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@feytouchedink
Masterlist for FeyTouchedInk
Multifandom, but currently fixated on BG3, Critical Role, and LoTR My AO3: feytouchedink
Currently Writing: What You Deny: A Thranduil x Reader Longfic
Ships
Thranduil x Reader
(Gif Credit: ENIGMA on Pinterest)
What You Deny – Thranduil x half elf!Reader (Updating Fridays)
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 - Friday 7/31 (end of Act II)
Act III – The King's Wound
What You Deny – Chapter 12, "A Dinner, Arranged"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Summary: Conversations and preparations are made for a dinner, hosted by the Elvenking. Legolas, already cynical about his father's intentions, will be in attendance. With questions about Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan's intentions for you as a diplomat rising, you still seek to further the goals that you do know need your help: addressing the corruption with the king.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 11
Author's Note: I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for literal weeks, almost months. I am so excited to share this with you! Enjoy!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
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: Next Friday!
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Oh easy mistake. Yearning actually rises from the floor and longing hangs from the ceiling
What You Deny – Chapter 12, "A Dinner, Arranged"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Summary: Conversations and preparations are made for a dinner, hosted by the Elvenking. Legolas, already cynical about his father's intentions, will be in attendance. With questions about Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan's intentions for you as a diplomat rising, you still seek to further the goals that you do know need your help: addressing the corruption with the king.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 11
Author's Note: I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for literal weeks, almost months. I am so excited to share this with you! Enjoy!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
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: Next Friday!
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quote from Pan’s Flute ⚜︎
Thranduil. Vigorous Spring. King of Mirkwood.
What You Deny – Chapter 11, "The Prince's Map"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 3.9k
Summary: After the shock of Thranduil's suggestion with regards to the Prince, you seek Prince Legolas out, determined to apologize for missing the meeting but also to decipher where his true feelings lie, since yours are complex. Does Legolas even know about his father's intentions to match the two of you? And you realize, against higher wisdom, that you have grown infatuated with the Elvenking.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 10
Author's Note: Hi bbs, post-cliffhanger, I hope this chapter answers some questions and sets up for even more tension - mwahahaha! Love you all so much! Welcome my new people, and if you've been following from week to week, thank you so much for sticking around! I look forward to your comments every week now! They're my greatest treasure!! Enjoy this chapter, spider-slayers.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
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: Next Friday!
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Royal Sketches 👑⚔️
What You Deny – Chapter 11, "The Prince's Map"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 3.9k
Summary: After the shock of Thranduil's suggestion with regards to the Prince, you seek Prince Legolas out, determined to apologize for missing the meeting but also to decipher where his true feelings lie, since yours are complex. Does Legolas even know about his father's intentions to match the two of you? And you realize, against higher wisdom, that you have grown infatuated with the Elvenking.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 10
Author's Note: Hi bbs, post-cliffhanger, I hope this chapter answers some questions and sets up for even more tension - mwahahaha! Love you all so much! Welcome my new people, and if you've been following from week to week, thank you so much for sticking around! I look forward to your comments every week now! They're my greatest treasure!! Enjoy this chapter, spider-slayers.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
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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Anytime Legolas is being great (which is most times) I’m thinking aww. He is not wonderful by accident. He didn't just happen to turn out that great. What I'm saying is: Thranduil
I blocked off the day to write, but the problem is that chapter 22 (the one I am currently drafting) is like SO LONG. Like 9 scenes. It’s going to be a little angsty and very fluffy and a lil smutty, which…love that! But lowkey I might need to chop it up into 2-3 chapters because I’ve done the first 2.5 scenes and it’s already almost 4k words. But then Act 4 will have SO many more chapters than the other Acts I have planned.
20k word chapters probs shouldn’t happen if I can help it, but aghhhhh they’re so tempting!
But in true writer fashion…first step is to just write the damn thing!
The way I just split that chapter twice already hahahaha I’m so dumb. Act 4 is going to be so long whoops!
ah yes my favourite trope
Oh ma lord holy fine shyt bro
I literally can't wait for LOTR - Hunt for Gollum to come out,
cuz the Thranduil stories will start coming back 😛😼 MUAHAHAH
MORE THRANDUIL FICS PLSSSSS IM SO READY
What You Deny – Chapter 10, "Things Worth Asking"
Pairing: Thranduil x half elf!Reader
Word count: 2.8k
Summary: It is clear that you must address Thranduil's beckoning first before you see Legolas. Before the full height of day, Galion brings you to a very special place to Thranduil where you have a very...revealing conversation with the Elvenking. In moments of quiet and conversation, intimacy can blossom, unless the king further denies the tug that he feels for you.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 9
Author's Note: Hi folks! This chapter is special in that there is really only one scene in this chapter and it’s a lil short, BUT lots of romantic plot and delicious convo happens in this one. Ugh, I love writing Thranduil's banter with the reader, it's just so fucking sexy and fun. As for comments, I had someone ask me if they could be thirsty in my comments. Ummmm the thirstier the better as far as I am concerned, don't be shy. As always, I live for your reactions :))) Enjoy bbs!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Galion comes to retrieve you before mid-day You hear him through the door, speaking with Candaer, though it is muffled.
