the spatula on the edge of the pot.
“The First Grove,” the senior healer says, taking another bite of her apple. “You’d definitely need approval to go. I, of course, give my approval if you need any letter for the king. I’d love to test this theory — see you do the thing with my own two eyes. Now, don’t forget to finish filling those two larger jars then you’re good for the night.”
“I thought I was supposed to be teaching folks here, not running point on your medicine cabinet,” you tease.
“Show me what you can do at the grove, child. In the meantime, I appreciate your help. I…I’m enjoying having the extra set of hands or two.” You smile at this.
“Healer Hareth, it’s an honor to help.”
“Yeah, yeah, let me know if you need the letter.” The greyed elleth gets up and leaves the supply area, moving back towards the table of samples, back to pouring over notes and adding to her journals.
Scene 4 – Painful Permission
Later in the baths, Navë is washing your hair, gasping as you tell her your theory quietly. You tell her what you saw in the lowest levels of the palace.
“That’s incredible! What did Healer Hareth say?” She taps your head, signaling for you to submerge and rinse out the lathered tinctures in your hair. You shut your eyes and go under the water, running your hands back, squeezing out your hair as your head breaks the surface.
“She’s cynical, but giving the theory a chance. She told me to bring you,” you raise your brows at her, excited for her reaction.
“And? Am I coming?” She shrinks down to just below her nose in the water in anticipation.
“Well, of course, it is up to the king’s discretion, but I have every intention of asking for you to come.”
“Then, I must prepare you fully, and he should be taking audiences with his court members tomorrow, according to one of the prince’s attendants.”
“Prince Legolas?” You ask, dropping your whispered tones. You have heard of this prince, of the storied help he lended the Fellowship of the Ring and during the war. “His heroism is legend,” you note, hoping your attendant would say more.
“Yes, he should be here in around a week’s time for the Festival of Stars,” Navë clarifies. “He is quite handsome, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve heard as much,” you say passively. To your amusement, even though the Silvan elves of the court had largely ignored or disregarded your conversation, turning their backs and bathing several pools over, at the mention of Legolas they whip around, aptly listening in on your conversation.
Navë looks over at them with an unamused expression. She sighs and rolls her eyes, turning back to you, “Great, now there may be rumors of you seeking some kind of engagement.”
“What?” You laugh incredulously. “That’s ridiculous. I hardly mentioned him!”
“Let’s just go,” Navë gets out of the bathing pool, going to grab your robes. “I don’t think you realize what you look like, nor grasp the rarity of your presence.”
You pull yourself out of the baths, taking the robe and beginning to walk out of the room with her, arm in arm. “Listen, the opinion that matters most is of King Thranduil —”
“Mm, and I doubt he would appreciate those rumors seeing as the Prince has not been home in a long time,” Navë adds, tapping her chin.
“I need something convincing for my audience tomorrow,” you give a sly smile, hoping this distracts Navë from continuing to harp on the subject of Prince Legolas.
“Ooo, yes! You really do, especially since my going with you is on the line.”
-------
The next morning, the blue-grey color of rain painted your body. The dress that Navë selected for you is a simple shape, but certainly not plain. It leaves your collarbones bare beneath a soft fold of fabric, skimming the top of your cleavage. Long sheer sleeves fall from your arms in open panels, training beside you like veils. The skirt skims your hips, elongating your legs. Around your waist, your attendant drapes a silver girdle of overlapping leaves, your mother’s clasp the centerpiece of the accessory. Pinning delicate silver lily clips into your hair, you allow it to fall in your natural texture, draping down your back. Plain grey-leather sandals make soft steps towards the main hall.
Many elves wait in a line when you walk in, trailed by Candaer. Several conversations shift when you walk in. You calmly approach the guards waiting at the door, informing them of your purpose, “I seek an audience with his majesty. I seek his permission to go into the forest once more to collect samples and test some theories.” You go to turn around and step into the lengthy line, when you are interrupted.
“Let her in,” you hear a booming shout past the door. How did he hear me? Your breath hitches, and you look back at the line apologetically. The guards look at each other before opening the doors for you.
“What is she doing?” One tall brunette ellon scoffs.
“Nobody has been let in for an hour,” another elleth complains.
“Walk,” Candaer nudges under his breath.
“Right,” you reply, just loudly enough for him to hear. You roll your shoulders back and walk through the threshold. The throne is empty.
“This way,” another guard to your right gruffly directs, gesturing down the right side of the chamber. You see an open doorway that you did not see last time you were in here. You step into the lantern-lit area, a meeting room of the king.
Organic shapes of tables are carved into the winding stone of this place. He stands without his autumn crown, instead, donning a circlet of silver that dipped to a sharp point just above the space between his dark brows. His hair flows down his back neatly, straight. The elvenking wears long amber robes that fall in heavy and uninterrupted lines from his shoulder. The outer layer is broad…structured, with wide sleeves that move slowly at the lift of the silver wine glass to his lips. The weight of them as he stood gives him the stillness of a statue, yet the authority of a banner.
“What is it you want from me, spider-slayer?” The king drolls into his goblet, boredom creeping into his voice. Though his back is facing you at first, his other hand tracing a map, he turns to glance at you over his shoulder.
“I was hoping to receive your permission to take my two guards and the healers that I have selected outside and into the woods. I have a working theory of how to better heal some of the flora, and I would like to test it in a more concentrated environment.” You clasp your hands together, slightly bowing your head. You hear him shift towards the center table. A moment passes without response. You tuck an errant strand of hair behind your slightly-pointed ear as you wait for him to consider.
