Damsel (Part 3)
Pairing: Thranduil x fem!Reader
(GIF by @lee-pace-yourself)
Summary: Your father, chief of a dwindling Dúnedain faction, betrothed you to King Thranduil of Mirkwood in a last-ditch effort to save your tribe from extinction. But those plans become severely upended when Smaug kidnaps you and holds you captive in Erebor.
Now sixty years later, after Thorin’s company liberates the mountain from Smaug, Thranduil, surprised to find you alive, has every intention of picking back up where you left off.
Somehow, you didn’t get that memo.
Catch Up: Part 1 Part 2
Read More: Part 4
A/N: God, I can't stop with this one. This is my longest chapter yet, coming in at 8,000 words, so buckle up. This is a Legolas-heavy chapter because there's stuff that really does need to be resolved there. Please let me know if you feel the story is going too slow. I'll try to speed it up in the next chapter. I've just been having so much fun fleshing out all these details.
Your footsteps echoed loudly through the halls of Erebor as you descended the steps down to the hoard, several dead rabbits clutched in your hand making up the entirety of your food for the next couple days. Since living with Smaug, you found that you needed to eat very little particularly in comparison to how it used to be before. The past six years had not been easy for you, and you dreaded how much longer your torture would continue.
You prayed to the Valar everyday to just end your suffering.
Smaug had not returned to the mountain since dropping off his latest batch of food for you. Once you had picked up the dead rabbits, he had taken flight and flown off to find his own food. He had done this many times before, and you knew that it usually took him a few hours to eat his fill before he returned.
You had only a few hours to enact your latest escape attempt. The past few times you had done this, Smaug had caught you almost immediately, and his displeasure was visible in the many scars that now littered your legs. You had been impulsive then, trying to escape with no semblance of a plan or an idea of what you would do. Even if you had been successful, you had no transportation and very few options of where to go.
Your father had died about six months ago, having failed in his final attempt to rescue you from the mountain. Smaug had burned him and his men to a crisp and made you watch as he did so. You cried yourself to sleep for weeks, Smaug offering little comfort, only laughing as he witnessed your distress. But what he had underestimated was your anger, and your anger drove you to be bolder than you had before.
You skinned the rabbits and began preparing a fire on one of the outdoor terraces of Erebor. By your estimate, you had about twelve hours before Smaug returned from his hunt. It was not long enough for you to get to your final destination, but it would give you a good enough headstart. You would need to cook your meat and store it properly so you could keep it for the several days’ journey to Mirkwood.
Only King Thranduil could help you now. He was the only person that knew you were still alive, and probably the only one who would give you temporary shelter if you made it that far. But you weren’t sure because your escape would naturally engender Smaug’s wrath. King Thranduil would be well within his rights to cast you out of the forest and leave you to your fate, but it was a risk that you had to take.
There would also be the inevitable migraine that would hit you once you left the foot of the mountain. The first few times you had tried to escape, it had been incapacitating, but each time, you endured just a little bit longer. You were going to have to fight it. You had no choice but to do so.
Once you had prepared your provisions, you took a deep breath and began making your way to the only entrance to the mountain that Smaug kept open. It was a chore making it over the crumbling rocks, but you had done this a few times before, so you knew where the worst of the snags were. The moment you exited, you took off running as fast as you could, making it to the ruins of the city of Dale in just a few minutes. You paused for a moment, waiting for the tingling of the migraine to begin, but to your surprise, nothing happened. You decided not to dwell on it further and began quickly making your way down the mountain, with the hopes of making it to the edge of the lake where you knew a couple of old boats were.
The boats were probably full of holes and may sink the moment you placed them in the lake, but you would swim the entire length of the lake if you had to. If you could just make it to Laketown before Smaug returned to Erebor, you would have the best chance of putting this ordeal behind you than you ever had.
Your determination was so strong that you barely noticed the fact that the migraine had not returned. You found the surviving boathouse and dragged the wooden contraption across the beach and into the lake. It was old and definitely dingy, but it would get you far enough to Laketown where you could hopefully hitch a ride on a merchant ship heading to Mirkwood for trade.
You rowed all day, the sun beginning to set over the hills. Smaug would be back in a few hours, and you were almost to Laketown. Freedom was so close, you could almost taste it. Your arms were burning and your heart was racing from the exertion but you pressed forward until you were just at the border of Laketown, heart leaping in your throat when you realized that you…might actually make it.
You looked around the lake for a moment to realize that it was still. Too still, save for you. Something was…wrong.
Your migraine had not returned. In fact, you felt…completely fine.
This was too easy.
Before you could contemplate it further, a dark shadow blocked the last light of the sun, and you heard several screams from the town behind you. You closed your eyes and placed your head in your hands. Smaug had returned.
