Miriel rubbed the aching muscles of her shoulder under her cloak, in the predawn chill. For what seemed like the tenth time, she silently admonished her brother Braedon , a swiftly growing and athletic lad of fifteen, with a tap on the arm on account of the fidgeting that her sensitive ears could hear. They were running out of time, to bring in enough venison to ensure they would survive the long Rhovanion winter. If she could hear the tiny rustle of the leaves underfoot, the deer could as well. Today they hunted at the edge of the Greenwood. Against her preference, Braedon had insisted on accompanying her, and though she loved her brother, she was more than beginning to rue her decision. Everyone knew of and feared the Elvenking that ruled and protected this forest, and Miriel, like all the rest from the village, knew to stay far away. But as the days of unsuccessful hunting wore on, desperation was setting in, which was why they were now positioned right at the edge of the woods, in the hopes that a buck might be taken at in the grassy places where there was yet forage.

For as long as she could remember, she had been cared for by a family of little means but kinds hearts that lived in a tiny enclave, some miles from the edge of the mighty forest. Though they were not her real parents, they were Ma and Da to her. And to her great heartbreak, Da had died of a fever this last spring. He had long been training both Miriel and Braedon in his craft as a woodworker, at which occupation Braedon already showed remarkable skill. Da had been able to support his family with adequate food, clothing and shelter, though none of the family's possessions spoke of any luxury. Ordinarily they traded his wares for their necessities in Dale. On very rare occasion, they might manage to sell a luxury piece to the elves who purchased for the Elvenking, which would mean extra food on the table for many a long month.

Her father had specialized in small pieces of furniture of great beauty and craftsmanship; some said his best pieces rivaled those the Elves themselves made. Miriel's most cherished possessions were her bow, and the carven pendant her Da had made her in the shape of a stag's antlers, of a special hardwood that was a true purple color when sanded and polished. He had given it to her in honor of her skill at hunting; everyone unquestioningly knew she was the best archer in the village. At the earliest age she had shown interest, and he had learned to make fine bows when he was not busy with furniture. Always she wore her pendant proudly on her collarbones, but the day she lost her da, in a fit of grief she tied the cord that held it around her neck into knots that would never come out. Her da had chosen it because there was yet another way his daughter was special; her eyes were a stunning violet color, and the wooden pendant matched their hue. They stood out in vivid contrast to her golden hair. He was proud of his fiercely wild daughter, who loved to stalk game far more than she loved to sand lumber or prepare varnishes. And while he might have preferred she was inclined to more domestic pursuits, he could not deny that the food she brought in on a regular basis was a blessing to their family.

Ma was simply kind, and loving. The loss of Da had been a heavy blow to all of them, but especially Ma; she had cherished her husband. While the village had done what they could to help and offer comfort, it had seemed in the last months that the family's fortunes were being stolen away just like the leaves were being stolen from the trees in the autumn chill. They simply could not make the journey to Dale to sell their wares this season, and were facing bleak times this winter. Grief had kept Ma from doing as much as would have been usual to preserve fruits, meats and nuts, and she could not bear the thought of her children leaving her alone to make the dangerous and long journey. Were it not for her and her brother, Miriel wondered if her mother might not have already have succumbed to grief.

As the light filtered into the eastern sky, beyond hope, Miriel saw the target of her dreams...a large buck had emerged from the trees, whose meat and bones could help keep them nourished for weeks, once every bit of its body had been put to use, with as much of the flesh smoked and dried as possible. Noiselessly, she nocked an arrow to her bow and slowly drew. The arrow sped to the heart of the beast, and yet something went wrong. As she cursed her ill luck, the beast turned and staggered into Mirkwood.