He fully turns to face you, pouring himself another goblet of wine. He then moves to sit in an elegantly carved wooden chair by the desk he was just working at. Your stomach turns with anticipation. He leans back, taking another sip of wine. You shift under his intense stare.
“So very soon into your stay, you ask this of me. You are not afraid to get your hands dirty, it would seem.”
“Under the pressure of meeting your deadline, my lord, I will do whatever it takes.” He hums his approval at this, swirling the wine in his glass.
“Your diligence has been noticed by others in my court. Whomever you meet seems quite taken with you.”
“Have you been asking after me, my lord?”
“A king must always watch over his kingdom. I keep an especially close watch on those who choose to learn the walls of my palace, the paths of my forest. Would you not do the same?”
“I would, my lord.”
“Tell me, child of the Falathrim, what theory are you investigating?”
“I believe that – perhaps – it may be that -”
“Speak,” The elvenking commands impatiently, voice sharp.
“I believe that healing is possible through memory. When I walked with my assigned guards, they spoke of their childhoods, of their time in your kingdom. Those spots seemed to have the most build up of mire and corruption. Additionally, when they spoke of them – the memories – it seemed like there was a relaxation of the corruption. It felt like those bits of nature would be more vulnerable to my healing in those moments. Thus, in the forest, Hareth has selected some locations where there were common traditions or memories from your people. Specifically, she pointed out the area of the First Grove. Perhaps it can be healed…or at least, cleared more successfully.”
“You, a half-elf, speak to me of memory?” Thranduil scoffs sardonically. “Nostalgia is a curse at best, but do go on. Attempt what you will,” he says with a sour look on his face as he waves his hand at you in dismissal. You take this as a sign to quit while you are up. You curtsy deeply.
“My lord, thank you. I will report back what we know as soon as possible.”
“As is your responsibility. Do your best to remember that your stay has conditions.” His correction is sharp and jarring. You manage to politely smile, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
“Of course, my lord.” You leave, fist clenched by your side. Why was he so cold? You were warned of his abrasive tone; he is a king. He has been for thousands of years. You feel yourself blush as you think of the way his legs parted when he sat, his face filled with cold, effortless authority. You mentally slap yourself. ‘Do my best to remember the terms?’ You bitterly turn over his last words in your head. It is impossible to forget.
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Summary: Settling into your purpose in the halls of King Thranduil, you get to know the people of his court, ultimately bringing you closer to completing your mission.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 2
Author's note: Thank you so much for the love on the first two parts! The comments genuinely keep me going! I am so far into this story now, and I can't wait for your reactions as I keep going onwards. Read on, spider-slayers!
Reblogs and comments are very welcome!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Breeze Returns
When you awaken to the sounds of trays being placed with breakfast and people shuffling around you, you rise before someone (Navë) has to shake you. Looking around the room, you see your sword, clothing, and your mother’s clasp is sitting neatly atop one of the dressers in your room, close to the door. Though, given the king’s restrictions, you doubt you’d find much use for Breeze.
“Ah, you’re awake. What are your plans today? I can choose a suitable outfit from the stores, my lady,” Navë asks pleasantly while lighting lanterns about the room. Where do I even begin? You think back to the task at hand: address the corruption. You need help.
While your gifts with nature are innate, a deeper connection to the earth, you know how to train the scholarship of healing and herbalism as you learned it in Rivendell. You have to choose three people to enlighten, to bring into the tradition. Who knows? Before long, their intuition might be able to stretch to identifying the corruption. The most expedient path would be to train others enough and then put your four minds to work, collectively.
And it seems like King Thranduil cares most about the expedience of this, at least based on what he said yesterday. Since Elrond and Círdan care about you bringing Thranduil into the fold of elven cooperation, you need to prioritize his comfort. This is especially true given that this was already an uncomfortable bit of help that your Lords have — somehow — politically cornered the king into accepting.
Thinking back on the afternoon conversation with the ethereal white-haired elf, he did not quite welcome your presence. His gaze, sultry and evaluatory, while flattering, felt more like him appreciating your value to his machinations than anticipating a partnership. Did it matter? You always knew you would have to prove yourself worthy of this partnership. And you were told to anticipate this kind of response from him. Work and progress, you decide, will be easier than wondering why King Thranduil accepted your aid. A plan. You need a plan.
“Navë, where are the healers located in these halls? I would you like you to accompany me today. If you are still interested in healing and herbalism, I would be happy to take you on as a student.” She looks over to you, brows bent beneath bangs, looking like she might give a joyous sob. Though, she bites the inside of her cheek, flicking her wrist to rid the reed she was using to light the lanterns of the small flame. She curtsies deeply.
“I’d be honored.”
“Good. I do need to find two others interested in the learning of this task. Though, I would prefer to find them as time goes on. I am in no particular rush.”
“There are old healing rooms, and there are those who consider themselves trained in the elementary basics of healing and herbalism already, though, again…very limited levels of this.” You recall Fergrath mentioning them last night.
“It would be very helpful to visit them, I believe,” you nibble at your lips in thought.
“I can have something more functional prepared for you today, then.” Navë offers with a short bow. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do enjoy breakfast in the meantime.”
As she exits the room, she whispers a brief good morning to Candaer, tired from a night on shift, turning to nimbly shuffle down the hallway, a litany of outfits floating in her mind. Though, how could she think about anything else but her half-elven emissary in her care who might teach her how to heal?
