Silk And Sanguine

Eventually, this fic will contain smut and those chapters will be labeled as 18+ mdni

Act I – Appraisal

Chapter 1, "What Remains" – 5.7k words / Ch. 1 ao3

Chapter 2, "The Court Beneath the Mountain" – 10.5k words / Ch. 2 ao3

Chapter 3, "A Gift, Not A Guest" – 3.7k words / Ch. 3 ao3

Chapter 4, "Turning Theory to Practice" – 3.6k words / Ch. 4 ao3

Chapter 5, "Witnesses" – 5.5k words / Ch. 5 ao3

Chapter 6, "A Summons" – 4.6k words / Ch. 6 ao3

Chapter 7, "Steps and Stars" – 5.5k words / Ch. 7 ao3

Act II – Court Games and Forest Memory

Chapter 8, "A Feast of Stars" – 4.4k words / Ch. 8 ao3

Chapter 9, "Ceiling of Vines" – 4k words / Ch. 9 ao3

Chapter 10, "Things Worth Asking" – 2.8k words / Ch. 10 ao3

Chapter 11, "The Prince's Map" – 3.9k words / Ch. 11 ao3

Chapter 12, "A Dinner, Arranged" – 6.2k words / Ch. 12 ao3

Chapter 13, "Below Again" – 4.3k words / Ch. 13 ao3

You hardly sleep, the sounds of a river rush in your ears. You’re fully upright and brushing your hair by the time Navë enters the room. She shouts your name in surprise when she enters.

“Good morning,” you say weakly. You bite your lower lip, knowing that dinner contained a lot of conversation that your apprentice would want to hear about.

“How late did the dinner go?” Navë asks, making her way across the room, trying to act nonchalant.

“Late, but I also just did not sleep,” you groan.

“Anticipation?” Navë suggests, taking the brush from you.

You snort, remembering your conversation with Galion, “Something like that.” 

As you prepare for the day ahead, you revisit some of the times you were able to heal some of the vines. Memory, happiness, calm, and so on. You set your shoulders back, donning the dark blue cape from your journey here with the silver swan clip, holding the two ends together at the center of your collarbone. 

Breeze hangs at your hip, heavy but a welcome weight. It has been too long since you last felt your sword at your side. 

“Anything else before you go?” Navë asks, hesitation in her voice. 

You look around the room. “I don’t think so,” but part of you wishes there is something else to do, something to delay this meeting, even if for just a few seconds more. You give her a quick hug, grab a small shoulder pack of simple aid, then head to the door. Outside you find Fergrath, waiting for you. 

“Ready?” He grunts, adjusting his own cloak, ready to himself see the king. You cast a sideways glance at him, then give a nod. You head down the way you went with him and Candaer last time, almost wondering if you would run into him on the way down to the lower levels. You did not. 

The route is familiar as you traverse the winding tunnels and passages of Thranduil’s palace. Fergrath, your shepherd through this system knows his way with ease. Additionally, in the early morning, before even you were awake, Fergrath told you that Galion came to give him more specific directions as to where to meet the king. 

Upon reaching the entrance to the lowest levels with the cisterns, you come across a gate that you hadn’t seen before, the place Galion had asked Fergrath to bring you to. The gate has twists of vines upon it, and the sigil of the Woodland Realm, oaks with stars. Fergrath takes out a glistening key with a shape of a star on the end, slots it into the iron gate. With a sharp click and clang of the lock and the whine of the metal hinge, it opens. 

“You may turn back here, guard,” a commanding voice echoes from the dark. Stepping closer into the light, King Thranduil emerges. 

“Yes, my lord,” Fergrath bows. He stands and shoots you a tenuous look, raising his eyebrows. 

He mouths, ‘good luck,’ before turning away and climbing back up the ramps to the upper levels.  Thranduil wears a tunic of black, silver etched into it so delicately it looked like a sea of flowers, almost a metallic meadow. Black pants tuck into black boots. His flowing hair is held in place by a silver crown with a silver point at the back, and his eyebrows are raised, as if waiting for you to say something first.

You curtsy, holding up the ends of your cloak as to not get them dirty upon the slick limestone floors, ever slippery underneath your black boots. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, spider-slayer,” the king says. “Let us walk.” He turns and heads back into the darker part of the cavern.

 “Sure,” you say, scurrying next to him, hand on the hilt of Breeze. Small lanterns start glowing as you walk by, potentially lit by the small bugs seeking shelter from the cold within the lanterns’ walls, responding to the vibrations of your steps. Either way, the lanterns take up a chartreuse hue to them. “Where are we going?” 

You did not know in particular what you were looking for in terms of corruption. You suppose that you would know it when you see it. Though, as you walk side-by-side with the king, it does feel as though he is leading you somewhere intentionally.

“To a place long since blocked. It began almost sixty years ago. The Old Trade Docks,” he recalls, having to duck under some beams. “It has been…overcome with vines for a long time, and I do miss our wine supplies coming through here.”

You venture down a series of stairs, past rails and rotted boards of docks. A faint bluish glow comes from the distance, the distance where you assume all of those echoing plinks and plops of water drop onto the stone surface. After about five minutes of walking down a main path, Thranduil stops.

There are wooden shelves of wine bottles, piled and sorted up to the ceiling of this place. Demi-arches and vaulted shapes are carved above you, yet you can hardly see them through the wall of black, slimy vines, rotten to their core. As you approach, to inspect closer, it almost forms a basket weave in how tightly they are knotted. It is no wonder slashing though them would not work, fearing that it could be a hydra situation; cut one vine and three more grow back in its stead. The vines cover a small table setting, wrap around a lever, and even web the floor so that it could not drop down into the running river outside of the palace. Thranduil watches you with wide icy eyes as you take in the mess of corruption before you. Your eyebrows crease as you dance your fingertips along the dead vines.

Silvered wood, aged beyond use, floats in the hardly moving current of the river that isn’t allowed in by elven dams. Why would it be open? They hadn’t used these docks in decades. The still water is murky and smells horrific. But based on the shelves and the barrels of wine, the boxes dedicated to grain and salt, this might have been a prime marketplace for food for the feasts, visiting merchants, and the like. 

You walk along the water’s edge, trying not to breathe through your nose, and you find a small lute with some quasi-fossilized dry cherries alongside it. “What are you doing?” He asks you. Oddly enough, his tone doesn’t hold the impatience you’ve come to expect from him. 

“I’m looking for some memories beyond your own here, some things and ideas to root your experiences to. It seems, the more vividly I am able to imagine these memories, the better I can make them my own. For the longest time, I thought healing was about me listening to the sea, the ocean of my home in Mithlond, but here, I’ve realized it’s about fondness of memory, even if it’s not my memory.”

“And,” he steps closer to you, about a yard away. “What do you see?” You turn about the room, trying to see past the damp stone, broken boat rings, rot of the barrels, the scum of the river, and the spider silk in the rafters. You see old trade markers on discarded rinds of cheese, cracked over time. You smell of wet wood, iron, rot, and turned alcohol. Yet, you kneel to the lute. 

“I hear sounds of this river coursing, this lute playing something in time. Children, eating cherries, dancing in front of the bard. I see trades well met, and many boats here,” you show him the broken boat rings. “And I see a place that has much potential to grow in this increasingly connected Middle Earth.”

His expression softens as you say that last line, standing to look at him. “Well, shall we?” You suggest, kneeling before some vines attached to the boat rings, placing your hands gently on them.

“What do you need?” His forehead creases at watching you kneel down in front of him, crouched on your heels, cloak getting soaked by the wet floor. 

“Tell me, what was this place before it became…this?” You suggest as warmly as you can.

“It was just another trade dock,” he says, eyes flitting along the details of it, fighting the urge to turn away from you and this area.

“I don’t believe you would have led me here of all places if it were simply another trade dock. It’s a ways to come.”

Thranduil unsheathes one of his silver swords, the blade slightly curved and cruel, and he stabs a rotten, dried cherry into the stone. As he does so, he says, “The…late queen was choosing wine for a feast that was approaching. Legolas usually clung to his mother’s skirts, but this time he went off on his own, exploring the various merchants’ boats.”

In your mind, you feel the warm breath of a summer wind, back when these halls were open as tunnels accessible from the river. You close your eyes and try to picture a small Legolas, clutching at his mother’s skirts “What did Legolas look like when he was younger?” 

Thranduil pursed his lips for a moment. “He has always had my eyes, but his mother’s face. He was quite small when this happened,” he softly laughs to himself. You picture Legolas, face round, hair still as fair and pale as the sand on the shores. Though, you don’t dare remind yourself of his father’s severe eyes in this soft memory. Legolas, small and innocent, clings to a brocade skirt. 