Suddenly you were snatched from your boat and lifted into the air, the wind knocked out of you as Smaug took you higher and higher. You could barely think as the cold air whipped in your face and the speed took your breath away.
“So,” he growled, “You thought you could escape me? You thought I would not realize?”
You were speechless, unable to form any words as he climbed higher into the air.
“You thought you could make it to Mirkwood, did you?” he accused, “You thought your pretty elf king would save you? From me!? You dared seek out his presence?”
Tears stung your eyes as the cold air continued to lambast your skin.
“You have not learned your lesson,” Smaug hissed, stopping his ascent and bringing you to face him, “So, it appears I must once again teach you. You belong to me!”
With that declaration, he took off flying but not in the direction of Erebor. In the direction of Mirkwood. You saw the writing on the wall immediately.
“...No,” you breathed, barely able to make your voice work, “No…please!”
Smaug scoffed.
“Perhaps now, you will learn!” he roared, and he dived into the forest of Mirkwood, belly quickly heating with his impending fire.
“Please…no! Punish me instead!” you cried.
But Smaug did not listen, and you watched in abject horror as he let loose his great fire and began burning down the forest of Mirkwood. Below you, you heard the frightened screams of the elves as they scattered, desperately trying to regroup and find a way to fight the dragon. Smaug tore through the kingdom, razing everything in his wake, while you were forced to watch, large tears streaming unchecked down your face. This was all your fault.
All your fault.
But the worst was yet to come.
“Ah,” Smaug chuckled, “Defiant as always. Perhaps King Thranduil will finally learn the true meaning of dragon fire.”
You twisted around to see a figure on the ground, astride a glowing white elk, twin swords raised in defiance. King Thranduil.
“Please, I beg of you,” you sobbed, “Don’t do this.”
Smaug cared little for your pleas. He circled around, placing his form in the king’s line of sight. Thranduil, ever the valiant fighter, showed absolutely no fear as he bid his elk to charge forward, weapons positioned in front of him to either strike a killing blow or die trying. Smaug chuckled and opened his maw, letting loose a huge stream of fire. You screamed uncontrollably as you watched the flames charge forward, engulfing Thranduil. The look on his face was one of utter betrayal as he stared directly at you…
…You sat bolt upright in your bed, drenched in sweat and heart pounding in your chest. You panted hard, not initially recognizing your surroundings, before your eyes started adjusting to the dark. You placed a hand to your chest, willing yourself to take deep breaths to calm your racing heart. Moonlight streamed through a crack in the curtains next to your bed, giving a soft glow to the room, and you began to make out features of the now familiar chambers.
You were in Mirkwood. You had been for about ten months now.
It took you several minutes before you were able to convince yourself that the nightmare you had had was not real. Mirkwood was still standing. Smaug was dead. King Thranduil was safe. He had not perished from Smaug’s fire. It was all just a dream.
And not the first one you had had since permanently relocating to Mirkwood and taking up your position as the king’s betrothed. In fact, as you grew closer with the king, the nightmares only seemed to be getting worse. This was the first time where you had actively dreamt of King Thranduil’s death, let alone his death at the hands of Smaug.
Whatever the dragon had done to you, it was getting worse. Smaug had been dead almost two years now, and yet his hold on you was as bad as it had been when you were trapped in the mountain. You could not be entirely sure why it was getting worse, but you could hazard a guess. If Smaug had somehow managed to attach his life force to you, then he would be able to continually affect you until you died. Smaug was a possessive, jealous creature. He had never been willing to part with a single piece of gold, so why would he consider you to be any different?
The part of Smaug that still remained was obviously furious that you had gone forward with your betrothal to King Thranduil, and he was making his ire known. Now, instead of just making you relive moments of your captivity, he was escalating by fabricating images of your new kingdom perishing at his hands.
Just like what he had done to your father.
You couldn’t take this anymore. You needed to get out of this room.
You scrambled out of bed, threw on a robe to protect you from the winter chill, and exited your room, quickly walking towards the entrance to the palace gardens. You did not care if your footsteps echoed through the empty halls, waking the elves with sensitive ears. You just needed to get out of there. The walls seemed to be closing in on you, suffocating you, and you felt as though you couldn’t breathe properly.
It took you mere minutes to exit the palace and take refuge in the garden. The gardens were exquisite and exceedingly well-kept, but their beauty escaped you at this very moment. You found a lone tree, plopped yourself against it, sitting with your back to the trunk, and gazed up at the stars. At the sight of them, you felt yourself begin to calm immediately, your heartbeat slowing down and your breathing becoming less ragged. You dug your nails into your palms, the pain grounding you, convincing you that you were awake and no longer dreaming.
Mirkwood was still standing. Everything was fine.