Coming back to the room, Navë dresses you without the help of the other two elves from yesterday. They were requested to aid in some preparations for a Feast of the Stars. Today, you wear a simple dark green dress, the sleeves — while billowy — split at your elbow, allowing your entire lower arm access to gesture without feeling as though you will knock anything over in a medical environment. Far more manageable. The boatneck emphasizes the elegant slope of your neck. You wear your own black leather boots, now shining and cared for, and pearl earrings. Your hair is half up, half down again, pulled back off of your face. You feel quite ready to speak with the healers of this Woodland Realm. Of Mirkwood.
You walk outside with Navë. Candaer turns to glance at the two of you. “Good morning. You both look quite lovely. Are we leaving?” Navë nods with a pink tinge to the tips of her ears and the apples of her cheeks. “Very well, lead on,” Candaer says with a smile.
“Yes, well…yes. Come this way.” Navë, tucking her hands into her sleeves, navigates you to the healing wing of the cave system, just a ten minute walk away. During this walk, you see Candaer loosen up a bit, even teasing you lightly that you earned quite the honor: two guards and permission to only walk where the king allows.
“I mean, given all a king might have going on, for King Thranduil himself to monitor, you might be a bigger deal than you let on in the forest, spider-slayer.”
“The Woodland Realm certainly has a generous definition of hospitality,” you dryly note.
“In our realm, dear half-elf, being watched can mean being protected, which should bring you comfort,” Navë suggests awkwardly, though she adds, “Or rather, it can mean you are being evaluated.”
You shoot her a mirthful look. She nervously chuckles, shrugging her shoulders.
You reach an elegantly carved door, the Sindarin phrase for ‘hospital’ is written at the base before you enter. Candaer opens the door for the two of you without knocking, which you grow nervous about. You did not want to seem impolite.
Scene 2 – Healer’s Hovel
Walking into the room, it is filled with tables, strewn with tomes, and glassware and tinctures bubble as they dangle above small flames. You take tentative steps into the room; the L-shape of the classroom with the tree shaped pillars block your view of the whole area. Errant twists and dips in the tall ceiling of the classroom cast strange shadows as the lantern light dances around.
“Hello, I’ve come seeking the healers of this court. Is anyone –” you pause as you hear a loud clatter of something metal and clinking of glass around the bend in the room. You hear a whispered but sharp curse of an older ellith, and the muffled mollifications of the elder by a younger ellith.
The older voice speaks out, “Oh blast it all, okay, yes? Hello? Hello?” Around the corner, you hear a scuttling of footsteps, and a shorter-than-expected ellith comes around the corner, hands on her hips, smudges on her face. Her face is angular and expressive with deep lines embedded. In a severe knot, iron grey hair is pulled back, somehow pulling or lifting her wrinkled forehead and eyelids up too. Her tired expression radiates irritation at having to be taken away from her previous task. She wears a grey tunic, topped by a beige suede apron, faintly stained green herbs, ash, sap, and what looks like the ichorous purple venom of the spiders, now oxidized into a near-black. Her light brown eyes almost shine like an eagle’s – yellow like sand beneath a murky pond in the sunlight. They finally settle on you and your tall, short-haired attendant, dressed in her sage green uniform.
You glance over at Navë, trying to mimic her deferential body language out of respect for the elder healer. “Hmm, and I haven't seen you before. Name, purpose,” she demands of you, raising an eyebrow impossibly higher.
You give your given name, and Navë adds, “Sea-born, from the Grey Havens, emissary from both there and Rivendell. A healer sent to train.”
“I am not taking on any more apprentices, child,” the older healer waves her hand dismissively, starting to turn away.
“Nor am I looking for a teacher. I seek to provide some training in exchange for aid in attempting to diagnose and heal the forest of any remnants of the evil or malfeasance that has corrupted it,” you explain, taking a step into the room, trying to get a look at the apprentice you heard earlier. “It is a pleasure to meet you…” you look at her, expectantly.
“Hareth. Senior Court Healer. I learned as a battle-nurse. It wouldn’t surprise me if you did the same. However, if you think that you’re the first to try to fix the shitstorm outside of this cave system, then I’m not sure you have enough going on upstairs to justify my time towards bringing you up to speed,” Hareth scoffs, turning back into the room.
“Wait – I never said that I thought I was the first!” You exclaim, before pulling back. Don’t get defensive. You breath. “I just want help and I am willing to share what I have learned. Navë has agreed to help me. I would be happy to aid wih your apprentice, but I would never want to encroach. If anything, I hope to collaborate with you, learn what you already know. Please believe that I don’t mean to disrupt – but to genuinely support you with…the shitstorm,” you implore, hoping the joke you make at the end is not in poor taste.
“And the king approved of this?” Hareth looks over skeptically to Navë, who had been biting at her lower lip and watching anxiously at this interaction. Perhaps it was for the best that Navë did not accompany me yesterday, you think to yourself, feeling her nervous aura radiating off of her person.
“Oh,” Navë straightens immediately, prompting Candaer to give a slight snigger at her shock. She realizes she is being addressed. “Yes, Healer Hareth. He asked her to go and seek out three to train in healing and to address the forest’s problems,” Navë nods.
“Hm, yes, very well,” Hareth frowns. She clucks her tongue and sighs, as if accepting her fate. “I’m swamped currently with small tasks. If you’re here to help, then both of you can chop some herbs for me, take that off of my task list, yes? My apprentice Branniel is busy washing glasses and tending to some of the samples we have in the stores back there. I need a second to pull my notes from my journals.”