 “He was about to steal some sugared fruit when I caught him. He was so terrified that he fell into the lever, releasing several barrels of wine and thus toppling himself down the ramp and into the river water.” Thranduil flicks the cherry into the murky water, nose crinkled at the smell of it. You imagine Legolas looking furious with the river for embarrassing him, his imagined petulance bringing a smirk to your face. 

“I am sure the water was a lot fresher back then.”

“Mm, yes. This hall smelled of apples, oak resin, far more fresh,” he trails off. “And yet, at that moment, Legolas came to me soaking wet. And I was so amused by his mistake that I was not angered.” A pleasant smile rests gently upon the Elvenking’s face, and his eyes close, succumbing to the memory. Turning to look upon him, the warmth of your Grey Haven summers pours from your palms against the vines. Letting go of them, you allow the glow from your palms to carry the momentum.  

“And did he hold you?” You ask, wistfully. 

“I held him,” Thranduil corrects lightly, voice trailing off. 

The clasp at your throat feels heavy as you watch him, eyes closed as if lost in a beautiful dream. Once again, like last night, the world feels heavy, and it starts falling away, as if it is just the two of you in a void. You and him, alone. Then he opens his eyes. He, not in the same trance as you, allows his lips to part in surprise at the amount of progress made. Massive ropes of vines had retreated back into the stone, slurped back into the river, squeezed into cragged cracks in the ceiling. 

By the time he looks, almost a quarter of the vines had disappeared or diminished. But this time, instead of running away from this surprise, he allows himself to be fascinated by you. Your hands aglow, face alight, and as you do so, staring so lovingly at him. When he looks upon you, you melt into his gaze. Water begins to clear around a drain, old pavers become visible, and the smell of rot thins. Sludge sliding back into the river from the walls reveals painted stone, yellows and greens and whites, sigils of the king that ruled Greenwood the Great. 

Even faster than with Hareth’s memory the corruption shrinks from the healing light. Thranduil takes a step back, watching as your light glows even brighter — eyes wide to witness you. It is as you said; his memory with your power…

The barrels are released from the vines and they were amber not a slimy green. The docks aren’t covered in black scale, rather in silvery oak. The vines that clutched at this trading site relinquish. 

Finally, you roll up your sleeves, bend down low, and plunge your hands into the water, hoping that the muck would not choke your arms like last time. You imagine the sunny look on the Elvenking’s face when his son ran to him for the first time, instead of Legolas’s mother. The secret joy of being chosen. The chill of the winter water was nothing compared to the oceanic cold you were used to. Icy, it ran up your arms with all of the muck and mire, yet as it reached your elbows, it burned off into flakes of sunlight.

Then you shakily stand to your feet. An exhaustion known only after crying for hours wracked your body.  Your eyelids feel heavy and your head throbs. He calls your name, and the sweet sound of it pries your eyes open. 

“I cannot believe — I — are you alright?” Thranduil’s attention goes from the success of your healing to knitting his brows together in concern. His eyes are a piercing blue, discerning, searching your face for confirmation one way or another. 

“Yes, I will be fine,” you find a wall to lean on.

“Here. Drink.” Thranduil pulls out a skein from his belt. You heftily sip. It’s refreshing and thin like water but with something sweet to it. You feel it against your lips

“What is this?” You ask, doing your best to demurely wipe any droplets from your lips. 

“It’s water,” He pauses, then adds, “With blackberries.” You do your best to suppress a smile, but a twitch at the corner of your mouth gives you away. You pass the skein back. Blackberries. He remembered.

“It’s really lovely. Fresh.” He hums in response, a hint of amusement behind it. You sit, recovering for a moment, watching Thranduil touch the revealed area, walk amongst the past, poorly preserved from the corruption. 

As he is walking through the shelves upon shelves of wine about sixty feet from you, you hear a plop in the hardly-flowing river. You whip your head around. Another plop of stone from one of the cragged cracks in the ceiling drops into the water. Then another. 

Plop.

Plop, plop.

Plop.

Then, splash! 

You shout in surprise as a spider the size of a cat, squeezes out from the largest crack in the ceiling. You draw Breeze, stilling the pounding in your head and steadying your heart. Time to live up to spider-slayer, right?

Ducking out of the rows of wine bottles on shelves, Thranduil draws his twin blades, rushing from the end of the channel with the wine docks and the lever to create a ramp to lower barrels into the river. Charging over to where you are, by the edge of the pathway, sixty feet from him. His boots slap against the damp stone, and he rolls the blades in his wrists, relishing in the weight of them, the momentum they carry together. The river runs along the back wall of the trade channel, the ceiling arches over a wide pathway.

“Spiders,” he hisses, sliding to a stop by you. “Get behind me!”

Two more shimmy out of the cragged hole in the ceiling, the hole crumbling more and more with each spider that comes through, each one bigger than the last. By the time they are all out there are five massive brown spiders, hairy, beady-eyed, and with bulging-bellies, even for their large but spindly frames. The largest one is the size of a large hound, though its leg held much more wingspan. They hiss and spit as they drop down with their webs, swinging and landing upon the stone walkway next to the river water. 

“So little faith before, so little faith now,” you taunt, widening your stance, keeping your core tight, bouncing on your toes. Another two stones fall from the ceiling. The spiders hiss, laterally moving around you, attempting to herd you. You sidestep, shifting so that you are back to back with the king who has readied his own stance. 

“Then prove me wrong, spider-slayer. Preferably without dying,” Thranduil retorts. “Guards!” He calls out, allowing it to echo down the chamber. As he calls down the chamber, you hear muffled voices shouting, footsteps thundering towards you, but the crack in the ceiling, once only over the river, begging to split further down the ceiling, over the pathway that you used to get down here to the trading channels.

The largest spider, at this, hissed in response to the shouting. 

“Dîn!” You bite back, lunging low at the large spider to your left — the Elvenking’s right — and slicing from belly to eye. You follow through, flinging a spray of ichorous blood across the ceiling. Yet, the cut was not deep enough to end its wretched life. In turn with your first slice, Thranduil flips his blades downwards, holding the blades along his forearms, tucking and spinning into his first and then second slices. The second largest spider — in front of him — directly in front of you is cut along its eyes, then its pincers. It howls in pain, and it spits corrosive poison at his leg. It sears through the sturdy fabric of his pants and touches his skin, slowly burning into him. 

He shouts, stifling any more of a cry out in pain. Fury painting his will, he flips both blades upright, lunges low then drives the blades upwards into the neck of the spider, popping its head from its body. Both swords skewering the spider head, he turns the blades within the creature so their cutting edge faces out, then opens his arms wide, splitting the spider head into torn halves. The smallest spider jumps at him, but he kicks it roughly, ricocheting it into the water. It lets out a blood curdling scream like a dying rabbit, only far more crude. The Elvenking fights with terrifying grace, each swish of his blades bringing judgement upon the arachnid victims of his wrath. A mirthful smile plays upon his face, his breath a rhythm for each spin and slice.

After another spider vanquished, the Elvenking steps back with a proud smirk. He feels the black blood drip down his pale face. He turns to you, ready to help. To his great concern, the largest spider and you are facing off. You dodge a venomous bite, and sink your blade into the side of the spider, but another spider is about to bite you. You don’t have enough time to yank the blade out of the spider’s torso which you plunged Breeze into. 

Alert, you somersault over the back of the largest spider, reaching with both hands for the blade’s hilt and bringing it with you in your momentum. You tear through the torso of the spider, gouging a massive rip in its flesh as you stand on the other side of it, your own blood mixing with the black blood of the beast you just tore open. Heaving, you kick the large spider down. Stabbing it again, but in the head. Four of its eight eyes shut at this. 

One more, you think. Staring down the last one with the Elvenking who has been stealing glances at you, bloodied, focused, brave between fighting another spider. You’d get this last one first. You move to lunge at it. 

Then you see Fergrath taking on another spider, and just as he was about to deliver the final blow, you hesitate. He looks at you, and the spider sinks its pincers deeply into his skin. 

“Valar!” Fergrath gasps, summoning his remaining strength to plunge his spear into the spider, skewering it to the spot, then collapsing. You run to Fergrath, other spider be damned. The Elvenking, lunges before the spider between you two would not attack you as you ran. He pinches the head of the last spider off between his two swords, flicking the blood off of the blade. Then one more drops down in front of him.