You heard soft footsteps approaching you, and you whipped your head around to find King Thranduil standing a few feet away with a concerned frown on his face.
“The nightmares continue?” he asked, softly, “This is the first time you have sought refuge here. It must be serious this time.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your tears not to fall again. You had not cried in front of Thranduil yet, and you were still wary of doing so.
“I—needed to be sure,” you whispered.
“Sure of what?” he questioned.
“That…that…the forest still stood,” you confessed, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing yourself to calm.
Beside you, you felt Thranduil lower to the ground to sit beside you. A part of you was shocked that he would deign to sit in the dirt, while the other part of you tried not to think about the fact that this was the closest the two of you had physically been since you relocated to his kingdom. You weren’t sure if you were capable of handling the implications of what that meant.
Thranduil did not crowd you, and did not move to touch you. He simply sat next to you and looked upon you, his concern growing. He had known about your nightmares and knew that you still suffered from them, but he had failed to grasp the depth of their severity. Part of him wished that you would open up a bit more to him, to allow him to try to help you, but the other part of him understood your need to keep your battles private. After all, it wasn’t as though he had been forthcoming about his own experience with dragons either.
“Will you tell me what you saw?” he asked.
You took a shuddering breath and opened your eyes. His gaze was soft and genuine, and at the moment, you saw no good reason to keep this particular dream from him.
So, you told him. You described in vivid detail the events of your dream, failing to contain your tears as you recounted Smaug’s assault on Mirkwood and how you had woken up just before Thranduil’s death. When you had finished, you furiously wiped your tears on the back of your hand, and pointedly refrained from looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” you rasped, “This is not your burden to bear.”
“Do not apologize,” Thranduil said, forcefully, “I agreed to share this burden with you.”
He was right about that, you supposed. You still hated leaning on other people, preferring to deal with this yourself. But it was becoming clear that you were not going to be able to manage this much longer.
“I have underestimated the severity of Smaug’s hold over you,” Thranduil sighed, “You are in urgent need of Lord Elrond’s care. I will send for Prince Legolas in the morning.”
You squeezed your eyes shut again and nodded, resisting the urge to argue with him…to try to make the false assertion that you had this under control. Something about this dream forced you to realize that you could not survive this much longer. It had only been two years since Smaug died, and you were rapidly approaching your hundredth year, looking no different than you had when you were in your early 30’s. Smaug’s plan had been to keep you captive for the rest of your days, and even in death, he was fulfilling that plan.
You felt a gentle hand on your shoulder, and you opened your eyes to find Thranduil looking at you with a soft expression.
“You need rest. Would it help if you weren’t alone?” he asked.
You thought for a moment, thinking that having one of your attendants stay in the room with you for a while might help you fall back asleep. Your main attendant, Mirima, would be the most logical choice.
“I…yes, I think that would help,” you mumbled, “I will find Mirima.”
Thranduil sighed quietly.
“Or, if you would prefer to keep this private, I can stay with you,” Thranduil offered.
You couldn’t keep the shock from blanketing your face, and Thranduil quickly explained himself.
“I have quite a bit of paperwork to complete this morning. My study has a large chaise, you can rest there,” Thranduil continued.
“You–don’t need to rest as well?” you ventured, “It’s still quite early.”
Thranduil shook his head.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed but elves require much less sleep than mortals,” he explained, and you chuckled slightly at his phrasing, “I prefer to work before the majority of the palace has awoken. It is quieter.”
You couldn’t blame him on that one.
“If…it would not be too much trouble,” you said, “Then your company would be…most appreciated.”
Thranduil nodded and stood, holding out his hand for you to take.
“Come,” he invited, and you took his hand, letting yourself be guided back to the palace and to the king’s study once more.
It took several months for the messenger to reach Gondor with King Thranduil’s letter for Prince Legolas, and several more months before he finally returned to Mirkwood. By the time Legolas arrived, you had been in Mirkwood for about fifteen months and sleeping in Thranduil’s study after a nightmare had become a regular occurrence. He never seemed to mind, and you found that your sleep was much sounder knowing that his steady presence was nearby. Smaug seemed to sense his presence too and rarely bothered you with him around.
It was unnerving.
Thranduil had also insisted that you learn how to defend yourself, considering that the road from Mirkwood to Rivendell was dangerous. You had never been formally trained in swordcraft or even archery, your father holding to the Dúnedain traditions of men doing most of the heavy lifting in that area. The most you had ever done was stab a few orcs in self defense during the Battle of the Five Armies. Thranduil had looked mildly horrified when he had realized that you had survived that battle on a combination of nihilistic nonchalance and no small amount of luck. Needless to say, he was not amused.