“Thank you, I look forward to –”
“You know, child, when folks have spent years triaging disaster…I find it is best to lead with compassion. Your optimism towards ‘solving’ this, I mean, I’ve been navigating this since it began! It has only gotten worse, and I have tried many things. Many things.” Hareth turns, gesturing for you and Navë to follow her into her office, that doubled as a healing studio. You realize that around the corner is a long area, filled with beds for the wounded.
She catches you staring. “Two years ago, there wasn’t a bed that wasn’t full. Honestly, we probably could have used your help then.” She clapped you on your shoulder, pivoting to a large supply closet where Branniel stands. Branniel looks like someone who easily lifted injured elves onto beds with her thicker arms. When you see her, she clenches her strong jaw in focus. She has a high nose bridge, straight lines, no bumps from her forehead to the tip of her nose. Almost reddish, dark brown hair is braided down the middle with two braids on the sides. Fitted tunics in a similar functional brown emphasize her strong shoulders and lean waist. With large hands for an elf, you watch her work at the glasses with a delicate cloth. Calluses, herb stains, and old burn marks paint her hands.
“Oh, hey. Navë, right? And I didn’t catch your name,” Branniel put down the glass as you walk in. Hareth casually introduces you, rattling off the herbs she wanted chopped for various batches of balms.
“I’ll be hunting for those files. The king is putting this sea-born healer on the task of looking at the forest’s ailments.” Hareth rolls her eyes, patting the door frame as she exits, her rings clinking on the stone.
Branniel whistles “Should I be impressed now, or later?”
You laugh, “Later, certainly.”
“I was going to say,” Branniel gives a warm, low chuckle in return. “You have been here but a day, and you already got the king of the Woodland Realm to believe you can find the heart of the rot? Splendid. It’s only taken us…decades.”
“He told me I had a very limited amount of time,” you mutter. Navë shoots Branniel a nervous smile.
“How are your knife skills?” Branniel pulls a chopper off of the wall with a whetstone, reaching just past you, murmuring a ‘pardon.’ She smells of peppermint.
“Decent,” you credit yourself. “I had some practice back in Rivendell.”
“Beautiful, beautiful. Hey, I did overhear that you were looking for some folks to teach some of your skills. I would be honored to partake between my duties for Hareth, if you would have me.”
“Only with her approval, but I’d be honored to accept your aid.”
“Would you do the honors of chopping this thyme? And you, Navë, can you grind this dried yarrow into a powder? We are looking for some resin-like wound closure agents.”
“You certainly chose a wise one,” you nod in approval. You adequately prepare the knife and begin chopping herbs. After several jars of finely chopped herbs and ground dusts are sealed up, your forearms ache again, but you hear the sweet reprieve of the knock of the senior healer.
“This kingdom’s forest that you other elves call ‘Mirk-wood,” she scrunches her nose at this insulting term, “has a litany of symptoms and things I have been treating, as I said.” You nod, putting down your knife, walking over to her large table where she moves to lean over a series of journals. The journals are all open and she erratically thumbs through them, squinting at the words.
“I can’t even read my own handwriting sometimes,” she curses under her breath. “Yes, okay,” she looks up at you, “grab that parchment – not that one…yes that one, and a quill, and obviously, yes, ink. Very good.” You pick from around the room, coming back to the large table, leaning over to scribe.
Hareth pulls over a tray to show you samples: spider venom, blackened lichen, corrupted water, bark lesions, root matter.
“Here are the current things we have some research on: rashes coming from the water, exhaustion from some of the spores, black-veined fever, the venom of the spiders in the woods has been getting increasingly more lethal. Trees have been getting sick, but even after pruning, they get sicker. Some folks get dreams or night terrors if they drink from the streams.”
Were my dreams and memories in sleep after I drank from the brooks? I don’t think I drank from the brooks, which made your vivid dream perhaps more concerning, then. You continue to listen, despite wanting to ask a million questions about location, season, recurrence, proximity to water, and whether certain sites resist treatment.
Hareth adds, “And even when we try to brew our traditional salves from the flora of the woods, it might help or close wounds, but then it leaves a sickly discoloration behind. Beyond that, some of our collections and samples resulted in some of my assistants falling ill – some of the lower cisterns and waterways were sealed so as to not spread their infection.”
You think back to the water sounds that you heard last night. The seals must have broken or rotted away. The water is too loud to be sealed successfully.
She looks up to you. You frantically scribble, trying to transcribe the details as quickly as you can. “I am deeply concerned about the rate of decline of the forest,” you say, tapping the end of the quill against your front teeth.
“You don’t say,” Hareth deadpans with an unimpressed frown. You exhale sharply in almost a laugh as you finish your work, despite yourself, maybe just from sheer nerves at Hareth’s wryness. She glares at you for a second before giving a sardonic chuckle in turn.
“Listen, child. Get your bearing here. Thank you for your help today. These will stay here on the table. You are welcome to them. Mostly because I don’t want to put them back.”
You give your most diplomatically sound goodbyes to Hareth and Branniel before the hospital door flies open. A young patrol scout, wearing the same uniform as Candaer and Fergrath were on the day you met them in the forest is carried in on a stretcher by two of his peers, deep urgency painting their faces.
“A spider, bit just outside of the gates here.”
“Multiple bites, you mean!”
Hareth jerks up from the table, rushing to guide the scouts to the area with the hospital beds. The young patrol scout convulses on the stretcher. You run over to the other side of the stretcher from Hareth. The black veins from Candler’s injury were not nearly as widespread. These ones crackle across his skin like angry and vile lightning scars.
He moans, “Too high up, too stuck,” and his fellow scouts shake their heads.
