#dorwinion

In the blue dawn light, the taverns are still humming with patrons by the time the first rumor-leaf hits the steps of the counting house. Mist from the river drifts in through the open window, mingling with the thick smoke of pipe-weed. The parchment nailed to the counting-house door curls in the moist air.

By order of the Tharlond Counting-House: Trade with Dorwinion suspended pending inquiry. Speculation punishable by fine of three silver coins.

The first river courier barges in, door swinging open, chairs scraping on the floor as the half-drunk patrons of the night before crane their necks to hear what he had to say.

“Fire on the Anduin.” He mutters, breathless, before shouting.“Shipments from Dorwinion burst into flames!”

The barkeep barks a short laugh. “‘Course it did.” he snorts. “The Gondorian barge burned itself, it did. They packed it too tight with pitch barrels and struck a lantern.” He wipes a mug down in the dim light. “Now they’re blaming Dorwinion so they don’t pay the insurance.”

The room erupts into mutters and low chattering. A bargeman, Dale colors lining his cloak, leans back in his seat. “Nah, mate, I seen it. Flames weren’t red at all. Blue, then white, like frost on steel. That’s Elvish fire. Bet the wine was cursed to keep us mortals from drinking too much.” Some mutters of agreement follow.

“Elvish fire indeed. Word from Pelargir says the barrels bore Elven seals. Elves! The same that swore purity before the King. Poison in the wine, treason in the trade.” A soldier grumbles into his drink, taking another long swig. His Gondorian armor full of dents and scratches, but still polished and prideful.

A Rohan captain leans back in his seat, the final dredges of ale glimmering in his mug. “Nay, not the elves. If anything it’s those halfbreeds in Dorwinion themselves. Dale’s ledgers prove it: thirty barrels shipped, twenty-nine arrived. The thirtieth was a decoy, full of ash and witch-runes. Dorwinion’s been cutting the good stuff with river water for years.”

“Either way, nothin’s leaving Dorwinion’s ports til’ this clears up.”

“Gondorian trade will tide us over, sure enough.”

The muttering in the tavern grows restless as countless rumors fly free:

“Somethin’ chewed her open from underneath. River-wyrms, I say, or worse—”

Couriers, already on their way to other taverns and to sell the messages to Dale bargemen, wait in the waters of the port.

Legolas enters the city of Dorwinion at dawn expecting courtly chaos; he finds, instead, the entire northern port rioting.

His orders are clear – nothing but accounting issues, minor diplomacy at worst – but this was beyond his measure. Someone bumps past his horse carrying a barrel full of rotten grapes, promptly hurling it at a freshly-hung sign, stamped with the crest of the leading House of Dorwinion, on the port notice board – ‘All shipments south are stalled until further notice’.

The pale limestone streets of the city are packed tight with people, pushing each and every way, faces livid and manner fierce in their anger. The red roofs of the buildings mirror the sun breaking its way on the horizon, a bleeding dawn scented with wine and sweat. He meanders his horse through the crowd, watchful eyes meeting him from every direction. Under his thick woodland hood, he stands out against the linens and loose fabrics of the warm Dorwinion early autumn.

The city isn’t ablaze yet at the very least, he notes, and continues along the docks towards where the central crowd is gathered. People move out of his way once he drops his hood; his elven features, while not uncommon in the city, still marking him as a dusty outsider from the North.

“We can’t even buy grain anymore!” he hears someone yelling from the crowd, affirming cries following the words.

“We need our wages!”

“The shipments are gathering dust! Even the dwarves aren't buying it out!”

Idle crews of merchants and ships sit in the port, all irate with nowhere to take their anger out but at the one figure at the center of the crowds.

Dismounting from his horse and tying it up near the water, he makes his way forward, pressing through the thrumming crowd. The figure at the center; a lone harbour herald, plum robes billowing in the cool dawn breeze, bronze crest of House Varinel flashing by the waist. His voice carries through the cries and clamouring on the dock:

“By order of the Dorwinion City Council and the Regent’s Seal!

All foreign shipments are hereby suspended pending investigation of the Pelargir disaster. No vessels shall depart the lower docks without council writ or inspection token. Wages and storage fees will be held in trust until trade resumes.

Disorder on the quays will be met with arrest and seizure of goods!”