"Braedon, no!" she hissed, as she saw her brother sprint after it. Having no choice, she followed him, but he was the faster runner. For a quarter hour, she chased the racket of sounds he made ahead of her into the forest, with the trepidation in her heart mounting all the while. But what was she supposed to do? They had to have the meat, and the animal would perish where it eventually fell. It was a code of honor, to never waste the sacrificed life of prey. Never did she take anything, except to use it as food. To her, it was a sacred obligation, though she could not say why. Her heart simply told her so. Unlike her brother, who made more noise than the dying stag, Miriel ran silently. And when she came within sight of a clearing in the distance, her heart sank. Braedon had the stag, and a tall figure, hooded and cloaked, had Braedon. Rage and despair filled her, as she pulled her own hood over her head. Nocking another arrow, she stole behind them. Drawing, her voice rang out: "Release my brother, or I will kill you."

Unhurriedly, the figure turned, and only now did she see that a long sword of exquisite make was held to her brother's throat. Terror was written in Braedon's eyes. A gloved hand brushed back the hood to reveal a tall elf with flaxen hair, wearing an ornate diadem.

A crushing weight came across her chest, for she knew who this had to be. The thing she dreaded most was happening; the hunters were now prey. Her only thought now was to save her brother, for Ma. Tales of the Elvenking's fighting skill were legendary, and he was almost assuredly not here alone. With a fluid motion, she reversed her draw and brought the arrow off the string as she knelt amidst the fallen leaves, laying down her bow. In a strong voice, she said, "I did not know, my Lord. Forgive me." And in a voice that quavered slightly, in spite of herself, "I will do anything. Only please, spare my brother." Miriel was not given to fear, but she felt some of it now, for Braedon's welfare. If the King would not listen, there was nothing she could do to save him. Or herself.

Dragging Braedon effortlessly, the Elvenking strode toward her. The point of his sword came up and tossed her hood back with a casual flick of his wrist. The cold anger of his voice matched the displeasure that marred what might have otherwise been a face of ethereal beauty. "Look at me."

Miriel fearlessly raised her eyes to his, struggling to keep the despair she felt from her features. She thought she caught a flare in his eyes, at seeing her own, but she was long used to that reaction from strangers. As far as she knew, in all of Middle Earth no one else had her eye color; a deep violet purple. "What gives you any right to attempt to bargain, when you have been caught hunting in my forest?"

With all her effort, she kept her voice level, pleading. "My Lord, we have no rights, in your forest. But I shot the animal outside, in the grass at its edge. My brother ran in here after it before I could stop him. I would not have entered, but for the animal being as good as dead and how badly we need the food. It is a crime, to waste the life of a creature one has hunted. I beg you, my Lord, take me but release my brother. It will kill our mother, to have lost her husband and both her children.

A mocking laugh issued from the incensed monarch as a cruel smile turned up the corners of his mouth. He was provoked, and wanted to provoke her in return. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

She summoned every ounce of humility in her. "It is said that the Elvenking can read the minds and hearts of others. If you do not believe me, then look. Or send to the village, and ask. He is Braedon and I am Miriel, children of Bëor the woodworker, and Iris. Please, my Lord."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. While he could choose to make the effort to plumb the minds of others, as a rule, he did not do so without very good reason. He already knew she spoke the truth; it was difficult to deceive him. But his anger was running hot at finding his stag taken by another, and he did not entirely feel like being reasonable. Everyone knew of Bëor...but he did not know that the man had perished. And yet, now the crime was muddled. If the animal had indeed been shot outside his border, there was some argument that trespass was the offense, more than poaching. But she had also claimed respect for the law of the hunt. His eyes roved over the two. That they were not well-fed seemed obvious, yet he owed these people nothing. And there was something about her extraordinary eyes...and she had skill, to bring down the stag. Or was it luck?

"Stand up," he ordered her curtly. He gestured at an empty bird's nest in a distant tree. "Shoot down the nest." Bending to retrieve her bow and arrow, with a last glance at his imperious face, she did as he asked. Lowering her bow, she continued to regard him. His features were unreadable, yet some of the anger seemed to have diminished.

He continued to think. Releasing both of them was out of the question, and yet he recalled her exact words with his perfect memory. I will do anything. We shall see, he thought to himself. She could prove useful, amusing, or both. Or more, perhaps, as a chord to which he could not admit was struck deep within his heart. He could not say, exactly why he acted as he next did, except that it was out of his own want. One with the necessary wisdom, though, might have told him that in that moment, a vague hope flared in his heart. A hope for something he could not yet completely define. A hope for something he had lost, and that she possessed.