“He was pulled into a tree by one, and they wrapped him up. We got separated. By the time we got there, he –”
“I can see that,” Hareth says. “Branniel! Hot water, clean linen. Healer of Rivendell?”
“Yes?” You see a challenge in Hareth’s eyes as she silently asks you to take the lead. It’s a leap of faith, and you refuse to let her down.
You press the clean linen over the wounds, then reach within yourself, remembering the songs that Istel would sing with you. Humming the familiar tune, you whisper melodies of old. The scout gasps. Slowly, your hands glow their familiar white. The linens and gauze melts with the black venom soaking into its fibers, bleeding like ink over paper. Color returns to the scout’s face.
You got the venom out, but the bites still require treatment. “Okay, cleanse the wound. Wash it with salt water and make sure to clean it with alcohol. Beyond that, wrappings. Rest. Rest.” You put your hand to the young ellon’s sweaty forehead. His tension melts into the hospital bed’s pillow.
“I - that is an incredible talent,” Branniel says, dumbstruck.
“Certainly. I can see why the king…” Hareth trails off, correcting herself, “If you want answers, you need to start investigating the grounds, and no one explores the forest nor below these halls in depth without the king’s leave. If he asks, I will give my support. We can stabilize him from here.”
“Are you sure?” You ask, nervously looking at the scout.
“I’ll choose to not take offense to that question,” Hareth deadpans.
Scene 3 – Majesty
Walking down the stairs to your room, finally, the corridor quiets. Candaer whispers softly, “Careful, spider-slayer, the King approaches.” The ethereal light of the caverns mid-day, bouncing around errant light off of the limestone seems to find him. Ever graceful, chin lifted, sultrily half-lidded, the Elvenking passes by up the hallway. As he passes, heads bow, guards kneel before him. The pearlescent white of his robes, a shiny and patterned jacquard, shines like silvery snow against the ruddy brown of the cave floors and walls, pure and powerful. His hair shines against even the robes themselves, though the blonde of his hair tinges just shy of being pure white, a sign of his eternal youth — blonde not aged white or grey. Grey boots step intentionally, carefully. And long legs guide his gliding down the hall. He wears the autumnal crown of berries and red flowers, the red of it on the branches looks like blood in contrast to the white of his robes.
He makes his way down the hallway, getting closer to you. For a brief moment, though his eyes met no others, before you bent in a curtsy, you swear his piercing eye-line rolls over you. You swear you can feel your own pupils blow wide. A ghost of a smile crosses his face. You curtsy. He does not stop.
Though, you hear him turn to Galion, “I expect her observations by evening.” You know it is for you to hear as well, but you catch Galion whip around behind the king, staring at you as if saying, ‘got that?’
The king moves on. And as he turns out of sight, the hall exhales upon his exit.
You make it back to your chambers. Navë helps you draft the request and warns you not to sound like you are accusing the court of neglect.
To King Thranduil: Ruler of the Woodland Realm,
I have met with your senior healer, Healer Hareth. Thus far, her apprentice Branniel and my own attendant Navë have demonstrated an interest in learning more about the healing education that I may offer. Long term, I would like to see outside into the forest once more in order to analyze what your healers suggest is a trending decline in the health of the woods, even after the War of the Ring.
For now, I would ask your permission to inspect the lower cisterns and the older water channels beneath the halls. I would like to be accompanied by one of the court healers, Navë, and both of the guards that you assigned.
I beg your response at your soonest moment so that I might keep this process going as you wish – expediently.
You sign off the letter with a thank you towards his generosity, not expecting a reply that same night. Candaer takes the sealed note. Later, after a dinner in your chambers, your answer arrives. An ellon attendant knocks on your door with a tray,
“A message for the spider-slayer,” the ellon extends the tray to you. You are unsure how much you enjoy the title of ‘spider-slayer,’ but you suppose it is more flattering than a jab. Take your wins, you think to yourself. You take the letter delicately. It reads:
Granted. At first light, under guard.
You will report findings to Hareth of the healing rooms and be accompanied by Fergrath and Candaer of the eastern watch.
You will not enter any sealed passage without leave.
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What You Deny – Chapter 4, "Turning Theory to Practice"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 3.6k
Summary: The reader goes with Fergrath and Candaer to investigate the lower cisterns underneath the palace, discovering a new way to heal the corruption, even if it is only in part. Given this new discovery, the reader takes to the healer's wing to discuss these new findings, and then to the Elvenking himself to get approval to further experiment just outside of the walls of his palace, out in the miasma.
AO3 Link
Previous part: Chapter 3
Author's note: Hi folks, I am amped to show you guys this new chapter. We are definitely proceeding with the plot. Read on, spider-slayers!
Reblogs and comments are very welcome!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Memories Under the Hall
At first light, you find yourself dressed in a tunic of blue and light breathable pants that you tuck into dark black boots. A black belt with a built in satchel accentuates your waist, and your hair is twisted fully back. You move with Candaer and Fergrath, both of them exhausted from taking mismatched shifts to cover their ranger duties as well as travel with you. They take you to where you have grown most suspicious — the sound of the rushing water underneath the structures. Not just bath sounds, but ones as loud as a hidden river. Seeking expedient findings or evidence of corruption within the walls of the palace, the lower cisterns and layers of the palace were a decent place to start.
Your two tired guards take you down from elegant and fresh feeling halls into older, dank stone, chatting with you all the while. As you walk down corridors, you find tall sealed gates that block corridors, roots curling around the bottoms of the metal work. It is sealed with a symbol of a great oak tree that is surrounded by stars. Fergrath walks slightly ahead for most of the descent, checking passages before you enter.