“No guards are necessary for this. The king trusts that she will be well looked after with me, thank you.”
You hear Candaer reply, “What? Are you sure?” You finish pinning your mother’s swan clip to the hair ribbon that holds half of your hair back.
“Yes,” Galion replies, coolly. As the door opens, he mutters under his breath, “Unbelievable.”
“Good morning, Galion,” you greet, curtsying lightly in a satin, amber sheath dress. The tight sleeves start at the tops of your shoulders (from the wide neckline) and come to a point on the tops of your hands. You wear a small smile on your face. Galion looks so funny when he’s frazzled. An eyebrow twitching and shoulders raised to his pointed ears, Thranduil’s head of staff stiffly holds his hands in front of his torso at elbow height.
“Is it still morning? This day seems to be carrying on,” he murmurs. “Follow me.” You giggle, looking at a now flustered Candaer who looks into your quarters for Navë, possibly to verify his interpretation of that rather rude interaction.
You follow Galion into the central chamber, then down an unfamiliar pathway. “Where are we going?”
“It is an alternative way of getting to the king’s private gardens,” Galion says tersely. He purses his lips. “He can access it from his personal wing, but I thought it might be inappropriate for you to enter into his personal wing so soon after you had been there and so soon after the ball.” Prudent. Navë would have suggested the same thing.
You scurry to catch up to the ellon. He is rather tall and walks incredibly fast. He must know about the nature of this meeting. Is it…friendly? What does the king wish to discuss? “Galion,” you ask, testing how willing to talk he may be.
You hear a sigh. “Yes?”
“Why did the king send for me?”
Galion rolls his eyes. “You assume he tells me everything.” He turns to look at you with a sideways glance, “He doesn’t.”
You laugh out loud at this. “I made no such assumptions; he seems to be rather reserved.” Galion allows a small smile to sneak onto his face.
“Indeed. So, no, I am not sure. Though, even if I were sure, I would also not tell you so as to not diminish his intent to withhold such information, should that be his intent.”
“Anticipation is everything,” you remark.
“In a role like mine, certainly. I anticipate.”
“I was referring to the anticipation the king seems to stoke in others, though, I see your point.”
“Oh? Have you been anticipating this meeting,” Galion pries. You suddenly get nervous, feeling less comfortable, feeling quite…on-the-record, despite knowing that during your time here, you’ve never been quite off-the-record at all.
“My curiosity is being quickly quelled. Now,” you lean in slightly, “If he made me wait a week? Anticipation would strangle me.”
Galion broke his facade, chuckling.
“If anything, do you know why King Thranduil is so eager to meet with me so quickly?” You ask. My turn to pry, you amusedly chime in your own head. Galion’s laughter quells with the question, and he slows his pace, now nervously playing with a simple gold band on his pinky finger.
“I…have my suspicions,” the auburn haired attendant trails off, wondering if even that was saying too much.
Pushing him just a bit further, you ask, “May I hear them?” At this, Galion makes a sharp turn in front of you, and opens a wooden door with simple brass details that is not quite hidden but is certainly unassuming.
“We’re here.” A simple rejection, but perhaps only due to the proximity of King Thranduil.
You step through the entrance door frame, and it is far more quaint than you thought it would be. While exposed to the sky, this garden is more an alcove than the grove you were expecting. Waiting for you, you see him for the second time in a twelve hour stretch. The Elvenking faces away from you, bending over a bush that holds similar red berries to his autumnal crown. Though, for the first time that you’ve seen, he wears no crown on his head. As he wears deep green robes over an almost black tunic, you begin to wish that you had brought another layer to keep warm as well. Thranduil’s hair that drapes down the back of the robe is a shocking contrast against the otherwise shadowy garden and dark fabrics.
“Thank you, Galion. That will be all,” he doesn’t turn, but he does lift a hand in acknowledgement. He turns slightly to watch Galion exit, and you catch his side profile before he turns to you.