He rolled his parchment and coughed into his sleeve, the crowd no less tame than before. Hearing the crowd jeer at the herald — “Held in trust by who? Your pockets?” — Legolas pushes his way forward until he’s within earshot of the herald, who notices his dress and his elven features with scrutiny.

“I was told the Councilor would be at the docks.” He says to the man, whose features - not fully human, with a faint light of the Eldar, hair shining in the breeze of the dock - startle him.

“They’re in there,” he motions behind him, to a small building with a sign saying Trade Office, “But I doubt they’re receiving visitors at this time.” He sweeps Legolas up and down again with his eyes, taking in his dusty traveling gear and long blonde hair.

“Thank you.” Legolas nods lightly, and pivots towards the building. As he turns, the herald cries out again.

“The Council assures all honest citizens that the matter will be swiftly resolved. Remain orderly, and Dorwinion shall prosper again!”

It does nothing to quell the crowds.

Stepping into the cool air of the portside house, away from the chants and jeers of the crowd and the cries of gulls, Legolas sees another chaos unfolding before him.

“You can shout all day, the council’s coffers are dry. Pay stops when the ships stop.” You speak at the center of a small but not less angry crowd, marked by the olive and azure linens of the merchants and shipwrights guilds of the city.

“Then you should count your ships correctly.” Legolas’ calm voice carries through the room. His interruption is quiet, but it immediately stops any noise. A thick silence falls over the gathered crowd.

“And who are you?” Your eyes meet his, a blaze of fury and exhaustion behind the stare.

“Someone who just found forty-seven barrels missing from your manifest.”

“Forty seven aren’t missing; they are impounded.”

“Then your impound clerk has an impressive talent for subtraction.” He walks towards you, the room erupting in quiet murmurs at his entrance.

He hands you the page he is holding; you snatch it, eyes dancing over the figures you examine.

He’s right.

Infuritatingly, ineffably, correct.

Your voice low and icy, you mutter to him beyond the hum of the gathered merchants, “If you came to humiliate me–”

“I came to audit.”

“Same thing.” You shuffle the paper into your ledger, the spine almost bursting open with older parchments and stuffed notes. Voice clipped, you say, “We aren’t open to new accountant positions at this time. You can tell whichever kingdom that sent you that we thank them for their interest in Dorwinian matters.”

“It was not a request.”

Your eyes bore into his, neither of you backing away. The steward beside you coughs. Legolas hands you the second item he is holding – a rolled parchment, bearing the seal of the Woodland Realm.

“I trust this will be enough.”

Your eyes leave his to flicker down to the parchment in your hands, stamped with an emerald wax seal. There, in elegant script – the King’s own handwriting – states that he has sent his son and an envoy to observe matters over the issue of tariff discrepancies.

His son.

The elf standing in front of you, staring you down, was the son of the Woodland King himself, Prince Legolas.

As you read the parchment, picking nervously at the hem of your clothes, he reaches over and straightens one of your disordered ledgers with the quill you were just using.

How absolutely insufferable.

“We did not receive notice of your envoy arriving.” Your voice comes out cold as ice. Of course the elves would come sniffing for blood as soon as word reached them of the Pelargir explosion. You were sure other realms were soon to follow.

“I am the notice. I rode ahead.”

You huff under your breath. “Then you must forgive the disorder in receiving you, your highness.” Your jaw set at the words, razor sharp. “You understand we are in a delicate situation.”

“I do.” His grace and aloof calm, in contrast to the imploding situation on the docks, made your blood boil with frustration. Now was not a good time for receiving any royal envoys, especially from elves bleeding casual arrogance and poised barbs. “I will need to inspect the seals on the docks firsthand.”

“I’m sure you will find the time to do so once the riots outside die down.” One of your eyebrows twitches – in stress, or irritation, you aren’t sure. Perhaps it is both. You send a pointed glance in the direction of the window – the crowd still yelling at the herald.

“I will find all the time I need.” His smile is cold and clipped, as is his voice. The merchants in the room mumble in uncomfortable tones, disquieted by the elf in the room.

A dockhand bursts into the room, breaking the tension, yelling that a fight has broken out on the docks. You groan, losing your composure in the pure exhaustion of the day, and you follow the boy out into the crowd with your guards. To your dismay, the prince follows.