They try to convince you that it is not so bad living in this palace. Of course it isn’t; they did not have to convince you of this palace’s beauty. Your reservations about this come from your limitations, how closely you are watched…still, you allow them to convince you of the joys of living here with their stories.
“Do you remember, Fer, when we used to take the boats into the river, just as it was getting quicker underneath the gate?” Candaer gives a hearty laugh. You smile, walking in step with your guards upon carved stone walkways, slick with mist and trickling drips of what you assume is water from the river.
Fergrath twirls a knife between his fingers skillfully, “Yes, but the best part was never the boats, nor the rapids.” You glance along your walkway, noting the old boat rings rusted into the limestone, and dipping below the pathway are the carved water channels that look more like natural veins below skin's surface.
“What are you talking about? The bonds of friendship?” Candaer chuckles, lightly shoving his taller, red-haired companion. You pause, leaning down, gathering a small sample of the water, then jogging to catch up with them.
“The — agh, what are they called?” Fergrath throws his head back covering his eyes, trying to think. “Festival passages. Yes! There used to be this incredible passage that all of the children would go down, and there was a nook in the river path. Though, they did close it off after an incident with some dwarves and a grand escape.”
Candaer frowns for a moment. You understood the bittersweetness; the feeling of change is unsettling for most.
“Well, what of the nook that we used to hide in? Should that not be close by?” Candaer peers around the corners. He stops, scanning around. In an attempt to catch up to them, you nearly trip over a small root in the ground, stubbing your toe, cursing lightly.
Fergrath completely ignores you, now grinning in memory replies, “You might be right!” Despite your toe, you can’t help but grin along with them.
“Wait, one second,” you kneel down, trying to ignore the wetness of the stone floor soaking into the knee of your fabric pants. Your escorts wait, staring at you, ready to observe your healing. It’s silent save for the plops of fat water droplets from the ceiling. You put your hand up to the root, humming an old song of the sea from Mithlond. Your palm slightly glows with your melody, but the black, slimy wood stays. The root curls and shimmies within the limestone crack; it does not turn green or retract, much to your dismay.
As your hand blinks out, unsuccessful, Candaer and Fergrath resume their storytelling from their times sneaking into the nooks and crannies of this place. Before you stand, you look just beyond Candaer and Fergrath in the periphery of the cisterns and the older water channels beneath the halls.
“Sorry, let’s move on,” you sigh.
As you explore down here below the palace, following the trail of the dripping river water that seemed to escape and run in thread-like streams down the slant of the deep storage area into the castle’s water channels, you notice that there seems to be no true rhyme or reason to the areas of corruption down here.
You begin to collect samples of roots where they are most corrupted. You scrape at the bark, just for it to grow a knot back in its place. Like a hydra, cutting one thing off seems to make it grow back twofold.
As you go from root to root, corruption seems to grow — not along the most cragged walls — but in inlets where a young couple might have a tryst. Corruption grows extra mold in spaces like the nooks and play-forts of Candaer and Fergrath’s childhoods. Extra river scum sticks to docks that did food and wine trade under the castle. Spores and corruption down here are erratic, but as time passes…you begin to see the pattern.
The rot grows where life seems to have been interrupted. You are unsure, but perhaps it is where life was interrupted by conflict, or perhaps marked by a loss of some kind. Emotional loss?
“Here it is, I think,” Candaer crouches, inspecting an especially corrupted scene. Dark roots, slimy with muck and mire curl in a nest. “My sister used to tell us stories of the fish that would swim from this river all the way to Valinor.” With his words, despite the lack of wind in this cavernous area, despite the fact that it is cold and Autumn, there seems to be a whisper of warm air brushing your neck delicately. The roots — gnarled and dense — seem to shift with the wind in a way very uncharacteristic of the wooden roots.
Quickly, you bend down to the root, willing your healing magic to come to the surface of your palm, imagining the laughter of young children, imagining the laughter of Fergrath and Candaer, their joy. The root slowly slurps back into the stone. When your hand finishes its glow, just ten or so seconds later, the vine peers back out of the crack, returning. But it doesn’t return all the way or bounce back more extremely. This worked. Something had worked. Even partially. It worked. Their stories with my healing…work.
You look up to Candaer and Fergrath, all three of you wide-eyed. “Please, tell me more memories of this place.”
Scene 2 – A Theory Posed
The three of you bolt back up to the surface, up winding walks, up carved stairs, seeking out the senior healer, Hareth. Panting, you shove open the door, calling a breathless ‘hello’ into the room.
“You again, child! Yes, come in, come in,” Hareth calls from the supply closet around the corner. She steps out to greet you. Her eyes look you up and down, gaze landing on your very wet and muck-stained knees. “Aha. You’ve been…busy.”
“Yes, we were just in the lower layers of the palace,” you unclip your satchel from your belt, starting to unload the various samples that you collected. “I had heard water noises most nights here, like coursing water noises. Though, I did not find them there.”
“Uh huh,” Hareth lifts a corse, thin brow, crossing her arms impatiently.
“Then, Candaer and Fergrath were talking about their childhoods, and stories from down there by the waterways under the palace. But they weren’t when I tried healing the roots the first time, which failed. But then I tried while they were in the middle of telling a story about a spot that was extra corrupted. Hareth,” you entreat her, eyebrows knit together. “It worked.”
She sucks in a breath, putting a wrinkled hand shakily up to cover her mouth. “Worked how?” The senior healer whispers cautiously.
“Some of the roots retracted back into the stone. It did bounce back like the samples I scraped, but not nearly as much. They’re almost gone.” Hareth’s eyes widen.
