Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9 I Chapter 10 I Chapter 11 I Chapter 12 I Chapter 13 I Chapter 14 I Chapter 15 I Chapter 16 I Chapter 17 I Chapter 18 I Chapter 19 I Chapter 20 I Chapter 21 I Chapter 22 I Chapter 23 I Chapter 24 I Chapter 25 I Chapter 26 I Chapter 27 I Chapter 28 I Chapter 29 I Chapter 30 I Chapter 31 I Chapter 32 I Chapter 33 I Chapter 34 I Chapter 35 I Chapter 36 I Chapter 37 I Chapter 38 I Chapter 39 I Chapter 40
Blue and Lilac - Benedict Bridgerton
(in progress)
SEASON 1
Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9 I Chapter 10 I Chapter 11 I Chapter 12 I Chapter 13 I Chapter 14 I Chapter 15 I Chapter 16 I Chapter 17 I
SEASON 2
Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6
The brightest of stars - Thranduil
(in progress)
Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5
“I confess, brother, I was rather surprised by the… recent developments between yourself and Nicolette,” Daphne remarked as she stood near the window of Anthony’s study.
Anthony did not immediately look up. His attention appeared wholly devoted to the ledgers spread across his desk.
“A great many matters may change in a short span of time, dear sister,” he replied evenly.
“Indeed,” Daphne said lightly. “For only months ago, you regarded her with all the affection of an elder brother.”
That, at least, drew his gaze upward.
“And what precisely is it you imply?” Anthony asked. “Miss Nicolette is wise, gentle, and possessed of a most generous heart. I should think her qualities beyond reproach. Why should you not be pleased that it is she who has secured my heart?”
Daphne tilted her head slightly. “Has she secured your heart, Anthony?”
He held her gaze. “You know her as well as I do. It is exceedingly difficult to know Miss Nicolette and not hold her in high esteem. She is delightful. Intelligent. Gracious.”
Daphne wandered toward a shelf and selected a book at random, affecting a casual air.
“If you tell me she is the one for you,” she said mildly, “then I shall be content. If she is the lady in whose presence you find yourself incapable of rational thought… or even of drawing a proper breath.”
Anthony frowned faintly. “Breath?”
Daphne looked at him now, no longer pretending distraction.
"Yes," Daphne said as she looked at him, "you know the feeling. As if you simply cannot look away at any given moment because the idea of missing even a single second of her existence pains you. When your body and soul feel as if they could burst into flames whenever the two of you are near yet her absence is a far sharper agony still. When all you are able to do in her presence is to fight the urge to lean forward and touch her, hold her to.. perhaps even to forget yourself entirely. If that is what you feel when you are near Nicolette then I am truly happy for you, brother."
There was a spark of realization on Anthony's face but he masked it before Daphne could notice.
"I couldn't describe it better if I tried sister," Anthony said and the door opened and Colin entered.
“Brother,” he said, with unusual seriousness, “I must speak with you.”
Anthony straightened slightly. “Then speak.”
Colin’s glance flickered briefly toward Daphne.
“In private.”
“I was leaving in any case,” Daphne said with a knowing smile. “Good evening to you both.”
With that, she slipped from the room, the door closing softly behind her.
The moment her footsteps faded along the corridor, Colin drew a breath.
“I do not believe you should marry Nicolette,” he said plainly.
Anthony groaned and leaned back in his chair. “Am I to conclude there has been some clandestine gathering of my siblings devoted entirely to the discussion of my future?”
Colin frowned. “Did Daphne—”
“—inquire whether I love Miss Nicolette? Indeed she did,” Anthony replied briskly. “And now, if you will allow me, I have ledgers awaiting my attention.”
“No,” Colin said firmly. “I shall not permit it.”
Anthony’s brows lifted.
“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Proceed.”
"I think.." he paused for a moment, "I think Benedict loves her." As soon as Colin said those words Anthony's face paled.
"This is Benedict we're talking about. We both know our brother is a free spirit with no desire to settle down," Anthony said.
"He loves her Anthony. Anyone with eyes could see that. It is not that long ago when the sparring session seemed to have taken a quite the different tone as soon as you mentioned Nicolette. Did you not notice how he tenses whenever you say her name?" Colin continued and Anthony fell silent. Clearly thinking deeply.
"His breath hitches when she's near, have you ever noticed that? His eyes never leave her. He goes out of his way to be in her presence.." Colin said.
Anthony’s mind betrayed him then, recalling Daphne’s earlier description.
As though one cannot breathe without her. As though absence itself were agony.
He rose slowly from his chair.
“If this were so,” he said at last, “why has he not spoken to me?”
Colin gave a small, humorless smile. “This is Benedict. He scarcely understands his own heart. I doubt he recognizes the depth of his attachment.”
Anthony said nothing, though the truth of it unsettled him.
“I would wager he has loved her since the day they first met,” Colin continued. “They sneak out into our garden together at night. Not for impropriety, but merely to speak. To converse, Anthony. As though conversation itself were sustenance.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened.
“But there was a maid this summer,” he said quietly.
Colin shifted, an uncomfortable honesty settling over him.
“You are aware the walls of this house are lamentably thin,” he replied. “My chambers share one with his. It was during that… association that matters became clear to me.”
Anthony’s gaze sharpened.
“I heard him,” Colin said simply. “And it was not the maid’s name he spoke. And it didn't only happen once. ”
Anthony ran his fingers through his hair.
"Benedict loves her," Anthony said and Colin nodded. "I cannot marry her," Anthony continued.
"Well not unless you want to break your brother's heart," Colin said.
Anthony did not sleep that night. Nor, it seemed, did Nicolette.
While Anthony sought refuge in ledgers and estate accounts, Nicolette turned to flour and sugar, for baking had ever been her remedy against restless thoughts. The kitchens were warm and quiet in the small hours, the only sound the crackle of the ovens and the steady rhythm of her own breathing.
She was placing the final tray of biscuits upon the long wooden table when a discreet cough sounded behind her. She nearly dropped the pan.
Whirling about, she found Benedict leaning indolently against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, hair disordered, a soft smile curving his lips.
“You frightened me half to death,” she whispered.
“That was hardly my design,” he replied lightly, nodding toward the rows of cooling biscuits. “You are aware that Aubrey Hall employs an entire staff for such tasks?”
“It helps me think,” she said, her voice quieter now, her gaze falling to the floor.
Something in her tone sobered him at once.
“I see,” he murmured.
Then, without further explanation: “Come with me.”
Before she could protest, he had taken her hand and was leading her from the kitchen. She stifled a laugh as he urged her onward, pausing only to shush her when her slippers scuffed too loudly against the corridor floor. They did not stop until they reached the stables, where the air was cool and scented faintly of hay.
There Benedict grabbed his coat and draped it carefully about her shoulders.
She flushed. “Oh heavens… I had quite forgotten I am still in my nightgown.”
His grin deepened. “I shall keep your secret, if you keep mine.”
He led his horse from its stall, and Nicolette’s eyes widened.
“Benedict Bridgerton, what are you about?”
“I wish to show you something.”
He stepped closer - close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the world seemed to narrow to the space between them.
“For once,” he said more softly, “do not think. Merely answer me this: do you trust me?”
She regarded him for a long moment.
“No,” she replied impishly.
Her teasing defiance lasted precisely one second before she gave a startled cry as he lifted her neatly and set her upon the saddle.
“Benedict!” she hissed, trying, and failing, to maintain indignation as he swung up behind her.
“Too late,” he murmured near her ear.
With a gentle pressure of his heels, the horse surged forward into the paling horizon, carrying them into the quiet dawn.
He rode until the trees thinned and the world opened into stillness.
The lake lay before them, silver in the earliest light of dawn.
Benedict dismounted first and turned to help her down, his hands firm at her waist, steadying her longer than strictly necessary before releasing her.
“What is this place?” she asked softly, glancing about at the water, the reeds, the hush of morning.
“I came here often when I was younger,” he said. “When the house felt too full. When expectation pressed too heavily. I would swim… or simply sit. It is the one place where my thoughts cease their endless clamor.”