You were not a warrior, and you weren’t trying to be, but your goal was to try not to get yourself killed. Yes, while Legolas would be accompanying you on your journey, and you couldn’t be in better hands, it would be most helpful to him if you weren’t completely incompetent. The elven guard assigned to train you was very patient and taught you how to properly hold a shortsword and a few long elvish hunting blades. You practiced with him for a couple of hours almost every day, leading to you practically crawling back to your quarters, exhausted and sore. If there was one benefit to the physical activity, it tired you out to the point that you barely dreamt of Smaug.
Prince Legolas arrived from Gondor with more fanfare than you suspected he would have liked. He had been away from Mirkwood for two years, which was really nothing in the lifetime of an elf. You stood at the entrance to the palace to receive him, electing not to join Thranduil in the throne room. He gave you a small smile as he approached.
“My Lady,” he greeted, bowing respectfully when he saw you, which you were totally unprepared for.
“Prince Legolas,” you said, “It is good to see you again.”
“And you as well, My Lady,” he returned, “I must admit I was not expecting you to renew your engagement to my father. Nonetheless, you have my congratulations.”
Valar, you hadn’t actually thought much about Legolas in this process and how awkward this entire situation would be for him.
“You are most kind, My Lord,” you said, “To be frank, I was not expecting to renew my betrothal either, but here we are I suppose.”
“Indeed,” Legolas concurred, nodding, “Will you be accompanying me to see my father?”
You shook your head.
“No, that conversation is for the two of you alone,” you explained, “I will be around. Feel free to find me at any time if you would like to discuss anything.”
Legolas nodded and gave you another small smile before striding forward to enter the throne room. You stood outside the palace for a moment, drinking in the fresh air before begrudgingly making your way over to the training grounds to continue your lessons. Today was archery, and you were absolutely abysmal at it. You could only hope that Legolas, the legendary archer himself, wouldn’t be around to witness your inability to hit close-range, stationary targets.
Which…because the Valar really just hated you…was unfortunately exactly what happened. You had misfired for probably the hundredth time that day, your arrow landing several feet from the target, and your frustration was growing. Your trainer normally had infinite amounts of patience, but you could tell from the tenseness in his face that even he was starting to get annoyed.
You had survived sixty years of a fire-breathing dragon. There was no way in Mordor you were going to let some stupid arrow get the best of you. You immediately nocked another arrow and took aim, squinting hard to see the target as best as you could. Before you could fire, you heard your trainer call out someone behind you.
“My Lord, Legolas!”
Shit.
You lowered your bow and turned to find Legolas strolling into the training guards with his own gear. He spoke quietly to your trainer for a moment and then dismissed him. The guard bowed, seemingly pleased that he had been relieved of babysitting duty for the moment, and wandered off.
“My father mentioned that I might find you here,” Legolas stated, “It appears you are training in archery. That is commendable.”
You huffed and shook your head.
“‘Train’ is a generous word,” you grumbled, “‘Failing’ would be the more accurate term. After three weeks of work, I still cannot even hold the bow straight.”
Legolas shook his head.
“Three weeks is hardly enough time to learn anything,” he insisted, “You should not compare yourself to any of the elves. They have been training for centuries.”
You couldn’t argue with that logic. But you were human, you weren’t logical on a good day.
“I’m not trying to become a warrior queen,” you grumpily said, “I’m just trying to make sure I don’t become warg food before we arrive at Rivendell. I don’t think Lord Elrond will be able to do much if I show up in pieces.”
Legolas frowned.
“I shall be with you. I will not let you become…warg food,” he declared.
You internally chuckled. For someone who was cresting three millennia in age and who had spent a couple of years in Gondor, Legolas was still a bit naive to mortal nihilism. It was a bit funny.
“It was a joke,” you explained, “I’m not questioning your skills at all, quite the opposite. It’s a wonder my lack of battle prowess has gotten me this far. I nearly got squished by one of those troll things during the Battle of Five Armies. One of these days, my luck is going to desert me.”
Legolas’ frown deepened and a pained look flashed across his face for a moment.
“You…shouldn’t jest about such things,” he warned.
You sighed and shook your head.
“No, you’re right, I shouldn’t,” you conceded, “Your father hates it when I make these comments too.”
To say that Thranduil hated your dark humor was the understatement of the century. The first and last time you had made such a quip had been after a particularly bad nightmare where Smaug had finally gotten fed up with you and had just burnt you to a crisp.
“Well,” you had mumbled, “At least death by incineration is faster than my current slow descent into insanity. Too bad Smaug decided to go with the latter. How inconvenient.”
If looks could kill, you wouldn’t have had to worry about Smaug anymore, because of the absolutely scathing look Thranduil had given you at that comment.
“Do Not. Ever. Say such things again,” he had hissed, voice so low it was almost a growl.
Yep. You weren’t making that mistake again.
Legolas tilted his head in curiosity.