“I have a theory. Please, bear with me,” you continue slowly. She nods. “My theory is twofold. One, I think the rot clusters in — largely — emotionally meaningful places to the people of this realm.”
“That’s absurd!” Hareth jerks her hand away from her face, balling it up at her side incredulously. She looks furious that she ever was so bought into your findings. You relay the corners that looked like they were places that couples might go in the late hours of the night, the former rigs for the trade boats, or the secret doors and nooks that children played in.
“What kind of fatuous sea-poetry is this?” She scoffs, slowly dropping her defenses with every example you rattle off.
“You said you’d hear me out,” you remind her firmly.
Turning away, she mumbles with curious reluctance, “What else?”
“Secondly, to heal the corruption, it only worked with my healing once they were telling a story or memory from this place. I wonder if story and memory are critical to this healing process.” You see the apprehension across her face.
“I know. It’s not a perfect theory.”
“No, but I’d be an idiot to dismiss any lead,” she sighs reluctantly, moving now to the table with your samples. She traces the glass of the samples, lightly.
“What would you need to test this properly?”
“I would need a true attempt at a controlled healing at a known corrupted site with known memory. I can ask Navë for suggestions.”
“I also do know a few places,” Hareth offers, looking surprised at herself the moment she says it. You raise your eyebrows just as surprised at her change of heart. “But bring your attendant. I know you’re training her.”
“I will. Thank you,” you give a subtle curtsy.
The elder elf leaned against the desk and pinched her nose bridge, grimacing, “So now we’re treating nostalgia. Lovely.”
Scene 3 – The First Grove
You spend the afternoon chopping herbs, boiling oil, and making infusions. Hareth sits on a chair, biting into an apple. Mouth full, she rattles off places that are deeply thicketed in corruption that matches the samples you had collected that morning.
“But,” she takes another chomp of her apple. “There is one place that might be particularly relevant. There’s a place that used to be a garden. It was a place where young couples would court, taking walks and things.”
“Who might remember it the best?” You ask, thinking of who the king might allow you to take if you were to pitch going.
“It’s the place I got to know my late husband. He loved the berry bushes that grew along the edges of it. It deteriorated quite early into the corruption taking hold of the woods.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband, my condolences,” you give her a sympathetic look, putting down the spatula you were using to stir the dried petals into the oil. “Blackberries?” You ask.
“Yes, how’d you know?” Hareth cocks her head suspiciously, lowering the apple to her lap.
“They’re incredible from here. I’ve never tasted anything like them.”
Hareth closes her eyes, giving a somber chuckle. “Yeah, they are pretty good, huh?”
“Hey,” you point at the spatula and her with a sideways smile. “Your husband had great taste.”
“Don’t I know it,” she laughed heartily.
“What’s the name of this place?” You lower the spatula back into the oil, stirring gently, before resting the spatula on the edge of the pot.
“The First Grove,” the senior healer says, taking another bite of her apple. “You’d definitely need approval to go. I, of course, give my approval if you need any letter for the king. I’d love to test this theory — see you do the thing with my own two eyes. Now, don’t forget to finish filling those two larger jars then you’re good for the night.”
“I thought I was supposed to be teaching folks here, not running point on your medicine cabinet,” you tease.
“Show me what you can do at the grove, child. In the meantime, I appreciate your help. I…I’m enjoying having the extra set of hands or two.” You smile at this.
“Healer Hareth, it’s an honor to help.”
“Yeah, yeah, let me know if you need the letter.” The greyed elleth gets up and leaves the supply area, moving back towards the table of samples, back to pouring over notes and adding to her journals.
Scene 4 – Painful Permission
Later in the baths, Navë is washing your hair, gasping as you tell her your theory quietly. You tell her what you saw in the lowest levels of the palace.
“That’s incredible! What did Healer Hareth say?” She taps your head, signaling for you to submerge and rinse out the lathered tinctures in your hair. You shut your eyes and go under the water, running your hands back, squeezing out your hair as your head breaks the surface.
“She’s cynical, but giving the theory a chance. She told me to bring you,” you raise your brows at her, excited for her reaction.
“And? Am I coming?” She shrinks down to just below her nose in the water in anticipation.
“Well, of course, it is up to the king’s discretion, but I have every intention of asking for you to come.”
“Then, I must prepare you fully, and he should be taking audiences with his court members tomorrow, according to one of the prince’s attendants.”
“Prince Legolas?” You ask, dropping your whispered tones. You have heard of this prince, of the storied help he lended the Fellowship of the Ring and during the war. “His heroism is legend,” you note, hoping your attendant would say more.
“Yes, he should be here in around a week’s time for the Festival of Stars,” Navë clarifies. “He is quite handsome, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve heard as much,” you say passively. To your amusement, even though the Silvan elves of the court had largely ignored or disregarded your conversation, turning their backs and bathing several pools over, at the mention of Legolas they whip around, aptly listening in on your conversation.
Navë looks over at them with an unamused expression. She sighs and rolls her eyes, turning back to you, “Great, now there may be rumors of you seeking some kind of engagement.”
“What?” You laugh incredulously. “That’s ridiculous. I hardly mentioned him!”
“Let’s just go,” Navë gets out of the bathing pool, going to grab your robes. “I don’t think you realize what you look like, nor grasp the rarity of your presence.”
You pull yourself out of the baths, taking the robe and beginning to walk out of the room with her, arm in arm. “Listen, the opinion that matters most is of King Thranduil —”
“Mm, and I doubt he would appreciate those rumors seeing as the Prince has not been home in a long time,” Navë adds, tapping her chin.