“I’m glad you came,” he says lowly, softly. It’s unexpected. While the walls that surround this garden are lined with smaller vines of corruption, the lanternlight that warms the space from the cool grey sky makes it difficult to discern the true color of the vines. For a moment in your mind, you allow them to look green, to imagine what this garden would look like at twilight in spring without this miasma that even seeps into this part of the palace. There are benches of limestone, carved as though they were a natural part of the walls of this place, and small saplings with burgundy leaves and low, twiggy branches that are delicately tucked into corners of this space.
He looks so at home here, you notice. It’s obvious in how his shoulders rest easier here and in how he wears a less guarded expression upon his already quite regal face. “I’m glad you asked. This place is beautiful.”
“I used to share it with the queen,” he says, hardening his brow line. “Conversation flows easier for me here, for whatever reason.”
“Away from watchful eyes, closer to nature, I really don’t blame you,” you say, stepping closer to the berry bush he was tending to, slowly closing the space between you. He follows your movement with dark eyes, though he doesn’t move himself. You pass by him, reaching for a small branch of the bush, grazing it with your fingers. In a palace like this, where does one go to escape? Where can one truly speak freely, especially with one’s most trusted companion?
“It must be a lot,” you say to yourself just as much as you say it to him.
“Mmm? What must be, sea-daughter?” You feel the timbre of his voice behind you, feel the presence of his stature behind you. “Will you try to explain my role and responsibilities to me, I wonder? Or the burdens any leadership carries? Is this where you try to persuade me of how you must continue to put yourself or my subjects in danger to handle another danger that has been slowly building in my lands?” With every question his voice raises in volume and ricochets off of the stone walls of this alcove of a garden.
“I had no such plans. I came at your request. If this is how conversation sounds while you are in this garden, perhaps I have walked into an arena rather than a refuge,” you retort, face hardening. You don’t turn to look at him yet. Thranduil sighs, and steps forward, now standing next to you, looking at the berry bush.
“Forgive me,” he says. “Perhaps, it is a lot,” the Elvenking echoes your politeness from earlier, marking it as less of a platitude and more of the olive branch you’d intended.
“Many moving parts, and I know I am another one to manage for you. The last thing I would want to be is a thorn in your side,” you offer, tracing the red skin of the berries, looking along the twigs of the bush to see if there are any small thorns growing along it.
“There are no thorns in this garden,” he says, finally looking over to you, expression softening. You feel him next to you, feel the warmth of his breath in the cold outdoors. Winter is nearing, indeed. Your numbing fingers speak for themselves.
“My lord, I do wish to know why you asked me here?” You finally turn to him. You tilt your chin up to look him in the eyes, and you are far too close, your shoulders nearly brush. Why aren’t you moving?
“I simply wish to get to know the healer that intends to cure my forest. Based on what I saw, I would say you might not be able to necessarily teach many others in such a potent way to do your healing.” An earnestness. It’s obvious how truthful he is being. “Meaning that your time here will have to extend.”
“Preventing me from leaving the palace seems contradictory to your goal of sending me back as soon as possible.”
“That’s another subject I wished to raise.” He turns, walking away from the berry bush. “As you know, it is a liability to send you out with my subjects, so far from care. Additionally, there was a significant bounce back effect of your magic. Though, some tell me, despite it going without my notice…your healing seemed to be more effective last night during the dancing portion of the night.”
“I was also told this,” you blush, wondering if he was shy about it being during when you danced together.
“You mentioned that there was evidence of corruption below my halls, in the cisterns and trade paths of the sub-levels.” Thranduil’s cool voice rolls chills down your already cold arms.
“Yes,” you add, raising an eyebrow. Where is he going with this?
“I would like to see you try again,” he tilts his chin down, though his eyes pierce yours.
“I usually need to hear memories in order to truly heal the afflicted area,” you clarify…but mentally, you add, I need your memories. Instead of being so obvious, you ask a more innocent question, “Will you be the only one to join in?”
“I would allow for Galion to join, though he is banned from this area,” Thranduil mentions. When you give him a curious look, narrowed eyes and an inquisitive smile, he adds, “He allowed a discrepancy a few decades ago with the wine trading door to the river.”
You let out a laugh. “What? Was he in his cups?” You tease, attempting some very basic wine humor. Thranduil frowns. “Oh no, was he in his cups?” You ask in a lower voice, hardly withholding a fit of giggles. Thranduil gives an irritated glare. “My lord, say no more,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to push the fit of giggles way, way down.
Thranduil didn’t say more at all. You switch the subject, “Still, if it will just be the two of us, then, I expect some degree of trust to be earned if we – no – I am to be successful.” Careful, you warn yourself.
“It is always a bargain with you,” he smirks.
“I suppose it is. Is that not the nature of my job?” You tilt your head, a playful smile now on your face.