You drop to your knees at Fergrath’s side, summoning whatever light you can. You hum one of the songs he taught you softly as he winces in pain. You start to see the purple veins seep out of his skin with your song. Thranduil slashes at the true last spider. Fergrath begins to stand, and you help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he coughs, still in shock from the venomous bite. 

“It’s not fully healed, go! Get to the healers!” You shout to him, turning back to help the Elvenking with the last spider. He nods, limping down the hall.

Crack! Crack! 

Just as you feel relief with the incoming footsteps and shouts of other armed guards, and Fergrath firmly away from the remaining spider, the ceiling crumbles with a BOOM! A thunderous cacophony of rocks pulverizes the limestone floor, tumbling into the river, tumbling in front of the walkway, blocking your exit. Then another crack right above you sounds. 

You hear Thranduil shout your name then, “Ego!” He charges from his position ten feet away from you to push you out of the way as the ceiling tumbles around you. The spider screeches as it gets buried in the force and weight of the stone. Your back slams into the wall, the force of it knocking Breeze from your hand. It clatters to the ground, but the noise of it is lost in the crumbling of this tunnel. Your head should have smacked into the wall, but instead is protected by his hand as he wraps his large form around your body. You get lost in the smell of him as you are buried in his chest as he holds you tightly: vetiver, bergamot, and oak. 

His breath is ragged, and his heart pounding. You’re sure your own breath and heart is doing the same. He holds you so tightly, arms wrapped around you, the top of your head buried beneath his chin as he bows his head over yours. The swan pin is warm on your chest as it pushes into your skin from the pressure of the embrace. His touch is like fire spreading throughout your skin, yet you’ve never been so safe. After a few moments, the rocks stop their tumbling. They settle. He holds you just a second longer.

Slowly, Thranduil loosens his embrace. The curtain of his white-blonde hair is draped around you as you look up at his face. Upon it, true hunger in his eyes. They are black as they were that day in the garden. In this dark tomb within the trade channels of the lowest levels of his castle, they are even darker. The only light that leaks in is from the top. You are trapped here in this space that could not have been taller than fifteen feet high, five feet long and five feet wide. His lips parted, breathing ragged. 

Your own matches his as you tilt your chin up to see him. “You —” he says heavily. Is it an accusation? Praise? An epiphany? A prayer? It did not matter because here you are, in this void with him that you’d imagined.

“Me?” You whisper. His hand moves from the back of your head to your cheek, thumb rubbing away the black blood that is splattered across your face and his. You melt into his hand, looking up at him. Kiss me, you beg in your mind. Your hands rest against his chest.

His eyes search your face, and his eyes soften. At the Feast, you were starlight, but here in the blood and grime, knowing your true capability, your true dedication to his people and his land, he wants you all the more. 

“You, spider-slayer,” his voice is hoarse, control fraying at the edges. “Are impossible.” His breath plays across your lips and you allow them to part. You suck in a small and final breath, “I’ve been called worse.”  

Half lidded eyes bear into yours. A hand drifts to your waist. His thigh parts your legs and he pulls you up into him. Your eyes flutter closed. Your noses touch. Your lips part as his lips almost brush against yours.  

“My lord!” You hear Galion shouting and rocks falling. Several guards have pulled rocks away. “My lord!” You hear someone scrambling up the rock wall to get a look into the nook that you both are trapped in. You stand in his arms, bloody, bruised, bitten

Thranduil pulls away as if stung and he shakes his head at you in warning. He was going to kiss me. He closes his eyes, pinches his nose bridge. He puts space between you, resheathing his swords. He regrets it.

“I —” you start, worry splayed across your face. 

“Dîn, canis.” Silence, emissary. It feels like the cool river water poured over you, the flame of the moment doused by his sharp expression. He paces in place. 

“Galion, send down more soldiers and remove us please. Send my builders to fix this permanently. The rot will not return here.” As you both climb out, dusting yourselves off, his gaze full of warning sinks in. Brushing off of his tunic, he strides out, leaving you behind to walk back with the other guards. A deep pain twists in your chest. 

‘The rot will not return,’ echoes in your mind. Was he referring to the vines or to you?

Next Chapter: Next Friday!

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Scene 1 – Queenblossom

Situated in the hospital, sat upon the beds placed along the outskirts of the room, trifold barriers leaned against the wall in their folded up form. Each one bears a different pattern, mirroring the colors and designs of the carpets in this palace, though its texture is more similar to the weight of a tapestry than a carpet.

In this wing of the hall, there were no glimpses of the sky, no grey light to pour in, so in a way, the floral vignettes of the trifold tapestry barriers that could provide privacy also served as glimpses of an imaginative garden. One panel may be of a pomegranate tree, another of lilies, another of a small pond with reeds, yet when you look out…perhaps this is a small window into Greenwood the Great. 

In your few days from your garden meeting with the Elvenking — another reason you kept imagining gardens — until your descent into the lowest layers of the castle with him, you try your best to spend it teaching some of the songs from Rivendell and some of the Sindarin incantations you knew from your time studying in the Grey Havens. You talk through feeling the flow of energy within one’s body and mind, how you produce your healing. Your three ‘apprentices’ follow along with the theory of it, nobody yet able to produce a light.

But today is special; you received a letter from Istel, containing herbs and a note reminding you to wait and listen. When you read what the herb is, you gasp.

“Good news,” you say, holding up a small pinch of cluster of pale-colored petals. 

“Hmm?” Hareth cracks an eye open from her meditation, sitting on the edge of the bed, posture perfect, hands resting palm-up on the tops of her thighs. 

“My mentor-friend Istel sent me some Queenblossom. It’s a rare find, and one could terrace it from the foothills of the Misty Mountains and grow it well in the sanctuary gardens. And it looks similar to the small flowers I grow when I’m healing…”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It heals deep wounds if we turn it into a salve, but it also brews into a tea where its properties treat something like ‘spiritual fatigue,’ lingering despair or dread.” How pertinent.

“We both know somebody that might benefit from some tea,” Hareth says as rolls her eyes. You decide she must be a mind reader. She closes her eyes again, attempting to refocus on the energy movement as she breathes heavily. Or sleeps. You cannot tell.

Still, how would you even get the king to drink it? “Don’t be ridiculous, I would have to explain why I am giving him the tea and I would have to explain why it might be so helpful to the cause of healing the forest.”

Navë from another bed over from Hareth says tentatively, peeking out of one eye like Hareth just did, “Would that be such a bad thing if the king knew what we know?” 

“Or you could just tell him it’s really delicious tea. Don’t overcomplicate it,” Hareth says, opening her eyes finally.

“I’m certainly going to have to explain myself sooner than later, though I suspect after a successful healing tomorrow it would be a moment when he might receive it better than now. Or maybe I could make some tea as a celebration?” You suggest with a weak smile.

At that, you hear a light knock coming from the other room. Branniel — who had already given up on channeling the healing light after the first thirty minutes of attempting to attune to the energy — opens the doors to the healing wing. “Yes?” Branniel calls out.

You recognize Galion’s delightfully smarmy voice as it cuts across the large area, even as he talks through the door. You stand, putting the pinch of dried pale-petals back in its small wooden box.  Branniel moves to open it. You only hear murmurs from the doorway. By the time you make your way around the corner, you hear him say, “Ah, there you are. I suppose no intermediary is necessary.” He shoots a distasteful look towards Branniel who dismisses herself to the supply area, shooting an equally dirty look over her muscular shoulder. 

“You were looking for me?” You ask. As far as you know, tomorrow is the day for going to the lower layers of the palace. What was Galion doing here now?

“Yes, the king requests your presence in his personal wing for supper. The Prince will also be in attendance,” Galion informs you. “Attempt to arrive within the next three hours.”

“Would a bit longer from now still be viable? I’m in the middle of —” 

“She’ll be there on time,” Navë interjects. You hadn’t noticed her gliding up behind you. You’re glad she approached you before you accidentally refused the invitation from the king.

“Will she be?” The auburn haired attendant to the king tilts his head as he looks within you.

“Yes,” you nod, catching the warning Navë corrects you on.

“Excellent,” Galion smiles. “I will see you at dinner.”

Galion leaves, giving a curt nod to Candaer who stands outside of the door to the hospital wing, turning and walking left from this part of the palace. 

Navë holds her breath until she hears Galion’s footsteps long fade down the hallway. Once she cannot hear him any longer, she exhales. “What do you think the dinner is about?” 

“Perhaps about the excursion tomorrow,” you reply, dreading having to elaborate any further. Nave and Hareth exchange a look, now fully broken from their meditative exercise. 

“What?”