Thranduil released his grip on Braedon and made a gesture with his arm. "Return to you home. My guards will bear the stag. If the truth of your story is verified, you may have the meat. If it proves otherwise, it will be the worse for your sister. I accept her offer." Immediately more than a dozen other elves materialized out of seemingly nowhere. At a flick of the King's hand, two of them pulled Braedon away as he shouted in protest, his face contorted in grief. Most of the others made to truss the deer to a suitable fallen branch for carrying. Miriel stepped toward her brother, only to feel the unbreakable grip of the King's hand on her shoulder. He hissed into her ear. "You will not move, unless you wish me to change my mind."

He had ordered her still, but not silent. In a shockingly powerful voice, with all the feeling she could muster, she shouted after her brother. "Care for Ma. I love you both. Do not fear for me." And just as swiftly, she turned back toward the King and raised her hood against the chill of the morning. She had not even been allowed the courtesy of saying goodbye to her brother. Though she could be very dispassionate, she was fairly sure her grief would come later. But she would not add a show of emotion, now, to Braedon's burdens. Those had just become very heavy, indeed. Nor would she give this cold King the satisfaction of watching her sorrows. Her hand went to her throat, to her father's gift. As she closed her hand around it, the sharp points of the wood bit into her palm. She had done all she could.

Thranduil waved his hand at the remainder of his guards, dismissing them. "Come," he told her. He walked away from her, swiftly. From under her hood, she rolled her eyes at him. She now had to do as he said, but he could not rule her thoughts. It amused her to no end, that he had enough arrogance to leave an armed and unsearched prisoner at his back. Idly, she wondered if she should have just shot him. But deep down, she recognized that he was in the right, and they had had the stupid bad luck to be in the wrong place doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. For all of his apparent heartlessness, he did release Braedon. Yet, she maintained a conviction that no altruism lay behind that decision. Noiselessly, she put her bow over her body and followed him at close distance. Her biggest loss, aside from that of her family, would be her freedom. She had spent most of her life tracking and hunting; left to her solitude in the wide spaces of nature. It had been said his was an underground fortress, hidden away from the sun and stars. What would become of her, shut away inside of stone walls? But a bargain was a bargain, and she kept her word.

As Thranduil walked on, even he had to admit he was impressed at the silence behind him. No noisy crashing through the woods. Were it not for his superior senses that occasionally registered the softest footfall, he would almost be tempted to turn around to verify her obedience. After he had covered some distance, he held up his hand. Seeing it, she stopped. He sounded a long, quavering whistle, and not many moments afterward a massive bull elk came to him, wearing a riding harness of sorts. This she had not heard of, and raised her eyebrows, as she watched him leap onto the tall animal. Wordlessly, he looked at her and reached his hand out in her direction. Her face unreadable, she walked to the animal and returned the gesture. In a swift motion, as if she were weightless, he pulled her up and seated her in front of him. She felt her bow being removed from her back, and whipped around to see him placing it on himself. A smirk played across his face, his eyes daring her to question him. Miriel was not about to give him the satisfaction, though her heart was pounding at the idea of losing what her father had made for her. Yet there was little she could do. That she'd kept it this long was frankly unexpected. Thranduil whispered to the elk to return to his Palace.

Now it was her turn to smirk. She'd always been able to understand their Sindarin tongue, she just had declined to ever mention it to anyone. Even Ma and Da hadn't known. And honestly, Miriel had no idea why. It felt like...her private secret. From her earliest memory, she schooled her expression to one of blank lack of understanding whenever elves had been around. Sometimes she'd traveled to Dale with Da, and sometimes elves passed through the village. It amused her, to hear the things of which they spoke, when they were so certain that her kind were oblivious to their speech. While she was kind and decent, she could be intensely private. Ma and Da had always recognized this about her, and loved her for who she was. She knew that she wasn't born to them like Braedon was, it had never been a secret. But they had cared for her as their own and she loved them just the same. Her hand went to her neck again, as her thoughts drifted back to her Da. Yet any sentiments were cut short. The powerful animal gathered itself underneath her, and she felt the arm of the King come around her, pinning her back against him as the elk lurched into a full gallop.