“Then why do you make such comments?” he pressed.
You sighed.
“It’s just…gallows humor, Prince Legolas,” you rationalized, “It’s a very human thing to do. Humor helps us cope with uncomfortable situations. Surely you encountered it during your time in Gondor?”
Legolas shook his head.
“No, I did not,” he said, “I shall take your word for it. But I do not like it. I do not find death amusing.”
Well, fair enough. No gallows humor for Legolas either. You simply nodded in acknowledgement and waited out the awkward silence that ensued before Legolas spoke again.
“You…hold your bow too stiffly,” he observed, “Perhaps if you’d like, I can help you with your archery practice?”
Your eyes widened at his offer. Prince Legolas, who has trained for millennia, would deign to help you learn archery? It seemed ridiculous until you reminded yourself again that you were about to marry his father, and become his…well…you couldn’t exactly say step-mother. The elf was literally three thousand years older than you.
“Are you sure?” you ventured, “I don’t want to impose…”
Legolas sighed, sounding eerily similar to his father as he did so. Valar, you were going to have to deal with two of them now.
“You are to be the next Queen of Mirkwood,” he said, “You cannot possibly impose upon anyone.”
There was that damn title again. It felt so…wrong. Mirkwood had had a queen, and inheriting her title didn’t feel right. But that was a conversation for a different day.
“If you are offering, then I will gladly accept,” you agreed, “But do be warned, I am hopeless at this. I’m much better at stabbing things from a short distance.”
Legolas smirked lightly at that.
“Well, allow me to help you become proficient at shooting things from a greater distance, then.”
Preparations for your journey to Rivendell took about six more months, and it felt as though the time just kept flying by. By human standards, six months was a sizable amount of time, but it had passed in the blink of an eye, and you wondered if this is how elves felt at the passing of centuries. Your swordsmanship had improved quite substantially, and your archery had too, but to a lesser degree. Legolas was even more patient than your previous trainer, and he seemed to instinctively know how to adapt his advice to your human physicality. You suspected that that was a direct result of him spending a couple years in Gondor and then frequently visiting Dale upon his return to Mirkwood. He seemed to interact with humans more easily than his kin, and you wondered if that was a natural result of his endless curiosity. He wasn’t as jaded and cynical as Thranduil, and you found that very refreshing.
However, you found yourself becoming closer to Thranduil than you had anticipated. After you spent a couple hours with Legolas in the archery range each day, you spent whatever time you could with Thranduil, doing your best to get to know him. Most of the time, the king was in constant meetings, so you had taken to sequestering yourself in his study and finishing the paperwork that he was unable to complete. You would have never guessed that a king of Thranduil’s stature would complete such busywork himself. You would have expected him to pawn this off to an advisor or an attendant, but as you had quickly figured out, Thranduil was a massive control freak. He often insisted on drafting important regulations and treaty provisions himself, which was incredibly unusual. Even your own father had his advisors take care of these things.
But what it showed was that Thranduil cared deeply about his subjects, so much so that he took these things into his own hands rather than carelessly handing the work over to someone else who may not complete it to his standards. While Thranduil could not yet trust you with everything, you were at the very least in a position to answer letters on his behalf, particularly to people he didn’t care for, or draft contracts with local businesses for work that needed to be completed around the palace. You truly came to admire such unwavering dedication to his people, and hoped that they knew how intensely their ruler worked to ensure their safety.
Seeing his work firsthand helped put his actions after your kidnapping into his perspective. You still had several complicated feelings around it, and you had pushed many of them to the side to deal with more eminent issues. But at the same time, you were starting to understand his perspective bit by bit. While you couldn’t say that you had forgiven him yet, you did know that you would be able to one day, which you considered to be great progress.
On your final evening before you left for Rivendell, Thranduil insisted that you have dinner with him. Usually, you would voluntarily share your evening meal with him, but this time, he wanted to make sure that he could speak with you.
“Thank you for joining me this evening,” Thranduil said, taking a sip of his wine, “I trust all of your preparations for your journey have been made?”
You nodded.
“Yes, My Lord,” you confirmed, “Prince Legolas and I have everything we need.”
Thranduil nodded, looking pleased.
“I am glad,” he continued, “I wanted to ask something of you while you are in Imladris.”
You tilted your head in curiosity.
“Of course,” you said.
Thranduil gripped his goblet just a fraction too tight, and you could tell that his body had gone slightly tense.
“Did Mithrandir ever tell you about my encounters with the dragons?” he asked.
You shook your head in response.
“He…mentioned that you had extensive experience with them, but did not elaborate,” you explained, “And I did not want to ask.”
Thranduil nodded.
“You have more right to ask than others, and you are certainly the only other person in Middle Earth who would understand. But nonetheless, I am grateful you did not,” he said, “But there are a few things you do need to know.”