“I mean…what did you say the king said again?” Navë asks.

“I could be suitable for his son,” you sigh, flopping back on one of the hospital beds. The thought of the Elvenking consumes your mind again, how his breath, visible in the cold, brushed your nose. You swear his darkened eyes were fixed upon your lips when he said it.

“Then I think you know what this dinner is about,” Hareth taunts, her eagle-yellow eyes flash with interest. “Right?”

“The problem is that I don’t know if the Prince would want anything in regards to me. He was so sweet in the library but he seemed very conflicted, and he spent a lot of time discussing my role with the king.” 

“Well,” Nave crosses to you. She sits on the edge of the bed you are currently flopped over. You feel the depression in the mattress and her fingers gently brushing through your hair. “How do you feel about it?”

“I just don’t know if this is what Lord Cirdan or Lord Elrond really had in mind when they were suggesting that I diplomatically engage with this realm as I try to help heal some parts of it.”

“I mean, did they tell you to get diplomatically engaged?” Hareth snickers. You sit up and shoot her a nettled glare. “Apologies, wrong moment.” Branniel stifles a laugh from the other room.

“Branniel!” 

“Sorry,” she giggles. Before you say something sarcastic back, your mind replays your conversation with the Lords right before you left to go prepare, now months and weeks ago. Your appearance was mentioned by Lord Cirdan as a diplomatic asset…what was in that letter that the Elvenking read at your first meeting?

The serious thoughts must have darkened your expression because Nave’s brows furrow as she asks, “My lady, are you alright?”

“I’m well, though I do wish I knew the king’s goals more, I wish I understood what he truly wanted from this dinner.”

“Why should it not be just so? A meeting discussing some form of arrangement or facilitating the possibility of one!” Hareth exclaims. “You are overcomplicating it, child.” 

Were you overcomplicating this? Part of you agrees with Hareth…you might be. But, would he really arrange a marriage without knowing if I am Legolas’s One? You think back to the emptiness of when he told you his queen was not his great love. Is that what he wished upon his son? A love of companionship?

Beyond your speculation, the only counter you truly have to the notion of the king’s wishes to arrange something between you and his son is the gnawing, aching question that plagues your mind: did he want to kiss you in his garden just as badly as you wished to kiss him?

“You’re probably right,” you sigh, but you know that your thrumming heart and your whirring mind are at odds with what you say. 

Scene 2 – Arrival at Dinner

A soft red velvet off the shoulder dress stops at your knees asymmetrically, showing the cream colored skirt of a lighter fabric, draping to ruby velvet shoes. A similarly textured, cream-colored ribbon is being braided into your hair by Navë at your vanity. Rushed out of the healers wing just an hour ago, you sigh.

“I feel as though I am missing something, Navë.”

“How so?”

“I feel there are things that should have been said, instructions that should have been given by those who sent me here. I need to write to the Lords Círdan and Elrond. Could you send these letters while I am at dinner?”

“Certainly,” Navë says while twisting some of the smaller braids together. Trying your best to keep your head still for her, you open up the drawer, taking out parchment and ink. 

Lord Círdan, Apologies for not writing sooner, though I would say that up to this point, I have been quite busy within the halls of the king. The accommodations are beyond what I expected, and the company of the guards and the healers of the court is well met. As you asked, I have been doing my best to attempt to heal some of the corruption of the realm. Though, the scale of it is quite a bit larger than I had imagined. The scale is not what concerns me, rather it is the limitations presented by the king. I have been learning more about the root cause of this darkness over his realm. 

You pick up your pen, wondering if you should put it to paper. It is your job, you remind yourself, bolstering your will to write.

It has become very clear that the king’s spirit – his heart – is invariably tied to the corruption in the forest. It may be placated by the healing of the memories of his people, but only truly healed by the soothing of his memories, by the healing of his spirit. He seems to hold onto the stress and pain of protecting a realm at risk despite the defeat of such in the East, and more than that, he seems alone in this burden. I met Prince Legolas at the Feast of Stars, which was an incredible event to witness, though, I find that I am being ushered by the king into conversations that imply an arrangement of marriage that I was not expecting. I fully understood the task at hand with regard to addressing the corruption, but woefully in the dark about your intentions for me to diplomatically bring in the Woodland Realm to the coalition of Elven Realms. Without turning to blame or malice, I wish to ask: was my hand in marriage to a member of the king’s court something proposed to King Thranduil in your initial letter? If so, I assume my mother was not aware of this. By the time you or Lord Elrond receive this letter and that I may receive a response, I hope I have proceeded in alignment with your will and that I do not betray the trust you have put in my success. 

You sign off this letter and rewrite it for Lord Elrond, addressed accordingly. Standing and looking at yourself in the mirror, you give a smile. Navë did an excellent job, some darker liner around your eyes, making your gaze look only a bit more sultry. You pick up your mother’s swan clasp, looking at it in your palm. Your fist closes around it, and you feel the ridges of it push into your skin.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Navë asks, coming up behind you in the mirror, placing her hand gently on the small of your back. You take a breath in to settle yourself. You feel like you are about to walk into an arena, facing off against a far more dexterous opponent. Your exhale is shakier than you wish it to be. 

“As I’ll ever be,” you sigh, trying on a smile in the mirror. Navë stifles a laugh at the horrifically anxious smile on  your face.

“Maybe try that smile again, sea-daughter,” she nudges you. Her infectious laugh brings a laugh bubbling up from within you at your own contorted expression. 

“Far better,” she says softly. 

“Healing truly is your calling, Navë,” you say, turning away from the mirror towards her. 

She thanks you humbly, before leading you to the door. “You better go, lest you be late.” 

“Candaer?” She calls outside. 

“No, it’s Fergrath, dear elleth,” a deeper voice replies. “He has to go out on watch.”

“Oh, well I wish him well,” she bites her lip nervously. “Can you tell him?”

“Of course, when he returns to relieve me,” Fergrath replies. She huffs impatiently. 

“I’ll be back by then. I can just tell him myself. Can you take her to the king’s wing?” Navë asks. You step out of the door. 

“Hello, Fer,” you smile. “I hope you got some sleep between your ranger rotation and here.”

“You’d be hoping in vain,” he derides. “It’s been one battle after another against the thicket, though in some spots in the forest it does seem to be getting better.”

“Mm, well that’s good,” you say, your mind drifting to the anticipation of whatever you might be walking into. As you have before, you follow him along the hallways. As you walk through many of the labyrinthine passageways, you catch the eyes of many of the members of the Elvenking’s court that reside here. 

“Is that the one he danced with? I swear it’s her,” a pallid ellon leans in to a similarly pallid ellith who nods and stares at you.

Trying your best to ignore them and others who whisper similar things, you eventually find yourself back in front of the doors to the king’s wing. Smoothing the front of your dress, you roll your wrists, roll your head around, stretching out your neck. With a final sharp exhale, you knock on the king’s massive doors. You don’t get to the second knock before Galion opens the doors. 

“You are to wait at the door of her quarters, Fergrath. Thank you,” Galion, in hushed tones, relays to your guard. Fergrath grunts tiredly, waving to you before departing. 

“And you, inside,” he steps aside, holding the door for you. You step back into king’s wing of his palace. 

Your dress fits into this room that is draped in red and gold. Thinking back, you must look so different from how you must have appeared when you first entered into these halls, but breathing in the fumes of the fire, you let them comfort you, as you gather whatever quiet confidence you can muster. 

Walking in, you turn to the left, taking in the central area of the Elvenking’s wing. On the same wall as the door is the hearth you had sat in front of with him weeks ago. To the right, behind the couches is a dining table. The warm woods of his halls extend along his long dining table, the organic shape of the wood of the table’s surface bends, curves, and dips for the knots that are in it, for the way the tree aged before it’s use lived beyond it. Yet, all of its flaws are polished so neatly. A burgundy drape runs along it, held down by several candles on brass candlesticks of various heights. 

Waiting for you, are the two Sindar elves engulfed in the orange light of the hearth and the candles. They both stand, Thranduil standing half a head taller than his son. The Elvenking sits at the head of the table, Legolas to his right. The Elvenking, donning a twisting gold band around his head as a crown, a small ruby at the center, wears a velvet similar to your dress as his scarlet mantle drapes around dark brown and olive brocade tunic with a silver clasp. A large flickering piece of obsidian is held at the heart of the clasp. 

At his height, you can’t look anywhere but him, him and his presence. Him and his high cheekbones. It isn’t lost on you that he stood for you. A king didn’t have to stand for you, yet Thranduil stood. As he looks to you, his eyes – back to their inky darkness – follow every step you take. The dark room might have a part to play in this, but you feel your own pupils dilate as you take him in, you feel your breath hitch as he narrows his eyes, considering you. All of you.