“I suppose it is.”
“I’d like another chance outside in the woods, with you there.” You blink up at him, summoning whatever persuasiveness you could manage into your expression.
“It’s quite dangerous,” he tilts his head in consideration.
“I have Breeze,” you jump to add, missing your longsword that used to regularly hang by your side until residing here.
“A weapon, I assume.” You nod, biting your lower lip in anticipation. You can’t wait.
“When will we go down to the lower layers?” You ask.
“I didn’t agree yet.” Though, his sincere consideration already spoke volumes.
“Didn’t you?” You try to mask your sincerity by lilting this as lightly as you could muster.
“It appears that even in a short amount of time, I have been proven wrong.”
“About what?”
“There being thorns in this garden, you sharp thing. I accept.” He continues to walk along the perimeter of the garden. “We will go within the next six days; if things progress well, we shall discuss further logistics then.”
“Thank you.”
There is a more peaceful lull in the conversation. You walk a step behind him until you see a small white flower growing on a vine. The same white flower as when you were healing in the First Grove.
“My lord, forgive me, but may I ask what she was like?” Thranduil stops in his tracks. Valar, is he going to banish me?
“Why do you ask?” He looks over his shoulder at you.
You step up next to him, skirts of your dress brushing the plants as you try to read his expression more closely, to express your earnestness, to say, “You said you used to spend time with her here, and I assume you spent time at the First Grove with her –”
“Back to extracting painful memories are we?” The Elvenking snaps.
“No, not painful ones,” you say, trying to calm him. “Just…peaceful ones. What did you talk about?” You reach for his hand, the one you held last night, the one that also held you. The second your fingers graze his hand, he flinches.
But he doesn’t jerk away. Not like last time. Will he let me…? You wonder.
You hold your breath as you slip your hand all the way into his large one. It’s certainly not soft skin, but he is warm and in this cold garden, the warmth of it seeps up your arm. Your fingers don’t brush his large ring, a silvery white gem that you’ve never seen him without.
“You’re cold,” he states, matter-of-factly, looking down at your hands. You bring your other hand to the top of his. You stand there for a moment. He still looks stern, though he doesn’t wear the wrath you glimpsed just a moment ago.
“Yes,” you say in turn, blushing under his harsh, but thawing gaze.
To your surprise, he starts, “We did not speak as much.”
“Oh. Oh,” you react, blushing more. I didn’t mean to ask about…
He looks up at you then gives a mischievous smile. “In the most literal sense,” he clarifies.
“Ah, mhm.” Good call, ask him about his marital activities with his dead wife. How stupid am I? The ellon seems to relish in your awkward discomfort.
“When we did speak, and were not attending to separate lives, it was about Legolas. Our son. He was the light of her life. She would be so proud of the role he played in the war.”
“Separate lives?” As you ask, Thranduil breaks your hold on his hand to shed his cloak, reaching around you to drape it across your shoulders. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he wraps you in it. Warmth immediately starts bleeding into you. Your knees almost buckle at the relief. But you shouldn’t be wearing this! You open your mouth to resist or to pass the mantle back.
Before you can protest, he responds, “We knew from a very early age that we were to be married.” You thought that his queen was his One; it would certainly explain the miasma and the corruption. Grief is a powerful force. If not a deep sense of grief, then what is causing his pain?
“Did you love her?” You ask. And some part of you hopes for an answer that you shouldn’t wish for. His warmth from wearing the cloak seeped into your skin, especially your bare shoulders.
“Yes,” he says, fiddling with the fabric of the robe, as he holds it closed in front, trying to preserve your warmth within it. Your heart almost sinks, despite yourself, when you look into his eyes that should have been as blue as the feathers on a jay. Yet they were so dilated looking down at you, at your lips. Yours part, wanting to ask more, but you don’t need to.
“When you know a person as long as we knew each other, there is great friendship. When you raise a child, there is great adoration. There are many types of love.” But was she your One? You want to ask. You wish you could. But why? You already know that his grief is not tied to the loss of his One. It is to a member of his family. Then it strikes you. It must be a lot, being so powerful with few to talk to. Yet they talked – the Elvenking and his queen – sometimes in this garden.
Loneliness.
A disease like no other. Corrupting, isolating, and grating. Yet here you are, so close to him. Yet, small white flowers begin to bloom across the wall of small vines in your periphery. Valar, why did he ask you to come here?
“Yes, there are,” you agree softly, and you feel your heart beating against your chest as you look from his eyes to his lips. You feel a fluttering in your stomach as his lips part softly.
“I think you would be a suitable match for my son.”
Next Chapter: Next Friday!
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