She regarded the water warily. “I have no intention of swimming.”
He laughed under his breath. “I suspected as much.”
From the satchel secured to the saddle, he withdrew a folded blanket and spread it upon the grass.
“But perhaps you might sit with me awhile,” he said more quietly. “We may watch the sunrise. We need not speak at all. And if you prefer I keep my distance so you may have the silence entirely to yourself, you need only say so.”
She studied him for a long moment as though weighing something far greater than his offer.
“No,” she said at last. “I would rather you remain.”
He nodded once, and they sat side by side, the lake before them beginning to catch threads of gold.
“Did you bring the—”
He reached into his coat and produced a small silver case before she could finish.
“I did.”
He handed her one and struck a match, shielding the flame from the faint breeze. She leaned in, and for an instant the light illuminated her features in warm flicker before fading.
“Thank you,” she murmured, drawing in slowly.
He watched her in the quiet that followed.
This was the Nicolette he knew. The one who spoke her mind freely, who slipped from grand dinners to seek fresh air, who laughed too loudly when she forgot herself. The one who would never fit neatly into the image of a viscountess fashioned from duty and decorum.
His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Anthony.
Would his brother still look at her with such certainty if he knew her entirely?
As though sensing his gaze, she turned her head.
Their eyes met.
The moment stretched - fragile, suspended - and for several heartbeats the world seemed to hold its breath with them.
“What occupies your thoughts?” she asked softly, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke into the morning air.
“You,” he said before he could stop himself.
Her brows lifted slightly.
He cleared his throat. “I mean only that I hope you are well.”
She looked back toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning its slow ascent.
“I have much to consider,” she admitted.
His voice gentled. “May I assist in any way?”
“You already do.”
The sun broke fully over the lake then, bathing them both in light neither of them seemed prepared to face.
"It's beautiful isn't it?" she said as she was looking at the sunrise.
"It is," he said but he was looking at her.
A moment of silence followed.
"Nicolette?" he breathed out.
"Yes?" she looked at him.
"It will be okay," he said softly, "if Anthony proposes no matter what you say it will be okay."
"Will it?" she asks, "Because I feel like no matter what happens someone will end up hurt. How can I choose?"
"You simply choose the option that will break your heart less," he says softly and hesitates before grabbing her hand to hold gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand.
"Even if you and Anthony do marry and you move out here I.. We will write. It will be okay," he reassures her again, "I.. I will love you either way, you are my friend Nicolette."
"I.. I can't marry him Benedict," Nicolette whispers.
"I know," he says and rests his forehead against hers.
"Do you think he will be mad?" she asks.
Benedict exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her cheek.
“He may be hurt,” he admitted. “Anthony feels deeply, though he seldom allows it to show.” A faint, sad smile touched his lips. “But he would never truly hate you. That is not in his nature.”
He paused.
“And if he should be angry… then I shall endure it for you.”
The sun climbed higher, and with it came the inevitable return of reality. They could not remain in this suspended moment forever. But for now, neither of them moved.
The silence in the throne room was almost unbearable. Nicolette had never known silence could be so loud, so full of meaning that it pressed upon her like a weight, screaming where no sound existed. For a heartbeat she thought she might cover her ears, but she did not. She only stared at Thranduil.
He stood before her in silver and living green, a crown of forest vines resting on his head, as though the woodland itself had claimed him.
“My apologies,” she said at last, her voice unsteady, “I must have misheard you. What?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement at her confusion.
“When we first met,” Thranduil said calmly, “I warned you. To trespass in my forest is a crime punishable by imprisonment. And yet this marks the third time you have been found within my borders. The Valar alone know how often your feet have carried you here unseen.”
Her eyes widened. “You intend to throw me into a cell?”
“No,” he replied at once. “That would be… unnecessary. Cells are for those who wish to flee. You, on the other hand, wish to remain.”
Her brows drew together, confusion deepening.
“You desire to learn the art of war,” Thranduil continued, as though the matter were simple. “Then you shall stay - here, in my halls - and train alongside my guards. I will inform your father that you remain in my care as a diplomatic guest. He has long sought alliance, or at least understanding, between our people. He will not question it.”
He spoke as though every path had already been weighed and measured, every consequence accounted for, leaving Nicolette standing at the edge of a life she had never imagined, and one she could not yet fully grasp.
“You wish for me to stay,” she said slowly, as though testing the words aloud, striving to grasp their meaning. “To live in your palace and train here. And when that training is finished... What then?”
Thranduil met her gaze, and for the briefest of moments, it was clear the thought had not yet walked that far ahead of him. His brows twitched, a nearly imperceptible sign of hesitation.
“Then the choice will be yours,” he said at last. “You may return to your gilded halls, or you may remain here - prepared at last to be the warrior you so boldly claim to be.”
The authority in his voice stole the breath from her lungs, as though his words had been woven with power older than stone.
Nicolette moved as if in a dream, scarcely able to grasp what had befallen her. An elf led her through winding halls of carved stone and living wood, until at last they reached chambers both vast and beautiful. Graced with a bathing room of her own and a wide balcony that opened toward the darkened forest. These were quarters reserved for guests of the highest regard, though Mirkwood had known few such visitors in many long years.
Indeed, King Thranduil did not welcome company lightly. He kept his realm closed, in part from duty - to shield his people from the encroaching shadows - but also from necessity of another kind. For while he had long ceased to fear his own death, he understood too well the power of distance. The Elvenking endured as an untouchable figure, a presence more legend than flesh, and such a role could only be maintained if none came close enough to glimpse the fractures beneath the crown.
Not his people. Not those beyond his borders. Not even his beloved son.
And yet, as Thranduil stood upon the balcony of his own chambers, the evening air stirring his silver hair, a small and treacherous part of him took solace in the knowledge that someone now occupied those guest rooms. A presence within his halls that was neither subject nor kin.
The feeling unsettled him. But it also, to his quiet dismay, brought relief.
Nicolette, meanwhile, was in utter disarray.
She paced the length of her chambers, back and forth, her thoughts racing far swifter than her feet. Nothing of this made sense. Humans had ever been a curious folk, driven by a hunger to know, to question, to understand the world around them. Where elves spoke of higher purpose and distant design, mortals sought answers now, tearing at mystery until it yielded.
In ages to come, that elven patience and belief in higher purpose, often described as religion, would leave its mark upon the race of Men. But Nicolette lived in a time when such temperance was rare. And at the very top of her list of unanswered questions stood one name:
King Thranduil.
Why had he allowed her to remain? What did he see in her that warranted such mercy—or such interest?
So lost was she in her thoughts that she did not hear the knock at the door. When it opened and a voice cleared its throat, she startled, nearly leaping from her place.
She turned to find an elf-woman standing there, her hair the color of embers, her posture straight and assured.
“Who are you?” Nicolette asked, still catching her breath.
“My name is Tauriel,” the elf replied calmly. “I am the captain of the King’s Guard.”
Nicolette’s brows drew together in open confusion. “But… you are a woman.”
Tauriel’s gaze sharpened—not unkindly, but with unmistakable steel.
“And is there a problem with that?” she asked.
“No-no,” Nicolette said quickly, lifting her hands in reassurance. “It is only that where I come from, women may not even bear arms, let alone command them.”
Tauriel’s gaze softened, some of its sharpness easing into understanding. “I see,” she replied quietly. For a moment she looked downward, as though considering the weight of such a life, before meeting Nicolette’s eyes once more. “Here, women may become whatever their skill and will allow. No path is barred to them for the mere reason of their birth.”
Nicolette stared at her, wonder plain upon her face.
“In truth,” Tauriel continued, “the aran has been known to place greater trust in women than in men.”
“Why?” Nicolette asked, almost breathless.
Tauriel did not hesitate. “Elleths are lighter of foot, quieter in movement, swifter in thought and limb. We are more patient. More observant.” A faint glimmer touched her eyes. “And, when our loyalty is given, it is seldom withdrawn.”
She spoke not in arrogance, but in simple certainty, as one stating the nature of wind or water. Nicolette absorbed this in silence, feeling- perhaps for the first time- the measure of the world she had stepped into.