Scene 3 – At the Table  

Galion moves to pull out your chair for you. Legolas, wearing a moss green tunic with gold details over light pants, stops him, “Please, Galion, allow me.”

The auburn-haired attendant gives a polite bow, closer to a deep nod, turning and stepping away towards the other side of the room. Legolas walks around the side of the table to your side. He smells of pine needles and the air before the storm, and you wonder what color vial he might have used from the crystalline-looking glass bottles of oils Navë pulls for the baths. 

Softly, he places his hand on your lower back, “Excuse me,” he murmurs close, so only you could hear. You step aside, allowing him to pull out the chair for you. His kind eyes brighten as you offer him a grateful smile. “There you are,” he says.

To your right, the Elvenking sits in his higher-backed chair, clutching the arms as he watches his son push your chair in as you beam at him. Would you ever look at him like that instead of with such duty, such…weight? 

“How kind of you, ion nin,” Thranduil takes a sip from his glass of wine, releasing one of the arms of his chair. Raising his eyebrows. “Do you also plan on pouring her a glass?”

“If she would so like,” Legolas assents with every spirit of devotion. His blue eyes rest on yours. The warmth in his words makes the candlelight feel brighter and makes your cheeks run warm in turn.

“Please,” is all you can manage to say in return. Legolas lifts slightly from his seat to reach and grab your wine goblet, pouring some of his father’s wine into it. The purple of it shines in the goblet when the Prince hands it back to you, your fingers slightly grazing his. “It looks beautiful.” 

Before you can take a sip, you say, “I appreciate your invitation, my Lord, and I look forward to this dinner with you both,” you pause, forcing yourself to pursue the questions you so desperately wish to know the answers to. “Though, I did wonder if there was any specific purpose or end either of you might have wished to achieve?” You look between the two white-blonde ellyn.

“Eager, are we?” Thranduil smugly snorts into his goblet of wine.

“Possessing sensibilities like directness and pragmatism might be worth being seen as ‘eager,’ to some.” You turn towards him fully. His dark eyes flash. Touching the lip of his wine goblet to his lower lip, a wry smile of amusement crests over the top of his cup. 

“Do taste the wine. If you enjoyed the one from the Feast, I wonder if you might enjoy this,” Thranduil changes the subject, lifting his brows.

“Eager to have me try it?” You lilt, lifting a brow in turn. 

“Pure pragmatism, I swear,” he says. You relent, lifting the cup to your lips, tasting the plum of the wine and the whisper of blackberry. It’s the ambrosia of Valinor as it washes over your tongue. Your eyes close as you savor it. Thranduil’s chin tilts up, watching you sip it, watching your throat as you swallow. 

“It is like a dream,” you say. Now, you understand. Play the game to win. 

“I said something similar my first time tasting it,” The Elvenking. “It’s an older wine, but I was saving it for some fitting occasion.”

“Adar, do you plan on answering the emissary’s question?” Legolas asks, eyes flitting between them. “I too am curious.” Impatience of some kind found its way into the Prince’s tone as he watches you and his father spar.

“Yes, ion nin,” the king sighs, losing his mirthful smile. “I invited you here, spider-slayer, because the Prince has decided to work with the wizard Mithrandir to find old trade routes in my kingdom. He wishes to restore them. Some of them contain some of the vines we have been addressing. Since you have both been examining the maps, I thought it pragmatic to have the discussion in one room,” Thranduil says smoothly.

“We did already look at the maps, adar. She knows of the trade routes I had highlighted. What more is there to discuss? Once you learn how to clear it with less force, then you will help,” Legolas narrows his eyes, suspicious of his father’s true purpose and settled on debunking this false one. 

“Well, I did have some other questions, actually,” you say softly. Thranduil looks triumphant. 

“Perfect. We can discuss over — ah, yes,” the king turns just in time to see the attendants for his wing bring out some of the dishes for dinner and some of the maps from the library to his grand table. Several attendants, dressed in the sage green of the court wear gold tree pins on the collar of their robes, and they carry dishes of silver, reaching around you to place the trays on the table. 

Preserved fruits, river fish, mushrooms from some of the caverns, breads, and honeyed roots adorn the table. The dishes are rich and earthen; combined with the smells of the plum-hued wine, you can tell how intentionally this meal was orchestrated. The Elvenking watches your reaction to it, and Legolas can see how your delight at the spread pleases him.

The maps are set to the other end of the table that the three of you were not sat at. Until the maps are placed there, you did not question the seating arrangements. However, in many places — including Rivendell — either end of the table is usually occupied by the host and guest, yet, decidedly more intimately, all three of you share this one side.

As the attendants assemble each of your plates, adding more or less of what you want to it, you ask, “I was wondering about the lower trade passages that we might visit tomorrow. When did they fall out of use?” 

Legolas quietly thanks the attendant who places his plate down with a bow, then turns back to you. “They were sealed not a century ago, around the time of when Bilbo Baggins and the company of dwarves came around…it was an escape for them when they were held for..questioning at the time. Thus, it was closed.”

“To avoid other escape attempts?”

“From keeping spiders, and other unwanted visitors like the orcs, more recently out as well,” Thranduil. “I would not have such loathsome creatures enter my palace from such a trivially easy access point which is so simply sealed.”

“If not for the spiders, it would be worthwhile to consider opening it, adar,” Legolas suggests, piercing a mushroom with his fork. He looks back up to you, your eyes, sultry from the wings of the shadow, are fixed on him now. You are listening to him so attentively. “The trade area once brought wines, fruits, grains, salt, crafted goods, new fabrics from the boats. The boats would come from the lower channels and river docks in the lowest levels of the castle. Children used to sneak down there during preparations for feasts and the like.”

“As the corruption worsened it became important to close them,” Thranduil says, briefly narrowing his eyes at Legolas.

“Well, then tomorrow, I hope we are able to truly heal some of the vines down there! I certainly have some new purpose. I did hear about some of the children’s hide and seek,” you giggle, thinking of Fergrath and Candaer’s stories.

“Yes, tomorrow,” Thranduil trails off, raising his eyebrows lightly, tapping his first finger against the table in thought. He looks from Legolas to you. “You know, my son has walked far beyond these borders, and is quite familiar with this changing world of men, dwarves, alliances, new routes and old roads.”

“Adar —” Legolas’s ears turn pink at the tips, at the open praise. You nod along looking from Legolas to his father politely, nibbling at your lower lip in thought.

“My son has always been more willing than I to see what lies beyond the trees,” Thranduil says, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Would Legolas not be better suited to travel with you? A better guide for you.” 

You stifle panic, but worry seeps into your mind despite that. He had to be the one there for the healing! Worse still, you wonder, is he trying to avoid seeing me tomorrow? It feels like the Elvenking is attempting to push you towards his son. Your heart thrums heavily at this notion, your eyes dart between Legolas and Thranduil. How does one say ‘no’ here?

“Prince Legolas has been generous with his knowledge. But I did not come only to learn the paths that may lead out of this realm,” you say reluctantly, lowering your chin avoiding looking at Legolas who suddenly becomes quite focused on his plate. With more confidence, staring into the eyes of the Elvenking, you assert, “If the wound is here, my lord, then I must understand what keeps it here.”

A reluctant, inverted smile tugged at his lips, accompanied by a brief, judgmental twitch of his nose. “You are very determined to find wounds where most have learned to simply walk around them.”

“I’m here for a purpose and I intend to see it through.”

“Very determined indeed.” 

Legolas, watches his father and you in the candlelight. You are leaned in, determination splayed all across your face and his father is in amused repose: leaned back in the chair, elbow on the arm, with his fingers clutching the wine chalice by the rim. In the dark of the king’s palace, it is still not dark enough to justify the black of Thranduil’s pupils. Between the hungry look on his father’s face and the tension in his jaw as you refuse to yield, his father's attraction to this rare emissary is obvious. Confirming what he had thought at the ball, Legolas realizes how long it has been since he has seen his father look this alive. But yet, Thranduil is pushing him to court this healer? 

As he looks to you, a similar attraction beginning to brew behind your challenging look to the king, he realizes the scheme at play. Understanding the game afoot, Legolas adds, “Adar, you know the maps and something tells me your memories would serve better for her healing, as I understand it.” You look at Legolas, gratefully. 