You remained silent and gave him a small smile to encourage him to continue.
“I have fought many battles against the enemies of Mordor,” Thranduil explained, “My father, King Oropher, was killed in the War of Last Alliance. I fought alongside him and was there when he passed. We lost two-thirds of our army during that battle. I assumed the throne shortly after the war ended.”
You closed your eyes and nodded in sympathy. You knew very well the pain of losing a parent, but you could only imagine how you would have felt if you had witnessed your father’s death. You were not sure if you would have recovered.
“At that time, the fire drakes were more plentiful than they are now,” Thranduil continued, “I had only been king for a mere fifty years when we received reports of a fire-drake terrorizing our lands. We assumed that it must have traveled down from the Grey Mountains. I still do not understand what it wanted, even to this day. All I knew was that I had to kill it.”
You let out a slow breath. You could see where this story was going.
“I lost more of my army facing that beast,” Thranduil hissed, gritting his teeth at the memories, “And during that battle, I faced its fire directly.”
“You have been scarred,” you murmured, clenching your fists as you remembered the pain of the first time Smaug’s fire had blistered your skin.
Instead of responding verbally, Thranduil closed his eyes, and his face contorted into an expression of pain. Immediately, you saw a great scar emerge on the left side of his face. The scar was raw and deep, red in color and clearly very painful. His left eye had also gone completely white, revealing his blindness in that eye. You sat there, sympathy rolling in your gut, as he struggled against the pain of the scar. And then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished. He must have reinstated the illusion magic he used to conceal the scar and give his face the impression of normalcy.
Both you and Thranduil were silent for a few moments before you decided to break it.
“Gandalf had mentioned to me that you had experience with dragons,” you recalled, “I did not realize that it was…that serious.”
Thranduil nodded but said nothing as he waited for you to process what he had shown you.
“Thank you for telling me this,” you said, “That could not have been easy.”
Thranduil looked a bit surprised at your gratitude, but did not acknowledge your comment further.
“There are very few who know about this,” he warned, “Lord Elrond is one of them. He has provided me with potions and salves over the years to help with the pain.”
You nodded in understanding.
“Most of my scars have been healed,” you revealed, “But I do have a few that were not. I have had to learn to manage through the pain. I barely notice it most days.”
Thranduil frowned slightly.
“I trust that our healers have provided you with something to relieve you of that pain?” he questioned.
You nodded again.
“Of course,” you hastened to explain, “My negligence in taking the medicine some days is my own fault.”
Thranduil huffed and shook his head as if your antics exasperated and amused him. Which they probably did.
“I must ask. You said that Smaug healed most of your scars,” he recounted, “How did he do it?”
“Unfortunately, My Lord, I’m not sure this method would be useful considering he is dead,” you said, regretfully, “But the only way to heal dragon fire scars, as far as I know, is with the dragon’s water. That is, their tears.”
Nothing could keep the shock off of Thranduil’s face when you said that.
“How is that possible?” Thranduil breathed, “Dragons cannot–”
“Cry?” you interrupted, “I assure you, they can. If they want to.”
Thranduil leaned back in his seat, looking defeated.
“So, there is no hope…” he trailed off, seemingly talking to himself.
“To heal your scars?” you volunteered, “I do not know, My Lord. But somehow Smaug has managed to affect my physical wellbeing even though he is gone from this world. Perhaps there may be another way.”
Thranduil simply raised a skeptical eyebrow at your comment.
“I’m not saying that I have all the answers, or that I am confident in anything,” you said, “But all I know is that if I had given up hope that I would survive the mountain, I would not be standing here today.”
Thranduil considered you carefully for a moment.
“You mortals have a remarkable ability to remain unfailingly optimistic. I cannot tell if it is some sort of wisdom innate to your kind or simple naïveté,” Thranduil remarked.
You shrugged at his comment.
“When your lifespan is an average of seventy years or so, you don’t have the time to sit and dwell on things you cannot change. But you act decisively on those that you can, or think you can,” you countered.
Thranduil regarded you for a moment before chuckling lightly, and you blinked in surprise. That was the first time you had heard him laugh at anything.
“I find your optimism…refreshing,” he complimented.
Well. That was progress if you’d ever seen it.
You awoke before dawn the next morning and immediately made your way down to the stables to begin loading your horse with the supplies you needed for the six-week journey to Rivendell. You and Prince Legolas had planned a rather indirect route to Rivendell to try to avoid some of the areas that were more heavily infested with orcs. There was also the slight weeklong detour that you were expected to take to Lothlórien to visit Lady Galadriel, who insisted on meeting you. You couldn’t help but wonder if it was a tradition for the prospective spouses of elven rulers to make some grand tour of all the elven kingdoms, and that Thranduil had just simply forgotten to tell you. You would certainly not be surprised if that was indeed what was going on here.