“May I ask a question, hothron?” Nicolette ventured.
Tauriel’s brows lifted at the Sindarin title that had slipped so easily from mortal lips.
“You may, fíriel berenc,” Tauriel replied, a faint note of curiosity in her voice.
“Why am I here?” Nicolette asked, at last, the question that had troubled her thoughts since the moment she crossed the palace threshold.
“Because you were found trespassing,” Tauriel answered evenly. “And the customary punishment for such an offense is imprisonment.”
Nicolette glanced about the chamber. “This is hardly imprisonment,” she said. “It is a grand room, with a balcony overlooking the forest, a bed fit for royalty, and even a bathing room of my own. The door is not so much as barred.”
Tauriel exhaled softly, though whether in amusement or weariness it was difficult to tell.
“Good night, Nicolette,” she said. “I shall come for you at breakfast, shortly after the birds begin their morning song. And after that, your first lesson will commence.”
Before Nicolette could protest or demand clarification the door closed with quiet finality.
Tauriel didn't mean to be rude. Rather, she was uncertain. For in truth, she did not know the answer to the mortal’s question.
No one did.
Not she. Not Legolas.
Not even Thranduil.
For the Elvenking still stood upon his balcony, though now he had taken his favorite seat beneath the starlit sky. The forest stretched before him, ancient and whispering, yet his thoughts were far from its shadows.
And, as though guided by some unseen thread, his mind circled the very same question that troubled the mortal woman in the guest chambers.
Why is she here?
Thranduil knew well that she ought to be confined within the dungeons beneath his halls. Indeed, by all reason and law, she should have been cast into a cell the very first time he had found her wandering beneath the eaves of his forest.
Mirkwood could no longer afford indulgence.
The darkness lay heavy upon it. The days when it had been Greenwood the Great were but distant memory, like sunlight seen through deep water. Long ago the shadow of Sauron had crept into its roots, and though that first darkness had waned, it had never wholly departed. It lingered still, coiling through branch and earth alike. Spiders multiplied in the gloaming, foul and cunning, and the trees whispered of a sickness that would not be healed.
And Thranduil, King beneath the forest boughs, had no answer.
He sat upon his chair on the balcony beneath the vast and star-strewn sky.
“Where have you gone, my beloved star?” he murmured, his voice scarcely louder than the night wind. Though Niquethil was hidden from his sight, he spoke as though she might yet hear him beyond the veils of the heavens. Maybe she wasn't even there anymore. Thranduil had no way of knowing.
“I would stand in your light but once more,” he confessed softly. “To feel your warmth… your presence. You, my queen, and my little Greenleaf—” His voice faltered, though no tears fell. “You were the only lights before whom I would willingly kneel.”
A faint, sorrow-laden smile touched his lips.
“Had I known you would depart so soon, I would have looked upon you twice as long that final night.”
He lifted his gaze higher, as though searching for something he knew he would not find.
“But we both know,” he whispered, “that I would have cast aside all pride and fallen to my knees, begging you not to pass where I could not follow.”
The wind stirred his silver hair, but the heavens offered no reply.
And still, beneath the weight of crown and memory, the Elvenking stood alone.
Hiii! I am so beyond happy to write another chapter of Blue and Lilac. To be completely honest with you I have not seen the new season. Main reason being the fact that I literally am obsessed with that man and I worry what kind of a person I'll become while watching it lol. Either way I was thinking about not following the series that closely with my writing as I would love to write more freely. Hope you understand and like it all the same! Anyway, Benedict Bridgerton the man that you are...
"Isn't it exciting that Lord Bridgerton invited us to spend some time at their country estate, Lady Danbury?" Edwina exclaimed as they strolled along the sweeping lawns of the magnificent estate.
Before anyone might reply, she pressed on with bright enthusiasm.
"And to think this could be all yours soon, Nicolette," Edwina said and Nicolette halted at once, her steps faltering as though she had struck an unseen wall. Her eyes widened in startled disbelief - an expression that had scarcely left her since that evening when Anthony had made his intentions unmistakably clear. No formal offer had been made, but all of society was certain one would follow shortly. The difficulty was that Nicolette had no answer what her answer will be.
"Edwina, do control yourself!" Kate admonished gently, observing the visible effect those careless words had produced.
“I daresay Miss Nicolette is already quite aware of what the ton has been whispering,” Lady Danbury remarked coolly, her sharp gaze settling upon her niece. “There is no necessity to treat her as though she were made of porcelain, is there, my dear?”
She has noticed the way she has been behaving lately. It would be hard not to when one lives with her. And Lady Danbury couldn't help but feel like Nicolette hardly looked like a blushing debutant ecstatic about the upcoming proposal. In fact she seemed anxious. Which wasn't far from the truth.
Nicolette swallowed and inclined her head. “Of course, Aunt,” she replied, summoning a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
Lady Danbury’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Oh! Is that not Her Grace, the Duchess of Hastings?” Edwina said, peering toward the far side of the gardens.
At once Nicolette’s head turned. It was indeed Daphne.
Without pausing to consider propriety, she gathered her skirts and hurried after her. Heedless of Lady Danbury calling sharply that such haste was hardly becoming of a young lady. The pale cotton of her stockings flashed as she ran across the lawn, scandalously visible for several reckless moments.
From the window of his chamber, Benedict Bridgerton saw far more than he ought. He stiffened. It was not a sight unfamiliar to him and that familiarity was precisely the danger. His thoughts betrayed him at once, conjuring memories of that evening at Granville’s party. The freedom of it. The laughter. The way they had danced without watchful eyes. The way he had held her... openly, boldly, for one night only.
His grip tightened upon the book in his hand.
The night before Anthony had ruined everything.
The thought struck him like a blow. Anthony... His brother... Benedict stepped back from the window, his mind in turmoil. Was it jealousy that twisted within him? Or fear? Fear that Anthony would soon make his proposal.
And fear that Nicolette would say yes.
When Benedict dared to look out of the window once more, Nicolette stood safely at Daphne’s side, her lilac skirts restored to their proper place, every scandalous inch of stocking once more concealed. Only then did he find himself able to draw a steady breath.
“I am so very glad to see you, Daphne,” Nicolette said, still slightly breathless from her unladylike dash across the lawn.
“Yes, that much is abundantly clear,” Daphne replied with a soft laugh. Yet her amusement faded as she took in her friend’s expression. “Nicolette… has something happened?”
Nicolette leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I believe your brother means to propose. Soon.”
“Benedict?” Daphne’s face lit at once.
Nicolette shook her head.
“Anthony.”
Daphne’s brows knit together in immediate confusion. “Anthony?” she repeated, as though testing the name. Since when had Anthony entered the picture? What developments had taken place in her absence?
“But Nicolette, I—”
Her protest was gently interrupted by the unmistakable presence of Lady Danbury approaching across the terrace.
“I cannot imagine,” Lady Danbury declared dryly, “that displaying your stockings to the entirety of Aubrey Hall is the most fitting manner in which to express gratitude for Lady Bridgerton’s hospitality.”
Though her tone was admonishing, there was the faintest suggestion of amusement about her eyes.
“Oh, do allow the girl her moment,” Violet Bridgerton interjected warmly as she descended the steps toward them. “It has been months since these two last met. I daresay the halls of this house have survived far greater improprieties than the fleeting glimpse of a stocking.”
A knowing smile curved her lips. “And I very much doubt anyone present shall feel compelled to inform the gossip sheets of the precise shade of Miss Nicolette’s hosiery.”
She reached Nicolette and placed a gentle hand upon her elbow.
“Welcome, my dear,” Violet said kindly. “We are most delighted to receive you all at our country home.”
“We are most delighted to be here, Lady Bridgerton,” Nicolette said, inclining her head in respectful greeting.
“Oh, pray call me Violet,” Lady Bridgerton replied with a warm smile. “Indeed, I believe it is quite time you did.”
Lady Danbury’s brows rose ever so slightly at that familiarity, though she offered no comment. Nicolette merely nodded, uncertain whether she felt honored or suddenly very exposed.