At this, Thranduil’s jaw tightens, eyes shut. For a moment, he says nothing, only inhaling deeply, as if drawing his temper back behind his teeth. When his eyes returned to yours, they were bright with controlled displeasure. And when he speaks, the words come clipped and polished. 

“I will accompany you.”

Legolas looks down into his wine as though hiding a smile. You take a triumphant bite of fish.

Scene 4 – After Dinner

The dinner did not only consist of interrogation, but rather of tales of Legolas’s recent travels, ranging from the rebuilding efforts in Esgaroth to the Beornings along the Andean River paths. Most interestingly, he has begun to explore Ithilien, a place within Gondor that seems to finally be healing after the War. 

You see Legolas look to his father longingly as he describes Ithilien. “It was scarred with shadow and war, yet today…” he shakes his head, almost not believing it himself, “today, it is a land with flowers and gardens, herbs, and streams returning there. There are some Gondorian outposts we have been building.”

Thranduil closes his eyes, imagining land, healed. “Adar, I have seen a wounded land breathe again,” Legolas says.  

“I would love to learn more about the herbs there!” Delighted by the news of that region’s revival, you grin at him. 

“I’ll have to bring you some when I return,” Legolas says.

“I’d love that, though, I may have returned home by then,” you say, excitement falling slightly. The Elvenking’s jaw shifted at this, tongue running slowly along the inside of his teeth. Your words hang in the air for a moment.

Then, Galion reenters. “My lord, the hour —“

“Yes, yes, Galion. Do escort our emissary to her quarters,” Thranduil commands. “The hour is getting late for such an eventful tomorrow.”

“Actually, I would be happy to escort her, adar,” Legolas interjects, cutting off Galion for the second time tonight.

“Galion will see her to her chambers.” The Elvenking stands. You stand with him, as manners would ask of you. Legolas looks about to protest when Thranduil holds a ring-adorned hand up to silence him, his eyes flashing with warning. A final word.

You curtsy, the ruby velvet of the dress pooling on the ground as you bend. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my lord. I look forward to addressing the corruption with you tomorrow. My Prince, thank you for your delightful company as well.” 

Legolas walks around the table, around his father whose lips are pursed as he watches his son move towards you. As you stand, the Prince takes your hand, kissing the back of it gently, bowing slightly. 

“Dear healer, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors tomorrow.” With that Galion ushers you out the door. You look back before you exit, stealing one last glance at the Elvenking. 

Your eyes meet his own and for a moment, you are surrounded by an inky blackness where the rest of the room falls away, and it is you and him in a void. 

You take another step out from the door, your heart beating loudly against your chest and a weightless turning in your stomach that tingles down to your core. You breathe in the cold, jarring air of the halls once you leave the warm wing. It is sobering. 

----------------------------

Left standing by the table, the two Sindar elves, the regent of and the heir to the Woodland Realm watch the door still even seconds after you departed.

Legolas is the first to turn and face his father. Thranduil is still transfixed on the door. Feeling eyes upon him, he breaks his trance, finally turning to face his son. Legolas gives him a knowing look, shaking his head, walking to the other side of the table to the untouched maps. 

“What a thinly veiled effort this was,” Legolas shoves the maps on the table towards the Elvenking who turns to face the prince, scorned. He slowly shifts his shoulders, eyes cold and blue again.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Thranduil says, gesturing to the end of the table where the food had been cleared but three wine goblets sat, all empty or close to it. “I clearly put plenty of effort into the evening.” 

Legolas strides back up to his father. “You invited her to dinner without telling me until just two hours before, you placed her next to you at the feast despite her not holding titles, I saw the way you looked at her during the Feast, and I saw it just now,” the Prince lists, eyes fierce, finger pointed.

This time, Thranduil’s voice lowers, coursing with authority, “I’m not sure what you are referring to.” Standing in olive, wrapped in red, Thranduil appears as if he is wrapped in wrath itself, the fire that flickers and plays off of the satin of the lining of the robe a threat rather than warmth. 

“Is it not obvious? Unless you yourself don’t even realize!” Legolas raises his own voice to match. “Pushing some arrangement…you’ve grown fond of her in some way. Do not deny it.”

Thranduil’s hand closed slowly at his side. Fingers fold into his palm until his knuckles go pale, rings pressing into his skin. A cord tightens along his throat, sharp beneath the fall of his hair. And for one suspended breath, he says nothing at all. Then he turns away, reaching for the wine, and pouring with such tense precision that the silence felt far more dangerous than his raised voice. Glass in hand, Thranduil crosses to the hearth, putting distance between himself and his son.

“Your silence is damning,” Legolas calls out as his father walks away from him, though he has enough wisdom to know not to follow. 

Thranduil stares into the fire, clutching the goblet so firmly that the metal is almost at risk of warping. The fire burns into his eyes, drying them. He embraces the sting of ash for a moment before pressing them shut. “Greenwood forbid that I care to arrange you with someone worthy, that you express clear interest in.”

“Adar nin,” Legolas pleads, softening his voice, “Let me be clear; I do admire her. She is beautiful, she is interesting, skilled, noble in spirit and by honorable approval of her Lords, but—”

“I fail to see how any of this proves why this is a poor match,” Thranduil bites out.

“I have my own road. I am helping rebuild this land after everything that has happened, after events that shaped the world beyond what you had yet seen in your millennia. That is worthy!” Legolas retorts, exasperated. “What is worse, is that you know this,” the prince says, lowering his voice to a quiet accusation. He approaches the hearth. “You know this, and yet you use me to place between yourself and what you want. You would make me the shape of your restraint to deny yourself. You’d keep me from what I desire, and her from you, who she clearly wants for.” His expression twists, briefly.

Legolas, now a foot from his father, looks up into eyes that mirror his own. “You want for her, father. I see it, the whole court saw it that night of the Feast, even the damned forest sees it, based on what I saw with the vines that night. Must you truly be the last?” Legolas lets his hands fall to his side with his expression. In that moment, Thranduil sees the last emotion he wished to ever witness on his son’s face. Pity.

Like a tidal wave, wrathful, cold fury boils up within him. Before he can verbally retort with the true vengeful venom of his wit, Legolas walks to the door and leaves, unceremoniously. 

Flinging the contents of his cup into the fire, and watching it blaze white for a moment, bursting up and licking up the back of the fireplace, he watches the fire return to its curling orange flame. Even the fucking white blaze of the fire reminds him of you, your magic. The feeling in his chest is growing increasingly inescapable. And embarrassingly impossible to hide. He’d already failed at that. 

He couldn’t send you away; the possibility of your healing — something he’d admit he’d grown increasingly faithful in — is too vital to the health of his realm. And his idea of pairing his son with you, keeping you close, keeping your sharp words at his throat  — not just now but for a long, long time — failed tonight.

Yet, possibility blooms in his chest for a moment as he remembers his son’s words, she wants for me. He thinks on your face at dinner, full of vivacity, challenge, and your words full of clever earnestness, and your mouth that speaks them. His eyes sting again. He’d stared into the hypnotic flame for too long, imagining your curves in the shapes of the fire. 

Desperation tugs at him and all he can do is blink and try to quash this pitiful hope, quell whatever desire he could, summon whatever control he could by tomorrow when he is with you...alone, lest his own darkness swallow the light you bleed.

Next Chapter: Chapter 13

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Scene 1 – Navë’s Interogation

“I came as soon as I heard you were back,” Navë barges into your quarters where you were lost in thought, laying on a couch, your second glass of wine placed on the floor for easy access. “What happened?”

“I made a new deal to be able to get back out into the forest with you all again.” You decide to lead with the…safer news. Your owl-eyed apprentice’s excited expression fell slightly. 

“What?” 

Unimpressed, she looks at you, crosses her arms, and asks, “Was that all?” 

“It depends on what you consider ‘all,’” you say, covering your eyes with your arm. The words he said in the garden swam in your head. From a pet name like “sharp one” or even telling you that his late wife was not his One, and even that one moment where you swear you felt something more, you are left to ponder and think of Mirkwood’s king. Valar, you held his hand! 

Despite all of this, you can only dwell on what he said before you left.

Navë gave you a merciless stare. You crack, saying the most troubling thing on your mind. “I don’t know, I felt like there was something for a moment,”

Both of her eyebrows disappear behind her bangs in surprise. “Something?”

“Well, between the dance, and seeing him in his gardens alone…I…we were standing closely,” you decide against getting more specific. “And there was a moment. And I don’t know, but I think I was wrong about it all.” Your mind drifts to the inky blackness of his eyes, how his pale blue eyes were eclipsed by his pupils, how he looked at you with the hunger of someone starving, insatiable.