“I need something convincing for my audience tomorrow,” you give a sly smile, hoping this distracts Navë from continuing to harp on the subject of Prince Legolas.
“Ooo, yes! You really do, especially since my going with you is on the line.”
-------
The next morning, the blue-grey color of rain painted your body. The dress that Navë selected for you is a simple shape, but certainly not plain. It leaves your collarbones bare beneath a soft fold of fabric, skimming the top of your cleavage. Long sheer sleeves fall from your arms in open panels, training beside you like veils. The skirt skims your hips, elongating your legs. Around your waist, your attendant drapes a silver girdle of overlapping leaves, your mother’s clasp the centerpiece of the accessory. Pinning delicate silver lily clips into your hair, you allow it to fall in your natural texture, draping down your back. Plain grey-leather sandals make soft steps towards the main hall.
Many elves wait in a line when you walk in, trailed by Candaer. Several conversations shift when you walk in. You calmly approach the guards waiting at the door, informing them of your purpose, “I seek an audience with his majesty. I seek his permission to go into the forest once more to collect samples and test some theories.” You go to turn around and step into the lengthy line, when you are interrupted.
“Let her in,” you hear a booming shout past the door. How did he hear me? Your breath hitches, and you look back at the line apologetically. The guards look at each other before opening the doors for you.
“What is she doing?” One tall brunette ellon scoffs.
“Nobody has been let in for an hour,” another elleth complains.
“Walk,” Candaer nudges under his breath.
“Right,” you reply, just loudly enough for him to hear. You roll your shoulders back and walk through the threshold. The throne is empty.
“This way,” another guard to your right gruffly directs, gesturing down the right side of the chamber. You see an open doorway that you did not see last time you were in here. You step into the lantern-lit area, a meeting room of the king.
Organic shapes of tables are carved into the winding stone of this place. He stands without his autumn crown, instead, donning a circlet of silver that dipped to a sharp point just above the space between his dark brows. His hair flows down his back neatly, straight. The elvenking wears long amber robes that fall in heavy and uninterrupted lines from his shoulder. The outer layer is broad…structured, with wide sleeves that move slowly at the lift of the silver wine glass to his lips. The weight of them as he stood gives him the stillness of a statue, yet the authority of a banner.
“What is it you want from me, spider-slayer?” The king drolls into his goblet, boredom creeping into his voice. Though his back is facing you at first, his other hand tracing a map, he turns to glance at you over his shoulder.
“I was hoping to receive your permission to take my two guards and the healers that I have selected outside and into the woods. I have a working theory of how to better heal some of the flora, and I would like to test it in a more concentrated environment.” You clasp your hands together, slightly bowing your head. You hear him shift towards the center table. A moment passes without response. You tuck an errant strand of hair behind your slightly-pointed ear as you wait for him to consider.
He fully turns to face you, pouring himself another goblet of wine. He then moves to sit in an elegantly carved wooden chair by the desk he was just working at. Your stomach turns with anticipation. He leans back, taking another sip of wine. You shift under his intense stare.
“So very soon into your stay, you ask this of me. You are not afraid to get your hands dirty, it would seem.”
“Under the pressure of meeting your deadline, my lord, I will do whatever it takes.” He hums his approval at this, swirling the wine in his glass.
“Your diligence has been noticed by others in my court. Whomever you meet seems quite taken with you.”
“Have you been asking after me, my lord?”
“A king must always watch over his kingdom. I keep an especially close watch on those who choose to learn the walls of my palace, the paths of my forest. Would you not do the same?”
“I would, my lord.”
“Tell me, child of the Falathrim, what theory are you investigating?”
“I believe that – perhaps – it may be that -”
“Speak,” The elvenking commands impatiently, voice sharp.
“I believe that healing is possible through memory. When I walked with my assigned guards, they spoke of their childhoods, of their time in your kingdom. Those spots seemed to have the most build up of mire and corruption. Additionally, when they spoke of them – the memories – it seemed like there was a relaxation of the corruption. It felt like those bits of nature would be more vulnerable to my healing in those moments. Thus, in the forest, Hareth has selected some locations where there were common traditions or memories from your people. Specifically, she pointed out the area of the First Grove. Perhaps it can be healed…or at least, cleared more successfully.”
“You, a half-elf, speak to me of memory?” Thranduil scoffs sardonically. “Nostalgia is a curse at best, but do go on. Attempt what you will,” he says with a sour look on his face as he waves his hand at you in dismissal. You take this as a sign to quit while you are up. You curtsy deeply.
“My lord, thank you. I will report back what we know as soon as possible.”
“As is your responsibility. Do your best to remember that your stay has conditions.” His correction is sharp and jarring. You manage to politely smile, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
“Of course, my lord.” You leave, fist clenched by your side. Why was he so cold? You were warned of his abrasive tone; he is a king. He has been for thousands of years. You feel yourself blush as you think of the way his legs parted when he sat, his face filled with cold, effortless authority. You mentally slap yourself. ‘Do my best to remember the terms?’ You bitterly turn over his last words in your head. It is impossible to forget.
Next Chapter: Chapter 5
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I took like two days off of the grind but we are SOOOOOO back. At the same time, there was no real rush.
Am I like 6 chapters ahead of schedule rn? Yes. Will I absolutely try to power through and finish all of this as soon as possible out of fear that my ADHD hyperfixation could end? Also yes. So far so good though. I am truly, truly bolstered by your supportive comments, likes, reblogs, and DMs!
Thank you guys so much!
Expect the next chapter for What You Deny on Friday :)
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