Violet looked around, noticing the wickets and furrowed her brows. "Oh surely not this," she murmured.
“What is it?” Nicolette asked.
“We must introduce them to pall-mall,” Daphne declared at once, her eyes alight with dangerous enthusiasm.
“And here I had hoped matrimony might have bestowed upon you a measure of wisdom,” Violet replied, pinching the bridge of her nose in resignation.
“Forgive me,” Edwina interjected politely, “but what precisely is pall-mall?”
"The rules are simple... The game itself is hardly about the rules though. You have to get your ball through each wicket. The first to get their ball through the last wicket, wins. My goal of course, is to rile up my brothers, Anthony especially," Daphne chuckles.
Nicolette scarcely heard another word. Her gaze had drifted toward the entrance, where footsteps echoed faintly along the stone floor. Her breath grew shallow, her pulse quickening. She did not permit herself to consider that it might be anyone other than Anthony… or Benedict.
When Benedict at last rounded the corner, her breath caught entirely.
Their eyes met.
He did not look away.
Not as he crossed the terrace. Not as he approached the group. Not until he came to a stop before them.
Only then did he turn his attention to Lady Danbury with deliberate politeness, offering her that familiar, boyish charming smile.
“Lady Danbury,” he said with an elegant bow, “what a pleasure it is to see you again.”
“Hm,” Lady Danbury replied, a note of skepticism coloring the single syllable.
Nicolette pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile.
Daphne leaned subtly closer to her.
"Benedict is a solid shot but he avoids conflict. Colin is crafty. He will strike when you least suspect it so always suspect it. Eloise is too taken by defeating her brothers that she won't even notice you're playing as well," Daphne whispers as the rest of the siblings approach, "and then there is Anthony..."
"Ruthless, cutthroat player?" Kate says.
"Not without honor of course," Daphne says more to Edwina than to anyone else, "but yes. He usually forgets all about honor once he grabs the mallet."
Benedict lingered at the edge of the lawn beside his siblings, who were already quarreling over the choice of mallets with predictable fervor. He scarcely heard a word of it. His attention had strayed entirely. Drawn, as ever, to the sound of Nicolette’s laughter as she leaned toward Daphne.
Ever since the unwelcome realization that he feels as though Anthony had ruined everything, Benedict’s thoughts had refused to settle. It was as though he required someone to interpret his own mind for him.
“The only fair course,” Daphne declared, cutting cleanly through the noise, “is to allow our guests first selection and first strike.”
“Pray, Miss Nicolette, the choice is yours,” Anthony said with a courteous bow.
Benedict suppressed a groan, though he did not manage to prevent the faintest roll of his eyes, a gesture Colin noticed at once, if the twitch at the corner of his mouth was any indication.
Nicolette stepped forward and selected a pale blue mallet. Anthony launched into an earnest discourse on the merits of its balance and weight, as though he himself had carved it from the ash tree.
Kate, meanwhile, claimed the black mallet - the very one Anthony traditionally favored.
“The mallet of death,” Benedict muttered under his breath, unable to contain a quiet laugh.
The bickering ensured as Nicolette kept giggling in the corner. In fact the bickering didn't stop until the end of the game. Or at least the moment when both Anthony's and Kate's balls ended up somewhere in the forest and they both went to retrieve them.
Left behind, Nicolette stood gazing toward the trees, her expression thoughtful.
Benedict approached quietly.
“Your thoughts seem far removed from the game, Benedict,” she said softly.
He gave a low scoff and stepped forward to stand beside her. When he looked down, she was already looking up. Their eyes met properly for the first time since he descended the stairs to join them in the garden.
“I have applied to the Royal Academy of Arts,” he said. He did not add that the prospect of her becoming his sister-in-law had plagued him more thoroughly than any artistic doubt.
Her face transformed at once. Whatever troubled her vanished, replaced by unfeigned delight. She caught his arm in both hands, forgetting herself entirely.
“That is wonderful news, Benedict.”
The brightness of her smile did not go unnoticed. Across the lawn, Colin observed with the mild interest of a man who has been putting the pieces together for a while.
“Do not offer congratulations prematurely,” Benedict replied, though his voice softened. “Admission is extended only to a select few.”
A faint crease appeared between her brows.
“Even so, it is an extraordinary prospect. And I have every confidence they shall see what I already know.”
“And what is that?” he asked, almost wary.
“That you are immensely talented.”
He exhaled slowly. “Perhaps I shall at last distinguish myself.”
Her expression faltered. There was something in his tone she did not like.
“Benedict—”
“Wait,” he interrupted gently. “You have never seen my sketches, have you?”
She regarded him with that disarming honesty that was uniquely hers.
“I do not require proof in order to believe in you,” she said. “My faith does not depend upon evidence.”
For a moment, he found himself without reply. Then she released his arm and turned toward the terrace, where Violet, Lady Danbury, and the Sharma ladies sat beneath a canopy, refreshments laid before them. She had taken only a few steps when Colin hastened to her side.
“Miss Danbury,” he said with a courteous inclination of his head as he fell into step beside her.
She smiled warmly. “Please, call me Nicolette. Everyone does.”
His answering smile was measured. “Very well… Nicolette. Might I have the pleasure of escorting you? It seems we are rarely afforded the opportunity for proper conversation.”
“That much is true,” she replied lightly. “I should be most pleased.”
Behind them, Benedict remained where he stood, watching.
“From what I gather,” Colin began with deliberate casualness, “we are soon to be siblings.”
He watched her closely as he spoke. Her smile faltered, only slightly, yet it was enough. He had struck something true.
“Oh… that,” she replied, lowering her gaze to the gravel path beneath their feet, "rumors are always swirling I suppose."
Colin hummed. "Indeed they do. But rumors are scarcely important.. The truth is...," he said as they neared the canopy and with a nod of head he ran towards the house leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Hours later, Nicolette found herself strolling beside Anthony along the sweeping grounds of Aubrey Hall. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow across the lawns, lending the estate an almost storybook grandeur.
“How do you find Aubrey Hall?” Anthony asked, his tone measured, though his gaze lingered upon her.
“It is exceedingly beautiful,” she replied with a courteous smile. “Very… grand.”
“I intend to make my permanent residence here once I marry,” he said, watching her carefully as he spoke.
She glanced up at him. “You do?”
He inclined his head. “Aubrey Hall has ever been the place I feel most myself. My duties as Viscount will often demand my presence elsewhere, I should wish for my wife to reside somewhere sufficiently lively that she might not feel my absence too keenly.”
He paused only briefly before adding, “And for my future children to have space enough to roam.”
She nodded, though she offered no immediate reply.
“And what occupies your leisure, Miss Nicolette?” he asked after a moment. “What gives you pleasure?”
She looked at him, amusement flickering in her eyes at the fact that he does not know.
“I am fond of reading,” she said. “I find books most restorative.”
She did not mention the small leather-bound journals hidden carefully among her belongings.
“Ah,” Anthony replied. “I must confess the only volumes I read are ledgers.”
A soft laugh escaped her. “That sounds perfectly dreadful.”
“It is,” he agreed dryly, and for a moment they shared an easy laugh.
“Then I shall consider it my duty to relieve you of such monotony,” she said lightly. “I shall tell you all about my stories.”
Anthony regarded her with a gentler expression than he often allowed himself.
I know I always try to publish TBSOTA on Wednesdays but some shit went down this week (nothing too serious just time consuming) so I didn’t publish new chapter yesterday. With that being said it’s halfway done and I will try to finish it ASAP but I would hate to publish something that’s half finished. Hope you understand! ❤️
Nicolette stood in the dressing room with the other pageant girls and, for lack of a better word, felt utterly ridiculous. She didn’t know a single one of them. While they laughed and chatted, moving easily around one another as they shared mirrors and makeup, she remained tucked away in a corner, a silent observer to a closeness she didn’t belong to.
For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, the scene made her miss her mother.