“Would you have wanted that moment to be something?” Navë asks softly. This is her king, a leader of her people for her whole life, how could I just promise something? You feel torn between telling her about the beating of your heart or the feeling you get when he pays attention to you and only you. 

“He told me, ‘I think you would be a suitable match for my son.’” 

“We did figure the Prince really enjoyed your company, especially after the dance, but this…” You watch the same rounds of confusion flit through Navë’s face. First perturbation as she tilted her head, then bewilderment as she pursed her lips, shaking her head, then, she opened and closed her mouth, trying to find any way to react to the king’s suggestion.

“I know,” you groan.

“Didn’t you miss the Prince in order to see the King? That question is…surprising.” You nod, laughing despite yourself. You sit up. “And you said you felt something between you?”

“Yes! There was definitely a moment. Navë, this is a horrific situation,” you take out your mother’s swan clasp, letting it sit in your palm. You trace the swans on it. “I don’t know how to navigate this.” You gesture broadly.

“I’ve helped plenty of diplomats who come here. Never in my time have I heard of such a situation, my lady.” You wrack your mind for what to do. If I never reconnect or explain why I did not show for Prince Legolas, then I will let down both Thranduil and Legolas. The Prince and King of the Realm I am supposed to by forging ties with. 

Forging ties, you scoff at the ironic (or was it just deeply pertinent) choice of words.

“I need you to find out where Prince Legolas is. I need to apologize for missing our meeting.”

“My lady, it’s getting to be late afternoon, I might not find out until early night.”

“It’s worth the risk, I think.”

“Very well.” Navë leaves the room, knowing she is probably only half burdened with what happened between her king and her new mentor. 

Just as you finish dinner in your room, Navë returns. “I found out from some ellith who…owes me, and who may or may not fancy the Prince, that he is practicing in the soldier’s archery range, and he is frustrated.” She winks.

“Valar’s sake, you are worse than Istel, my mentor,” you laugh.

“It’s exciting to be so close to everything going on with you, my lady. I mean to say, there has been a long period where Prince Legolas has not returned to the realm.”

“I figured as much, given his role in the War of the Ring,” your eyebrows knit together. “Though, is there something else I should be aware of?”

Navë wrings her wrists, “The understanding among Galion’s staff is that the Prince and his father have a bit of a strained relationship; disagreements about the openness of the kingdom, the king’s intense leadership, and the like.” 

As you listen to your apprentice explain, you think back to Thranduil’s garden when you asked about his wife…when you realized his grief wasn’t about losing his One. Thranduil’s grief is not just the one loss, but the many. First his father (as the histories go), then his wife, and recently: his son who you must go apologize to.

“Thank you,” you place the wine glass on the ottoman in the center of the area, then rise and make your way to the chair where you left your original cloak, not forgetting the midday temperatures. 

“Can’t wait to hear the full story later,” she calls after you, arms crossed, as you hurriedly leave the room. 

Scene 2 – Archery Range

Do you know where the archery range is? No. Does Fergrath shyly correct you as you continuously make wrong turns in your haste? Absolutely. 

“Here, spider-slayer,” Fergrath rolls his eyes, gesturing to a door that you charged past. 

You murmur a bashful ‘thanks,’ and walk in, wearing the same autumnal amber dress from your midday visit to the garden. The room smells of chalk and hay. Targets, sloppily stuffed with hay, linen bags that contain the stray, painted hoops upon the surfaces are deeply torn and spilling out along the tall area beneath a high cave ceiling. White haired and aggressively loosing arrow after arrow, knocking them with deep accuracy and masterful speed, the Prince takes a sideways stance. 

At your small ‘thanks,’ Legolas looses a final arrow, following through for a moment, and watching it miss the center cluster by one ring. The one exception to probably eight bulls-eye center shots in the round.

“I thought the library would be more convenient for you, but this works,” Legolas rests his bow against a small stool, approaching you. Fergrath hangs back at the door, slowly slipping to the hallway outside of the archery range. 

“About that,” you start, looking at the ground, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Yes?” Legolas amusedly lifts an eyebrow, leaning on one leg.

“I wanted to apologize for not coming this afternoon. I had another obligation that took me from you, but I could have sent another letter to let you know. I’m sorry.”

“Do you still wish to spend time before I depart?” He asks, easily taking your two hands in his. They’re rough from the bow and its harsh string, hot from overuse this evening. They are different from Thranduil’s regal but sword-trained hands which engulfed yours. Legolas looks into your face, trying to read your expressions, gauge your answer before you say it.

“If you are willing, I’d love to try the library again,” you give his hands a squeeze. 

“Do you know why I asked you to go to the library?” Legolas asks, softly. 

“N-no, actually.”

“I saw you learning my people’s dances with your guard there and I swear I saw the sun in my cloudy realm,” he pauses. Your eyes widen, a blush painting your cheeks. He was watching me? You think of all of your missteps or the times you flopped on the ground in defeat. 

He continues, “Then last night, I thought I saw the moon.”

Honeyed words or perhaps just his own heart, the words still flattered you to your core. “You honor me, my Prince,” you pull your hands from his, curtsying. 

“Will midday tomorrow work this time?” Legolas asks, walking backwards towards his bow with a grin.

You tap your chin, in fake-consideration, “This time, I do think so.”

“I look forward to it. Meet me by the maps on the fourth floor.” He knocks an arrow, but you don’t stay to see where it lands. 

____________________________

Later at dinner in the king’s personal wing, Legolas and Thranduil sit for dinner. It had been silent for at least ten minutes. 

“Adar, how was your day?” Legolas relinquishes, breaking the silence. 

“Eventful,” Thranduil takes a bite of the fish on his plate. “Yours?”

“Tomorrow might be better,” he says slowly, looking down to his plate, trying to determine if he should ask his father’s advice or not. 

“Oh? And why might that be, ion nîn?” Thranduil asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I plan on seeing the elleth from the Grey Havens again,” Legolas starts, gauging his father’s reaction. “She was not able to make it today to the library. Something else, more important than a call from myself got in the way. Might you or Galion know anything about that?” The king’s son twists around to cast a suspicious glance towards the king’s attendant who wore his usual resting expression which typically ranges from neutral to slightly-displeased. 

Thranduil gives a knowing exhale. “Yes, I called forth my healer this afternoon to conference with her.”

“Your healer? Doesn’t she belong to the Grey Havens or Rivendell?” Legolas scoffs. 

“Until she aids in addressing the corruption of the forest, then she is a healer in my halls. Regardless, we had a productive conversation. She is an incredible ellith, even if she is half-ellith. She is a Child of the Falathrim and human, and as you know, she is incredibly well regarded by Elrond and Círdan, an accomplished healer,” Thranduil’s chest tightens as he sings her praises to his son. Of course, she had to be all of these things. She is impossible to discount.

“That would explain why she could not come today, then,” Legolas frowns. A dark feeling of satisfaction at you visiting him instead of his son washes over the Elvenking, which he repudiates immediately. “She is incredible, Adar, but I must leave to go back to my original purpose soon. Would it be worth pursuing this connection now?”

“I suggested it myself that she should see you,” Thranduil says. It’s a truth. He did say it. It sat uncomfortably in his mind. 

Legolas perks up at this, “An endorsement? I’m surprised. Going from not telling me of her existence to suggesting we spend time together.”

“Mm, she’s surprising.” Thranduil looks over from the dining table to the sitting room where you sat just a handful of days ago.

“She came to see me this evening at the Archery Range.” The Prince watches his father lift his fork to his lips and then pause on the way up. 

“Really?” A cold tone matches with a cold expression on the king’s face. 

“Yes, she asked me if I would consider rescheduling.”

“How prudent of her to listen to my advice,” the Elvenking smiles, though Legolas can see just how empty his father’s smile truly is. His mind must have been spinning elsewhere. 

“Are you well, Ada?” The Prince narrows his eyes, also looking to the chair, but not understanding why that chair captured his father’s attention.

“Today was eventful. That is all.” 

Scene 3 – Red Lines

Legolas enters the library in a deep evergreen tunic and polished black boots, gold accents catching the light as the librarian greets him.

“Maps again?” Parmandil asks, crossing their arms, not looking up from their current reading.

“Certainly. With company this time,” Legolas says. This gets their attention. 

Looking up from their novel, they ask, “With company? You don’t say….who? If I can inquire, that is.” 

It is then that you walk in, dressed in a light blue dress, flowing and light. It is something you might’ve worn at home in Mithlond or even in Rivendell in the late spring. Yet, the journey to the library is quick enough and the room is warm enough that you don’t bring a cloak. 