You and Legolas would receive a company of four guards for assistance in beating back any spiders until you reached the edge of the Mirkwood forest. After that, the two of you would be traveling alone to divert attention from yourselves while on the road. You were a bit confused at first and wondered why Thranduil would not have assigned other guards to protect his only son and his betrothed on their full journey. But you had to eventually acknowledge that your original party of twenty people might have been what attracted Smaug’s interest on your ill-fated attempt to travel to Mirkwood sixty years ago. You were forced to admit that this was probably the wiser course of action, even though it meant six weeks of travel time alone with Prince Legolas.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with Legolas, just the opposite. He was nothing but unfailingly kind and polite to you and treated you with the highest level of respect. There seemed to be very little that could anger him…except maybe his father, but that was to be expected. But outside of your core training hours, you hadn’t interacted with Legolas much, preferring to give him his space as he adjusted to the reality that his father was getting married again.
To a human nonetheless. About three-thousand years younger than himself and Valar knew how much younger than his father.
If you were him, you’d be weirded out too. But as you were quickly learning, age gaps didn’t seem to bother elves as it did humans. It certainly helped that elves didn’t age past a certain point in their lives. Still, if you thought too hard about it, it kept you up at night. And with Smaug already causing you nightmares, you tried not to think about it.
As you prepared your saddle, you heard someone call out for you.
“My Lady?”
You turned around to find Tauriel, King Thranduil’s Captain of the Guard, entering the stable. You had met her a handful of times, but had never spoken with her extensively. Thranduil always seemed a bit short with her and you were never sure why. You didn’t really want to ask.
“Captain,” you greeted, “Will you be accompanying us out of the forest these next few days?”
Tauriel smiled, weakly.
“Indeed, I will,” she said, softly, “I came to see if you require assistance with anything?”
You shook your head.
“No, thank you, I believe I am fine,” you replied, “I just have one last bag to collect from my chambers.”
Tauriel frowned.
“I shall happily collect it for you, My Lady,” she offered.
“Oh, that is not necessary, I can get it myself,” you refused, “No need to inconvenience yourself.”
Tauriel looked like she was going to say something further when Prince Legolas quickly strode into the stables.
“Tauriel, please send someone to fetch Her Highness’s things,” he ordered, curtly, abjectly refusing to look at her as he prepared his own horse.
Tauriel for her part looked a bit cowed in Legolas’s presence. Once you recovered from the slight shock of Legolas using a completely different title for you, you glanced between the two of them, noticing the tension. Clearly there was history there.
“Of course, My Lord Legolas,” she submitted, and she quickly left the stables, off to obey his orders.
Once she was out of earshot, Legolas spoke.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, “But you will need to become accustomed to others handling these tasks for you. That is how it will be in Lórien and Imladris.”
Well…fair…but it didn’t make it any less comfortable to make an attendant do something that you could reasonably do yourself.
“I suppose I should expect a title change, then?” you inquired, trying to laugh it off, but Legolas looked completely serious as he answered you.
“The distinction between a betrothal and a marriage is mostly semantics. By elven standards, you are my father’s wife in all but name. You can expect to be treated as such, even before you are officially crowned queen,” he explained.
You let out a long, slow breath at that. Once again, nobody had actually bothered to tell you any of this.
You and Legolas didn’t speak further and within a short hour, the two of you and your company of guards were standing in front of the gates of Mirkwood. Thranduil approached your party and stopped just short of you, his gaze intense as though inspecting all of you for imperfections. You couldn’t blame him. After all, he was about to send his son and his betrothed/wife/whatever-you-were on the road to Rivendell alone. Anyone would be anxious about it.
“May your journey be swift and unhindered,” he declared, “Go with caution, and stay near the roads. I expect your safe return. Both of you.”
Thranduil gave you and Legolas each a separate, but equally pointed, look.
At the conclusion of his swift speech, you, Legolas, and your guards mounted your horses and at Thranduil’s nods, the gates to Mirkwood were opened. Tauriel and Legolas set off first, with you just behind the prince. The rest of the guards trailed behind you, bringing up the rear. The journey through Mirkwood would be about three nonstop days of riding, the perils of the spiders too great for you to consider making camp anywhere.
Your first two days were relatively uneventful, but as night fell on the third day you were ambushed by spiders. You had spent the majority of the third day feeling on edge, as if some impending doom was imminent. So, when the first spider appeared, you felt almost relieved that you weren’t completely crazy. Thankfully, you had five elves with way better hearing than you, so your party wasn’t taken completely by surprise. It was a small nest, but the fight was nonetheless brutal.