Centuries had passed since her mum died—long enough that the ache should have dulled, long enough that she should have learned how to live with it. But grief, it turned out, didn’t obey time. Losing a mother was not something one ever truly got over. In that regard, humans had it right. A child was never meant to outlive their parents by this much. Immortality didn’t make the loss easier; it only stretched it into something endless.
As if that weren’t enough, the situation with Tyler weighed heavily on her mind. They’d fought the day before - of course they had. Lately, it felt like fighting was all they did. But this time had been different. It made her question everything.
On one hand, she could understand. Tyler was drowning in grief. Chris had been killed right in front of him. By another friend, no less. The guilt alone must have been unbearable, especially after Tyler had promised Chris that once this was over, he’d be safe. Free. She understood all of that. What she couldn’t understand was the way Tyler turned it on her.
Somehow, in his mind, it was Nicolette’s fault. Worse still, he’d convinced himself that she’d willingly agreed to Klaus’s pageant scheme to convince Klaus to let Jeremy kill one of his hybrids. As if she’d ever make a bargain like that. The truth was far simpler and far uglier: she’d done it to save Stefan. Or whoever Klaus happened to be most furious with at the time.
But Tyler wouldn’t hear reason.
Blinded by rage, grief, guilt - and a notable amount of alcohol - he’d snapped. In a sudden fit, he hurled a bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall, spraying glass just inches from Nicolette’s head.
What unsettled her most wasn’t the violence.
It was that he didn’t seem particularly sorry.
Tyler didn’t blame Jeremy, who had actually killed Chris. Nor did he blame Stefan, who had set everything in motion by sneaking in to see Elena and, in his recklessness, letting her escape.
He blamed Nicolette.
Hell, at times it seemed he blamed her just as much as he blamed Klaus himself.
And how was that fair? How was it that she was always the one at fault? She tried - God, she tried - to help everyone. To save everyone. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was her fatal flaw. Because every time she stepped in, someone ended up hurt… and somehow, the blame always found its way back to her.
The thought settled uncomfortably in her chest.
Maybe Klaus had been right.
Not about them - Bunever that. But about leaving. About walking away before the damage spread any further. Perhaps disappearing, for a while at least, would do her some good. Distance had a way of dulling pain. And she was so very tired of being at the center of it.
Her thoughts were rudely interrupted when the contestants were called to gather for their presentation.
Nicolette smoothed down her emerald-green dress and took one last look in the mirror. She looked beautiful, there was no denying that. But beneath it, she could see the truth. The hollowness. The exhaustion etched into her eyes. The quiet hurt of someone who had been carrying too much for far too long.
Elena and Jeremy were spiraling, leaving the Salvatores to pick up the pieces. Bonnie was lost in whatever dangerous game she was playing with Professor Shane, who in Nicolette’s opinion was bad news. Matt barely spoke to her anymore. In fact she felt as if he wanted nothing to do with her. But then again, they were never really that close. Ric was dead, something she still hadn’t come to terms with. And Tyler… Tyler was Tyler.
As she began her slow descent down the stairs, the realization settled heavily in her chest.
She had no one. She was utterly and overwhelmingly alone.
Then she looked down.
Klaus stood at the bottom of the staircase, waiting.
Waiting for her.
For a moment, the noise around her seemed to fade. He was there to escort her to the gardens, to share the dance she’d agreed to under those less than fortunate circumstances. She continued down the stairs and placed her hand in his when he offered it.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured.
He led her outside and even though she was looking ahead, she could feel his eyes on her the entire way.
When they took their place they stood facing one another, waiting for the rest of the contestants to join them, for the dance to finally begin. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Words would have been unnecessar. Their eyes said enough. With a single look, Klaus saw it. She wasn’t all right. Not even close. She was unraveling. And in some small, inconvenient way, he knew he was partly to blame.
The thought sat heavily with him. How was he meant to fix something like that? He had never been good at fixing things. Breaking them, yes - he’d mastered that long ago. Destruction had followed him since childhood. He still blamed himself for Henrik’s death, the guilt a constant companion no matter how many centuries passed. His father had always seen it too.
Niklaus was walking ruin. Nothing good ever came from him. So how was someone like him supposed to put another soul back together?
The final pair took their place, and the music began.
Klaus drew Nicolette into his arms, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as they moved together. Their eyes remained locked, the rest of the world fading into irrelevance. They danced as though they had done this a thousand times before—and in his mind, they had. Perhaps that was why he loved dancing with her. It was the only time he allowed himself to hold her.
Of course, he would never admit that.
To admit it would be weakness. And weakness was an invitation. To be exploited, to be punished. It was only a matter of time before someone used her against him.
Or worse—
Before she did.
But in that moment, he didn’t think about any of it.
Hybrids. The cure. Family drama. Power.
None of it mattered. All Klaus could think about was how to put her back together and for once, he came up empty.
As the dance ended, he released her reluctantly and offered a slight bow of his head. “Go sit by the water, love,” he said gently.
It wasn’t as if he had some grand plan in mind. When it came to these things, Klaus rarely did. He was a brilliant strategist, something only a select few ever truly appreciated, but when it came to women, all logic seemed to abandon him entirely. And when logic failed him, he defaulted to instinct.
Fake it.
Fake confidence. Fake control. Be so overtly cocky she hated him for it. As if that could ever work.
But Nicolette couldn’t see any of that. How could she? He hid everything too well.
She furrowed her brows, confused by the request. “Why?” she asked.
In her mind, Klaus always had a plan. Always an agenda.
He gave her a look.
She sighed. “Okay,” she murmured.
“I’ll be right with you,” Klaus said, turning her gently toward the lake, deliberately away from his line of sight to where Tyler stood with Hayley. Hayley was holding the tiara meant for the winner, mocking the contestants with careless amusement.
Fury surged through him. But he reined it in. Perhaps for the first time in his life.
The last thing Nicolette needed was one of his scenes. So he swallowed it down, turned instead toward the bar, and ordered the most expensive champagne they had. The whole bottle and two empty glasses. No hesitation. Then he made his way back to her, where she sat quietly on a bench by the water. As he approached, she offered him a soft smile. Klaus poured the champagne into two glasses and handed one to her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He knew she wouldn’t tell him. He wasn’t asking because he expected an answer, he asked so she’d know he’d noticed. That at least someone in this whole damn town had noticed.
Just as he’d suspected, she nodded and took a sip.
“I was thinking about going away for a while,” she admitted.
His brows lifted, his mind already working through ways to keep tabs on her.
“Where?” he asked.
She smirked softly. “Why? So you can hunt me down?”
“No,” he chuckled. “So I can join you.”
She studied him for what felt like an eternity, even if it was only a few seconds. Then she sighed and took another sip.
“I don’t know.”
“I could take you somewhere beautiful,” he said. “A small village in France. Or Italy.”
“I believe you have a vampire cure to find.”
“Did Stefan seriously tell everyone?” Klaus groaned.
“Actually, Damon told me. They’re both a mess. Especially since Elena is… well, an even bigger mess than the two of them combined.” She paused. “Damon confides in me. A lot.”
“You carry quite a few people, don’t you?” Klaus said.
She nodded.
“But who carries you?”
Her gaze dropped to the glass in her hand. “It was always Ric,” she said quietly. “He was the one I leaned on.”
“And now?” Klaus asked.
She exhaled slowly. “Now… it’s you, I suppose.”
He stared at her for a moment before letting out a laugh.
“Then you truly need to get far away from here,” he said. “Because, love, you’re in terrible trouble.”
She laughed too, unable to help herself. It was absurd, really. What had the world come to, when the person she could count on most was Klaus Mikaelson?
He watched her with a softness many would have sworn he wasn’t capable of as she steadied herself and took another sip.
“Would you ever take it?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“What?” Klaus said, lifting his glass as if to buy himself a moment.
“The cure.”
He smirked. “And why would I rid myself of being the most powerful creature in the world?” He shook his head. Then his expression shifted, just slightly. “Would you?”
She shrugged. Truthfully, she didn’t know. Part of her loved being a vampire - the strength, the speed, the immortality. Forever young. Forever powerful. But it came with a weight, too. A quiet, persistent self-loathing that had settled deep into her bones over the centuries.