The librarian’s question goes unanswered by Legolas, but they certainly observe the Prince’s reaction to seeing you walk in.

“Prince Legolas, good afternoon,” you smile, walking in with Fergrath trailing behind you. 

Your name escapes his lips like a whisper on the wind when he turns to see you. “I’m glad you came,” he gives a nervous laugh, “this time.”

“I’m glad to be here,” you grimace, taking his dig on the chin. “Now, are you here to show me where you watched me an abnormal amount or did you have something else in mind?” You tease, easily lacing your arm through his.

“I – erm – something else! Something else. Maps, actually,” Legolas clarifies, just the slightest bit flustered by your forwardness. 

“Maps?” Fun…a geography lesson…

Looking at the hesitant look on your face, he adds, “Once I learned more of your purpose here from my father and witnessed some of your healing, I figured it would be worthwhile to show you the grounds you may need to cover once you are able to consistently heal some of the corruption. At least, that’s something I had planned for yesterday.” Ah, a very useful geography lesson.

“That makes more sense,” you say, “that’s really thoughtful.” You did already have this understanding from Hareth, but you allow him to guide you up the stairs to the fourth floor, the opposite side of where you danced with Fergrath, learning the dances that you would ultimately do with Legolas, then the king. 

“So this is where you spied on me, hm?” you giggle, clasping your hands behind your back and walking around the tables, glancing at several large atlases opened to various maps. 

Legolas shakes his head laughing, “I stole glances where I could, but I have actually been working on this.” He walks you over to the table near the rail. A map of old trade roads, surely overgrown now exists, laid out. Next to it, a close copy with black and red ink, red lining the old paths around the Woodland Realm. Its lines are delicate, skilled, if a little shakier than the original.

“This is really well done,” you say, tracing the red lines lightly. “Did you teach yourself?”

“Certainly not, no. I was very lucky to have a talented tutor. Everyone needs a mentor for something they hope to be truly skilled in.”

“I always say that!” You whisper-shout, a grin across your face. 

He gives you a grin back, “It’s only the truth,” he says. “But regardless, you were quite the distraction while I was trying to get this done. I have been tasked to try to figure out alternative ways to get around the corruption in the Woodland Forest.”

“So you mean, you didn’t just come here for the Feast.” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“No, of course not,” he starts, before mirroring your sarcasm, “Though, it influenced my timing significantly.” He pushes off of the table you both are leaning over. “If you take a look at this atlas, that I pulled yesterday…” he teases.

“Sorry again,” you interrupt with a puckish smile.

“Yes, yes, you should be. But, this atlas actually shows the grounds of this palace, like according to the dance you did with my father.”

“Green Boughs?” You ask, looking over his shoulder.

“The very one.”

“Was there something special about the dance? Did something about it help you heal the vines?” He looks at you eagerly, with the innocent pride one might feel after completing a puzzle.

“I –” you hesitate. What should I say? ‘Legolas, your father’s grief and loneliness might be corrupting this kingdom. Got a map for that one?’ “Probably not.”

“I see,” Legolas says, a bit dejected.

“It’s difficult to say. I have had mixed results, including a situation in the First Grove where my healing backfired,” you explain.

“Frankly, I’m surprised my father let you venture out of the palace at all, even getting such free access to our halls.”

“I am constantly escorted. I would use the word ‘free’ lightly,” you scoff. 

“He’s quite protective of our realm. The king has survived by holding everything…tightly. Adar nin remembers what this forest was. I think sometimes he forgets that it may yet become something else if the shutters remain closed without the willingness to open them and let the breeze pass through. Though, let none say he did not aid in the battles for Middle Earth’s survival. It is fair to say he is protective over most things he considers ‘his domain.’”

Does he consider me part of his domain? You realize, part of you wants him to. Instead of letting that slip out, you stifle those ideas, managing to politely muster, “He does clearly care very much for the realm, and you, my Prince.”

“I like to think so,” Legolas purses his lips, leaning onto the table, letting his hair fall forward. “He can be…” He looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “He can be a lot.”

“You said it. I feel as though as a diplomat, doing her very best to please this court, any further commentary might be…”

“Incredibly amusing.”

“I was going to say inappropriate, but I like your answer too.” He laughs, before his smile falls as he retreats into his own mind. You look back down at the atlas. Maybe I can trust him. Before you can tell him about his father, before you can explain why you need to learn more about his memories or his past, he speaks.

“I wish to keep things honest between us,” the Prince holds your gaze cradling earnestness in his countenance. What does he wish to say?

“Please,” you say, meeting his earnestness by leaning forward, projecting your own sincerity. You purse your lips in anticipation for what Legolas says.

“As a son of my father, as he is so bound by duty to his realm, sometimes I wonder if he considers his own wishes. And if he doesn’t consider his own, I wonder, does he consider mine? This,” Legolas gestures between himself and you standing there at the edge of the tables, half-illuminated by the light from the ceiling and half by the lantern light. “Us spending time together. Is it something he encouraged for you as well?”

“Well, let me ask you, did you ask me here because of the king?” You ask, defensively.

“No, and you know that,” he narrows his eyes, a sly smile on his face. “But, did he encourage you to see me?”

“He seemed to think your company would be…suitable.” You admit, biting at the inside of your cheek, nervous he might be surprised by this information, but if he is, he doesn’t show it.

“What do you think?” He asks, leaving enough space between you for you to think clearly. You take in the whole of his countenance. He’s handsome with his cheekbones, his kind eyes, and lithe form. 

“I think it would be too soon for anyone to know,” you say, an apologetic look on your face. You know your response is baked in pragmatism, your emissary role bubbling up to the surface. “Why?” You cross your arms.

“Are you, as they say you are? Half-elven?”

“I am,” you say, though you are unsure as to why it is brought up in this moment, of all moments.

The Prince sighs. “I knew one other half-elleth. You may know her.”

“Arwen? I came to study healing just after she departed from Rivendell,” you frown, wishing he’d make his final point more clear.

“You remind me of her,” Legolas pauses, looking at your features, tracing the lines of your face with his eyes. “A beautiful half-elven woman standing unclaimed by one final fate at a great moment of change in Middle-earth. She chose what world she belonged in.” He looks back down at the table to the atlas, turned to a map of the Woodland Realm, zoomed in to his father’s palace. “I don’t know how many people get that choice.”

“I believe that people should always have a choice,” you say firmly, “Half-elven or not.” It’s like you see it grow from the candlelight that makes a crown of orange glow behind him, the weight of a future crown bears down on him. 

“You come after this War; Middle Earth is so changed,” Legolas closes his eyes, letting his hand fall off the map of these grounds. “You come at such a unique time: Arwen before the war, and now you come here, after the War, asking a forest that has survived by closing itself to choose whether it might open again. They call my home Mirkwood, yet at this moment you are here seeking to heal this land, to open us to cooperation with the other elven realms. And you got my father to accept you here!” 

He lifts his hand to his temple, massaging it gently, “I meant it when I asked how he allowed you such freedom, but perhaps I meant to ask you how you even got him to agree to you healing parts of his realm. I cannot help wondering whether you came now for a reason. Not for my father’s reason, nor even for the reasons written by Elrond and Círdan. For the forest.”

A pang in your chest rings out as you look to the ellon in front of you, so genuinely concerned for his father, for these woods. In that moment, you open to him; “I need to tell you, my Prince, I do believe the king is connected to the pulse of the corruption in the woods. I believe that I can help heal the forests through his memories.” 

Legolas’s brows raise in surprise. His eyes flit as he tries to check it against his own memories and observations of his father. Then, his mind settles on his memory of his father dancing ‘Green Boughs’ with you, holding you, whispering in your ear, and the glow of your steps, and the vines retracting…and then it’s all quite clear to him: why his father nudged you here today. 

“It seems my father has decided I am useful,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. He presses his eyes shut and pinches his nose bridge. It catches you off guard.

“Are you not?” You ask him, squinting at him, trying to discern what conclusion he just came to.

“Rarely in the way he intends,” he offers a weak smile. “Regardless, when you make your choice of where you belong, if you are meant to choose a place in this changing world…I will admit, selfishly, that I hope you find something here worth choosing.” He takes your hand and presses a light kiss to the back of it. You blush, and your mind races. What has he figured out?

The Prince opens his mouth to say something, reconsiders, then says, “If your healing can continue what it did at the Feast while dancing with my father, then I have some places in mind that would be incredibly helpful for you to address,” sliding his trade routes map in front of you.

Next Chapter: Chapter 12

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