“It does not prevent me from counting,” he says in response to a frustrated look from you. You barely hear his calm voice above the rising rumble of the crowd, now anxiously watching the fight, but you hear enough to tick you off. You don’t have the time to respond. The crowd surges forward and you hear shouting from across the dock, a brawl already forming.

“If we hadn’t pushed the southern route so soon—” your steward mumbles beside you.

You cut him off, sharp and prideful: “Then Gondor would own the river by now. I’d rather risk scandal than surrender.”

The heat of the morning has settled over the city, the blazing early autumn sun barely lifted above the horizon already bearing down mercilessly. You push forward through the crowd along with your guards and steward, Legolas tailing, to find two guildsmen locked in a fight already spilling into the crowd.

“You put those cursed barrels there! I saw you!”

“The hell you did! We didn’t have shipments for days!”

One threw a punch that sent the other staggering back into the crowd. Both were bruised and bloody already.

Before you or your guards have the time to react, you see a flash of bright blonde hair out of the corner of your eye, and Legolas holding the wrist of the man getting up from the ground.

“Don’t.”

The man had pulled a crude knife into his hand, rage coloring his face. Legolas holds his forearm, stopping him, voice and poise full of heedless authority.

Your blood runs cold and the guards beside you spring into action, scrambling to re-assert their authority – ”By order of the Council, stand down!” – and Legolas steps back, letting the guards take over and deescalate the fight.

You pull him aside, snapping at him. “It’s not your place to meddle here!”

“Someone should have.” he said calmly.

“That someone should not have been a visiting royal – what if you had gotten hurt?”

He looks at you blankly. “They could not harm me.”

You huff in frustration, dropping your hand from his sleeve. “Since you rode ahead of your envoy and guards, I’ll escort you personally then. To make sure this situation does not happen again.”

A small smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “I look forward to our cooperation.”

By the time more papers land on your desk in the evening, the vineyard hands are already gossiping about the Mirkwood prince dispatched to inspect your stock and reserves privately, before the next Council of Barrels hold their own audit of Dorwinion wine shipments.

Your father puts the notice paper down with a heavy sigh.

You groan, your head falling on your crossed arms, leaning heavily on the mahogany desk.

“Happy you argued your way into investing more into the southern Anduin route now?” your father says, thick glasses pinching the high bridge of his nose.

“Don’t remind me.”

“This will be a mess to clean.”

“Yes. I’m aware.” you say, not looking up from your arms.

He sighs again, crumpling the paper in his hands and shoving it across the desk. He adjusts his thin bronze glasses–his one nervous giveaway–and stands, dark plum robes swishing lightly in the late summer heat.

“Make sure the Mirkwood elves and whoever else that comes sniffing don’t find anything. The Council is days away. Days.”

You look up at him, eyes defeated. His sun-bronzen skin, aging gracefully from the elven heritage of your house, is pulled taut in a deep frown.

“And if they do?”

“They won’t if you do your job right.” He looks down the end of his nose at you, before turning away and heading for the door of the pavilion. “Your ambition led to that shipment burning. Your ambition led to those runes being set ablaze.”

One final glance at you. “Fix it. Whatever it takes.”

The door swings shut behind him with a painfully final click, the echo of his footsteps fading on the limestone path into the cooler evening air.

You bury your face in your hands, elbows pressed against the desk. Piles of papers surround you, dropped by hurried ravens in the past few days. A light breeze filtered past the curtains of the pavilion, the final golden rays of light shifting the marble room into a golden haven. If only it could bottle this peace internally.

The elven prince arriving with no notice means you need to act now. From his inspection that morning, he found nothing suspicious – but then again, you led him to the shipments you knew were clean. He was not here because of the Pelargir explosion as you assumed, but because King Thranduil wanted to inspect the elven seals on older Dorwinion shipments. At least that was his excuse, and as such, it was only a matter of time until he goes where he’s not supposed to.

Now you had to make sure no one else that arrived knew of the secret either.

The sound of bells broke your stall. Seven tolls – The Council of Dorwinion would convene the following dawn for an emergency meeting.

⤷ Dorwinion Red Masterlist ┈─★

⤷ Legolas x Reader Masterlist ┈─★

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