And something told her a cure wouldn’t touch that. There was no easy fix for it.
“Probably not,” she said at last.
“If you wanted it, I could get it for you,” Klaus said calmly. He meant it. “All you’d have to do is ask.”
“Oh, but then who would you chase around for the next few centuries?” she teased, letting out a quiet chuckle.
His brows shot up before he laughed. “Excuse you,” he said, mock-offended.
That only made her laugh harder. And God, how it warmed him. For a moment, just one, he forgot every reason he’d ever had to keep his heart guarded.
Vocab:
Fíriel tarlanc - stubborn mortal maiden
Aran-nin - My king
Fíriel bein - Beautiful mortal woman
Thranduil had long since ceased to display his heart to the world. Not since the death of his wife, many, many years ago. Even the presence of his son could not pierce the armor of his countenance. So when Legolas returned, though joy swelled within him like a river in flood, he allowed no sign to touch his face.
For over twenty-five years, the absence of his son had been a silent wound, a shadow behind every careful step he took. And yet, though no outward expression marked his reunion, that night, beneath the watchful gaze of the stars alone, Thranduil wept. Tears of relief, of release, of a long-borne sorrow finally unburdened, glimmered like starlight upon his cheeks, unseen by any but the heavens.
Thranduil’s love for his son was no less than on that night long ago, when he had stood upon the balcony and presented him to Niquethil. If anything, it had only deepened with the years. From a tiny, sweet infant, Legolas had grown into a striking and formidable young Elf. His skill with the bow was spoken of in awe, yet his mastery of the sword was no less remarkable. He was a warrior of rare talent, and beyond that, a man of keen mind and steady heart. His wisdom -patient, measured, and deep, was perhaps a greater weapon than any he could wield in battle.
And so, when Thranduil passed him in the vaulted halls of the palace, he would incline his head with a simple nod, though within his chest a quiet pride and love swelled, immense and inexpressible.
Legolas soon fell into the rhythm of the forest, moving through the woods with the ease and precision of the palace guards themselves. It was during one such patrol that he first encountered Nicolette. She stood as she often did, bow in hand, arrow nocked, eyes fixed upon her mark. But she was no longer the clumsy novice Thranduil had first glimpsed many moons past. Her aim was sure, her movements graceful, honed by practice, and her skill had grown far beyond the memory of that first meeting beneath the shadowed boughs.
At first, he took her for an Elf. In his limited experience, few mortals possessed such poise, such grace. And yet, as his eyes lingered, he discerned the telltale signs. She was far too slight in stature to be an Elf, and her ears lacked the gentle taper of his kind. Her steps, though measured and elegant, did not carry the soft, whispering weight of the Elves.
“I believe you are trespassing,” Legolas said, bow held lightly in his hand, though there was no intent in his tone to loose it.
Nicolette started at his words, a slight jump betraying her surprise, and for a moment, the forest itself seemed to pause, watching the encounter unfold.
“I practice here sometimes,” she said, lifting her chin, “the King knows.”
Legolas raised an eyebrow, a faint amusement flickering across his features. “King Thranduil knows?”
“He does,” Nicolette replied, though her voice carried a note of uncertainty. “At least… I think he does.”
“You think?” Legolas asked, and Nicolette nodded, though it was clear even to him she was not entirely sure.
“Then I suppose we may ask him ourselves,” Legolas said lightly, and Nicolette’s eyes widened.
“I’m sorry?” she breathed, but he had already turned toward his horse, moving with that quiet ease that bespoke his elven training.
“It is my duty to bring any trespasser to my father,” he said, swinging himself into the saddle. “Since you claim he knows of your presence, I shall not bind you. I trust, then, that you will come willingly and not attempt flight?” He regarded her with a knowing, searching look, noting the flicker of hesitation in her gaze. She did not lie, he could sense it, but she was uncertain, as one might be in dealings with his father. And who could blame her? With Thranduil, certainty was a rare gift.
She stood frozen for a heartbeat, her gaze locked on him.
“Come now,” he urged, “where is your horse?”
“I did not arrive on horseback,” she admitted.
“You walked?” Legolas raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Nicolette inclined her head. He dismounted with a silent grace and extended a hand toward her. She studied him for a long moment - Valar, how she stared - and then, with a tentative step, she placed her hand in his.
“I trust you know how to mount a horse?” he asked.
She nodded stubbornly, though inwardly she knew it was a lie. She had always preferred walking, yet now she would learn otherwise.
As she lifted herself into position, he could not resist a faint smirk. “That is the wrong foot.”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, bewildered.
“Unless mortals mount their horses backward, that is the wrong foot,” he said lightly.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed, and she cast her eyes downward. Never before had she felt such embarrassment. And yet she knew it would pale against the mortification she might feel should Thranduil, upon seeing her here, pretend ignorance… or worse, reveal that the man she had met was nothing more than a guard after all.
“Come now, down with it,” he said, and with a quiet grace and once she did, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the horse. She let out a startled yelp, and the forest seemed to hold its breath at the sudden movement.
Legolas made no remark on the startled sound Nicolette had made, but quietly took the reins of the horse and began leading it toward the palace. Yet beneath the calm of his expression, a faint amusement stirred.
He had inherited this from his father; the quiet fascination with mortals, their endless peculiarities. Though he had spent the last twenty years alongside the man known as Strider, a mortal of uncommon courage and cunning, he found that humans could still surprise him. And now he was beginning to see that women, in particular, possessed a certain unpredictable charm - far more lively, far more… entertaining, than men. Perhaps it was also the result of Strider’s long exposure to Elves, raised in the fair halls of Rivendell. In any case, the forest’s shadows could not hide the tiny smile that pressed against the corners of Legolas’ lips as he guided the horse onward.
The journey to the palace passed in silence, the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves the only sound to mark their passage. When at last they reached the gates, Legolas turned to her, a trace of amusement in his gaze.
“You know,” he said lightly, “if you do not actually know my father, now might be the most prudent moment to confess.”
He could scarce imagine Thranduil permitting a mortal woman to wander freely through the woods, yet he could not fully believe she was being deceitful. It was not in her manner. After all, his father was far from predictable. Indeed, the opposite and even the boldest assumptions could prove folly when it came to the King of Mirkwood.
“I am not a liar,” Nicolette said firmly, her voice steady. “I do know your father… and he knows me.”
It was the second part that betrayed her, softening with a trace of uncertainty, and Legolas could not suppress a quiet smile.
“Fíriel tarlanc,” he muttered under his breath, and Nicolette’s brows furrowed in curiosity.
He guided her gently from the horse and led her through the polished halls of the palace, until they came to the throne room. There, seated upon a throne of carved wood and living vines, crowned in silver and gold, was Thranduil.
Nicolette’s breath caught, and she exhaled quietly to herself. Her instincts had been true, the figure she had met in the forest, the “guard” who had seemed so ordinary, was none other than the Elvenking himself.
Thranduil, as ever, gave nothing away. His face remained as serene and unreadable as the deep forest at twilight, betraying neither recognition nor surprise, yet his presence alone spoke of a power and quiet authority that filled the hall.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, aran-nin,” Nicolette said in Sindarin, bowing with measured grace.
Thranduil inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, his silver hair catching the torchlight, before turning his gaze to Legolas.
“Legolas, leave us,” he commanded, a faint trace of gentleness underlying the usual firmness. Nicolette watched as the young Elf bowed and retreated, the soft click of the door marking the shift in the room’s weight.
Once the door had closed, Thranduil returned his attention to her. “You seem remarkably unsurprised to find that I am no mere guard,” he observed.
“I knew from the very first moment we met,” she said with a casual shrug. Thranduil hummed, a low, curious sound.
“Do you wish to know how?” she asked
“It is not important,” he said, though every fiber of his being yearned to know. Somehow she perceived it, and her smile deepened, teasing, as if weighing whether to reveal the truth or to leave him in delicious uncertainty.
They held each other’s gaze, a silence stretching long enough to feel like an eternity, before he spoke again. “Very well, then... gloat. How did you know?”
“You see,” she said lightly, “now I do not feel like sharing.”