At one point, you noticed a spider creeping up behind Legolas while he was distracted with another one. Panicking, you drew your bow, aimed, and fired, somehow managing to strike the spider in one of its eyes, partially blinding it. It shrieked in pain, which drew Legolas’s attention, and he gracefully turned around and dispatched it quickly with his sword. You were able to shoot three more spiders during the battle, and while you didn’t kill them, you weakened them enough so that they became easy kills for the other members of your party.
High on adrenaline, you and Legolas raced through the rest of the forest, managing to clear the edge of the forest around midnight. Legolas dismissed your guards who bowed their heads and turned around, riding back to the Elvenking’s halls, while the two of you set off to find a good spot to camp for the night. Only once you had tied up the horses and set up your bedrolls were you able to come down from the adrenaline rush. This had not been your first battle, but it was the first one you had fought with proper training.
Legolas turned to you and regarded you.
“You fought well today,” he praised, “Your archery skills are more improved than you thought.”
You shook your head.
“I–I don’t know,” you mumbled, “I just saw the spider and knew I had one second to act. So, I did.”
Legolas nodded.
“In battle, you cannot think. Only do,” he said, “Thinking gets you killed.”
You couldn’t help but think how that was the best advice you had ever been given, despite having trained for two years now.
The two of you passed the next three days in relative silence as you rode to Lórien. Riding for this long was extremely tiring. The last time you had attempted to ride this long was when you passed by Erebor sixty years ago, so your stamina was not the greatest. But if you didn’t keep moving, you would be in more danger. You were skirting too close to Dol Guldur for either yours or Legolas’s comfort, and while the forces of the evil fort had taken a hit during the Battle of the Five Armies, there was no telling what else may be brewing there. Begrudgingly, Legolas agreed to set up camp for the night and make the final push to Lórien the next day.
The two of you found an outcropping of rocks by a few trees and were able to tie the horses to them and set up camp. Being this close to Dol Gudur, you didn’t dare start a fire, so you rummaged around for your packages of lembas bread and salted meat while Legolas refilled your water flasks from the stream. When he returned, the two of you ate and drank in relative silence, before you finally decided to ask something that had been on your mind for weeks.
“Prince Legolas,” you called, “If I may ask you something?”
“Of course, My Lady,” he invited, giving you his full attention.
“You do not need to answer this if you do not wish,” you assured, “My betrothal to your father, even sixty years ago, happened suddenly. I imagine you were given little opportunity to provide input.”
Legolas didn’t reply to that, but his silence confirmed it.
“If I had indeed married your father sixty years ago, I would probably be on my deathbed now,” you pointed out, “So, realistically, you would not have had to deal with my presence for very long.”
Legolas frowned deeply at your self-deprecating language, but allowed you to continue.
“But now, given the very real possibility of the dragon extending my lifespan, I could live for centuries,” you continued, “I guess all I want to know is…what is your opinion on this? I know that it is incredibly unusual for elves to remarry, let alone to a mortal.”
Legolas paused, considering his words carefully before replying.
“My Lady, I appreciate your concern, but my opinion on the matter is irrelevant,” he replied.
Now, it was your turn to frown.
“On the contrary, My Lord, your opinion matters the most, I think,” you countered, “If I were in your father’s position, I would want my son’s approval before taking such a consequential decision.”
Legolas chuckled darkly.
“My father has cared more for duty than my happiness,” he muttered, “But if it is my approval you seek, then you have had it for sixty years, My Lady. I gave my father my blessing many years ago when he first made the decision to seek out a second marriage.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I hope you are not saying this to spare my feelings,” you accused.
Legolas shook his head.
“No,” he confirmed, “I was involved in…selecting the best candidate for my father’s hand.”
Well, that was news. That made you feel somewhat better that Thranduil hadn’t completely disregarded his son in this process.
“I see,” you faltered, “Were there many candidates?”
Legolas sighed.
“My father is both wealthy and powerful,” he added, “It took us well over a year to select you.”
You weren’t sure if you should feel flattered, but a part of you did, just a bit.
“You…weren’t concerned about disrespecting your mother’s memory?” you ventured, cautiously.
Legolas stiffened, and you worried that you had gone too far. You opened your mouth to apologize, but Legolas interrupted you.
“My father suffered for millennia after my mother’s passing,” he responded, “His grief has affected the whole kingdom and the forest. My mother would have been devastated to learn what her passing has done to him.”
You dared not to breathe lest any movement or sound interrupt Legolas’s thoughts.
“The relationship you have with my father is between the two of you alone. It is not for anyone else to judge, even me,” Legolas continued, “I only ask two things of you. Take care with his heart, it is more delicate than he would have you believe. And please respect my mother’s memory, which I can tell you already do. If you can promise me this, then you have my blessing, and I shall happily call you my friend.”
You smiled at his words.
“Of course, Legolas. I promise.”
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