Thranduil regarded her, part shock at her audacity, part panic at the knowledge denied him, yet she simply laughed. A sound so unguarded, so unexpectedly bright, that it confounded him utterly. Part of him longed to enclose her in crystal, to spend endless hours studying her - her laughter, her quirks, the strange and infuriating ways she defied prediction.
“Your elk gave you away,” she said at last.
He allowed himself the faintest flicker of relief, though in truth it mattered little. Yet somehow, it pleased him that she had chosen to reveal even this much.
“I doubt my son rode to your village and carried you here from your… abode,” Thranduil said, rising from his throne. He descended the steps, though he stopped short of her, his presence filling the space between them. “You were in my woods again, were you not?”
She swallowed, the momentary pause betraying her. “Your son looks very much like you,” she said instead, seeking refuge in diversion. “What is his name?”
Thranduil’s brows drew together. “Legolas,” he replied. “It means Greenleaf.”
At the word her head snapped toward him, as though something long forgotten had stirred within her—heard once before, carried on starlight perhaps, yet just beyond her grasp.
“So,” Thranduil pressed, voice calm but unyielding, “were you?”
“What?” Nicolette asked, clearly lost in her thoughts.
“In Mirkwood,” he clarified, one dark brow lifting.
She nodded at last, resignation softening her features. Thranduil regarded her for a long moment, then sighed quietly.
“You truly must cease this habit, Fíriel bein,” he said, his tone neither cruel nor entirely gentle - only weary, as one accustomed to guarding borders both seen and unseen.
“What does Fíriel mean?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, dark curls slipping forward.
“Mortal maiden,” Thranduil replied.
“And tarlinc?” she pressed.
“Tarlinc?” He frowned faintly. “Ah—perhaps you mean tarlanc.”
She nodded, and Thranduil could not suppress the curve of a smirk. How fitting, indeed.
“Tarlanc means stubborn,” he said.
She frowned, though she made no protest. “So if someone were to call me fíriel tarlanc, they would be calling me a stubborn mortal maiden?”
“And to think,” Thranduil said, his amusement lingering, “my son spent but a short while in your company, yet already he has you well understood.”
Her lips pressed together. “And bein?” she asked at last.
Thranduil met her gaze, and the smirk faded. “You ask too many questions, fíriel,” he said quietly.
“Then stop calling me that,” she replied, folding her arms.
“Then what should I call you?” he countered. “For I do not yet know your name.”
“Nicolette,” she said simply, holding his gaze. “That is my name.”
He regarded her for a moment, as though weighing the sound of it. “Nicolette,” he repeated. “How… unusual.”
She raised a brow. “Your name is Thranduil, and you mean to tell me mine is unusual?”
For the briefest moment, something like laughter flickered in his eyes - quick, restrained, and gone again as swiftly as it came.
“I was named after a star,” Nicolette said, her voice unassuming, as though she spoke of nothing remarkable. “Niquethil was her name.”
Thranduil stilled.
“Niquethil?” he repeated, the name leaving his lips with a reverence he did not attempt to hide.
“Yes,” she replied lightly. “She fell the night I was fou—” She hesitated, the word catching in her throat, then continued more softly, “the day I was born.”
Thranduil studied her in silence, a faint crease forming between his brows. Confusion warred with something deeper - unease, wonder, and the stirrings of a memory long guarded beneath centuries of restraint. The longer he stood in her presence, the more he felt it: this mortal woman was no passing curiosity. Like the star whose name she bore, she had entered his sky quietly, yet already she had begun to alter its constellations. Thranduil was silent for a long while before he spoke.
“You truly must cease this habit of sneaking into my woods,” he said at last.
Nicolette nodded, the movement small and unguarded. “I know.”
He studied her then, as though reading something in a language he couldn't understand. “You know,” he said quietly, “and yet you have no intention of stopping.”
She shook her head.
For a moment, the hall seemed to hold its breath.
“Very well,” Thranduil said at last. “Then you shall stay.”
I got this really nice and heartwarming comment at AO3 and now I cannot tell if it's a bot or a real person 😭 Like it sounds like AI but then again so does my autistic ass so i don't know. AI could literally be used in medical field and instead it's being used for bots on fanfic site, wtf is that.
Before I published any of my writings I never really grasped how fucking beautiful and heartwarming it is to get kudos let alone a comment. In a way there is nothing more beautiful than a complete stranger connecting with your mind and telling you:”hey, I like this”
Can I pretty please be added to the tag list for The Brightest of Stars? 🥹 (I am SO very interested to see where it goes, and I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love it!)
Of course! I am so so happy you like it 🥹 thank you so much for reading my love! ❤️
Many moons passed before Thranduil beheld the mortal woman again. In truth, he all but forgot her. In the days immediately following their meeting, his thoughts had strayed to her from time to time - wondering how she fared among her own kind, what place she held in the nearby village, and whether she might once more dare the borders of his forest. Yet he did not care enough to seek the answers.
Before long, even those fleeting musings faded. One could hardly fault him for it. His mind was ever burdened with the welfare of his people, with shadows that crept and gathered beneath the boughs of Greenwood. There was little room for idle thoughts of a mortal woman who could scarcely loose an arrow true.
After all, humans were but a fragile flicker in the long memory of the Elves - a brief spark, soon kindled and soon gone.
Perhaps that was why it came as such a surprise when, one twilight, he glimpsed her once more among the trees. Fortune, at least, showed a measure of mercy that day: the bow was not in her hands, but slung across her back, while she knelt among the undergrowth gathering athelas. Thus she was not only trespassing in the Woodland Realm, but also pilfering its green treasures.
She knelt upon the forest floor, her white satin gown spread around her, already darkened with soil, heedless of the stains. A velvet cloak of pale blue lay about her shoulders, its hood drawn up, though her long dark hair still spilled free in soft waves. Thranduil could not have named what unsettled him so deeply about this mortal woman but something did.
Like a moth drawn unbidden toward flame, he stepped nearer.
The ever-silent Elf, however, betrayed himself upon a twig. The sharp crack rang through the glade, and in an instant she sprang to her feet, bow drawn and arrow nocked in his direction. The motion was swift and precise, leaving no doubt that she had practiced long and often, most likely within his forest. He would have words with his scouts, of that he was certain.
“Who goes there?” she demanded.
“Lower the bow, Fíriel,” he said calmly, stepping from behind the trees.
“Oh, it’s you,” she breathed, relief softening her stance. She lowered the bow at once and knelt again, resuming her gathering of athelas as though nothing had occurred.
“So,” Thranduil said coolly, “not only do you trespass, but you steal as well. I ought to have you cast into a cell.”
She looked up at him then. “Please,” she said, her voice gentle and for a fleeting moment it stole the breath from his lungs, though he did not allow it to show. “My people are dying.”
His brows drew together. Was there some peril beyond his borders of which he was unaware? “Dying how?” he asked.
“Of sickness,” she said. “A fever spreads among us.”
He regarded her in silence for a long moment. “Death is woven into the fate of your kind,” he said at last. “Why should I bend my will to forestall it?”
She froze, then slowly rose and stepped toward him. “I did not ask you to bend your will,” she said evenly. “I asked you to look away, ellon.” The Sindarin word caught him off guard. “Surely your king will not miss a handful of leaves.”
He raised a brow. “King Thranduil has made his stance on the affairs of others abundantly clear throughout his long life,” he replied, mindful that she did not know whom she addressed.
“I have defended King Thranduil,” she said coldly, “when others named him selfish for withholding his aid. A ruler’s first duty is to his own people. To march against Smaug would have cost countless elven lives; fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters, all for a battle doomed to fail. That choice I understood.” Her gaze sharpened. “But I do not ask for soldiers. I ask for plants - plants he need not lift a finger to provide. And if I am to be chained for that, then perhaps King Thranduil is as cruel and selfish as many claim.”
Thranduil stared at her in quiet astonishment. She had no notion, none at all, of how bold, how perilously audacious her words were.
“Is that truly how you see the Elvenking?” he asked softly. “Cruel, and selfish?”
“It is easy to declare something ‘not your concern,’” she replied, voice edged with pain, “when you are not the one watching children fade away, when the remedy lies within reach. The king sits upon his jeweled throne and turns his gaze aside while mothers bury their sons. I honored his choice not to send his warriors to die. He should honor mine - to protect my people by any means left to me.”
“The woods are thick with spiders,” he said coolly. “To wander here alone is folly, and to risk your life so, especially when striking true with a bow is no small challenge for you.”
To his astonishment, she answered not with words, but with action. Swiftly she nocked an arrow and loosed it; the shaft flew clean and true, striking a pinecone from a nearby branch.
“...Besides,” she said evenly, lowering the bow, “a true leader does not stand apart and watch his people die. A true leader rides at the forefront of battle and does not cower behind those sworn to follow him.”
He regarded her in silence, and for a fleeting moment she might have sworn she glimpsed something like respect in his eyes.
“Very well,” he said at last, a weary breath escaping him. “Take what you need. I will keep watch and then I shall see you safely to the forest’s edge.”
She studied him for a heartbeat, her gaze softening, if only a little. “Thank you,” she murmured, and her fingers brushed his arm in passing before she turned once more to the athelas.
Thranduil stood frozen. Though steel and mail lay between them, he felt the touch all the same, as if warmth had passed through him. Another quiet reminder of the differences between their kindred: Men were free with touch - embraces, casual kisses shared without thought, while among Elves such closeness was reserved for bonds of great depth and trust.
She gathered a few more leaves and placed them carefully into her satchel, then rose and smoothed her gown.
“Have you enough?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “It will suffice.”
He inclined his head. “Then allow me to walk with you to the forest’s edge.”
“There is no need,” she said, shaking her head.
“Perhaps,” he answered, “yet I would be easier of mind if I did. To ensure, of course, that you do not linger.”
She studied him for a moment, as though weighing the truth of his words, then gave a small nod. “As you wish,” she said at last.
They set out together beneath the darkening boughs, walking side by side along paths known far better to him than to any mortal. The forest whispered around them: leaves stirring, distant calls echoing faint and watchful but no spider crossed their way. Thranduil moved with effortless silence, his presence a steady shield, though he made no show of it.
For a time, neither spoke. The hush sat easily upon him, but she seemed content as well, her earlier fire quieted into something gentler, more thoughtful. At length she glanced at him from beneath her hood. “You are… unlike what I imagined an elf would be,” she said carefully.
“And you,” he replied without looking at her, “are unlike what I expected of a mortal.”
She smiled faintly at that, and the look of it lingered with him longer than it should have.
When the trees began to thin and the forest’s edge came into view, she slowed her steps. “I will not forget this,” she said quietly. “Nor your kindness though you pretend it is none.”
“It was prudence, not kindness,” he answered, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
She stopped then and faced him. “If ever you should wish to know whether your choices matter beyond these woods,” she said, “remember that there are those who live because you allowed a few leaves to be taken.”
Before he could answer, she stepped back, offering a small, respectful incline of her head. Then she turned and went on her way, disappearing into the open land beyond the trees.
Thranduil remained where he stood long after she was gone, listening to the forest reclaim its quiet. Somewhere deep within him, something long held rigid had shifted - only slightly, yet enough to be felt.
At last he turned back beneath the boughs of Greenwood, knowing with a certainty that surprised him: this mortal woman would not fade from his thoughts so easily again.
While he turned once more to his patrol beneath the shadowed boughs, she hastened on toward the healer’s cottage. The air within was thick and unmoving, heavy with the scent of sickness and waning life. Her gaze passed from bed to bed, and her heart tightened as she beheld those who lay there. Souls slowly slipping away, breath by fragile breath.
“Your Highness!” cried the healer, an elderly woman with eyes both kind and worn by long vigil. “You must not linger here. The sickness may take hold of you as well and if your father were to see you in such a state...” Her words trailed off as her gaze fell upon Nicolette’s mud-stained gown.
“I have brought our deliverance,” Nicolette said simply, opening her satchel and revealing the leaves within.
The healer’s breath caught. “Kingsfoil,” she whispered in wonder. “But it does not grow within our lands. How did you—”
“It does not matter,” Nicolette interrupted gently. “It will heal them, will it not?”
The healer nodded at once, urgency replacing awe. She took the leaves and set to work, crushing them swiftly into a fragrant paste. Nicolette cast aside her cloak and moved to her side, helping to lay the remedy upon fevered brows and trembling temples, offering what comfort she could as hope, long absent, returned to the room.
“When shall we know if it has taken effect?” Nicolette asked softly.
“By dawn,” the healer replied. “Yet I am certain it will.”
Nicolette inclined her head, accepting the answer.
“Come,” said the healer gently, “sit with me, Your Highness.” She gestured toward a pair of chairs set in the corner of the room. Once they were seated, she poured a cup of warm herbal tea and pressed it into Nicolette’s hands.
After a moment’s silence, she studied her more closely. “Now tell me truly. Where did you come by the kingsfoil?”
“Mirkwood,” Nicolette confessed at last.
“Mirkwood?” The healer’s eyes widened in alarm. “If King Thranduil were to learn of this, he would surely have you cast into a cell.”
Nicolette smiled faintly. “It was worth the risk. Besides,” she added softly, “I believe he already knows.”
The healer frowned, confusion knitting her brow. “Were you seen, my lady?”
“Yes,” Nicolette answered. “By an elf who claimed to be a guard. I have encountered him once before.”
“You should not tempt fate so boldly,” the healer said with quiet concern. “Such a one could easily report your trespass to the Elvenking.”
“I do not think he is merely a guard, Ethell,” Nicolette said, her voice low and thoughtful. “In truth, I have long suspected he is the Elvenking himself.”
Ethell stared at her, bewilderment plain upon her face, and so Nicolette continued.
“When I was a child, my father told me of his meeting with King Thranduil. He spoke of a tall and radiant lord, crowned with silver hair, who stood apart from his company - not mounted upon a common horse, but upon a great and noble elk.”
The healer fell silent then, the weight of Nicolette’s words settling slowly between them, like the hush before dawn.
“Nevertheless, you must tread with care, my lady,” the healer said at last, her gaze fixed upon some distant thought, as though her eyes followed paths long since walked.
“What is it you are not telling me, Ethell?” Nicolette asked softly.
“Elves are unlike Men,” Ethell replied. “They are fairer, and more perilous to the heart. Their charm is subtle, and a mortal woman may fall beneath its spell before she is aware of it. How much more so, then, when it is the Elvenking himself.”
Nicolette laughed lightly. “I assure you, it is not so,” she said.
“Oh, my child,” Ethell sighed, a weary tenderness in her voice. “Long ago, when first we came to these lands, before you were born, I too ventured into those woods. I was seen by an Elf. In time, we met again, and again, until love took root where I had not meant it to grow.”
Her eyes grew distant. “But Elves do not leave their forests. To them, we are but leaves upon the great tree of life. And each autumn, Iavas, they name it, the leaves fall and perish, only for new ones to take their place when spring returns.”
“I shall remember your counsel, Ethell,” Nicolette said softly, reaching out to clasp the healer’s hand with gentle care. “Yet I assure you, I do not find the Elvenking charming. He is merely… intriguing. As though I might have crossed his path before, somewhere beyond recall.”
Ethell regarded her steadily. “If you truly had met him, my lady,” she said at last, “you would remember it. Such a meeting does not fade from the mind so easily. I cannot imagine you would ever forget the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm.”
“You are right, of course,” Nicolette sighed softly. “In any case, I doubt I shall ever cross paths with King Thranduil again so there is little cause for worry.”
She spoke the words lightly, yet they lingered in the air, as though the world itself knew how little mortals may trust such certainties.
My mind is crowded with ideas. The new Thranduil fanfic but also an idea for a Thranduil short story. But also Legolas short story, but also a Legolas fanfic I have no idea how to put on paper for it is entirely too undetailed in my head. But I also recently watched Pirates of the Caribbean and I find myself overcome with some sort of 'characters played by young Orlando Bloom' obsession.