Her eyes opened wide and in spite of herself she instinctively reached to hold the King's arm. A few minutes down the track she released her hold on him, having accustomed herself as she willed her body to adapt to the motion. She forced her body to relax, and sink into the elk's stride. If this hadn't already been one of the worst days of her life, she might have had a frame of mind to enjoy it; it did not escape her that likely, she was on a very short list of those who had ever ridden on this kind of a mount. As the leagues wore on, she found a feast for the senses. Her keen eyes noticed game trails, and her sensitive nose registered the scents of the wood. It was darker inside, and massive beyond anything she could have imagined. And yet, it had a beauty of its own. Game lived here, in abundance. She would give much, to just be dropped off in here with her bow. How easily she could fill her Ma's larder, then! But what was the point, the game of these woods was why she was in this mess. Once only, she twisted around to glance up at him out of her peripheral vision. His face seemed as though it had lost its anger, though who actually knew what he thought. That she was held against him meant nothing to her; she did not fear him. Hunting had taught her that fear was among the most useless of emotions; it clouded the mind and prevented clear thinking.

At long last, they approached an area that was obviously a stable. He had instructed his mount to slow to a walk for the last mile, presumably to give it time to cool down. What was not cooled down were her legs. She was not a rider, having had precious few opportunities. Her limbs burned with pain. When at last they arrived, the King jumped lightly to the ground. She noted that the groom that held the elk's reins averted his eyes from the monarch, as did the other stablehands. Was it deference, or fear?

Only now could she see how intensely blue his eyes were, as they met her own with impatient expectation. He again offered his hand. She swung her leg over the elk's back before taking it, pushing away from the animal. Only the strength of his upward pull kept her from crashing to the ground, as the pain in her legs caused her to inhale sharply. Annoyed with herself, she released his hand. "Come" he ordered again. Turning his back on her, he walked off. Within the first ten agonizing steps, she knew she could not keep pace with him. "Please, my Lord" she called out forcefully. She kept walking with the small, slow steps she could painfully manage. Thranduil stopped and turned to look at her. "I cannot keep up with you," she said clearly, and unapologetically. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. He decided that his impatience outweighed his mild amusement at her predicament. Striding back to her, he swept her into his arms without comment, and proceeded on his way. Her expression was one of blank indifference. Instinctively she reached to hold onto his shoulder with her arm. A single eyebrow arched slightly, but otherwise he did not react.

He wound his way through passages and walkways, finally emerging into a grand, cavernous space the likes of which she could not have imagined. Though her features remained impassive, no one could fail to be moved inside of themselves at the grandeur and beauty of the intermingled wood and stone. She wished her Da could have seen this; he would so have appreciated the carvings and fine ornamentation that now met her eyes. He brought her very near a throne, with massive spreading antlers cresting the top of it, and set her on her feet. He did not handle her roughly, and ensured she would remain standing. It must be his throne, she reasoned. If she had any doubts about the wisdom of her choices today, the sight of his kingdom eliminated them. Attempting to harm him would have been suicide, and quite possibly a death warrant for her entire family. She knew nothing of their customs or laws, but the penalties for attacking a monarch were generally unthinkably high. It was true that she came from a background of little means, but she understood the dynamics of power, of predator and prey. This place was designed to speak for the prowess of the one who ruled it. While she did not fear him, she had to respect his might. What she did not currently much respect was...him. He seemed devoid of kindness, or empathy.

He stepped aside, speaking to one of the elves stationed there. She heard him say in Sindarin that he wanted the proceedings recorded and possibly an Oath of Fealty. To her, he spoke in Westron, as he slowly pulled his fingers free of his gloves. From somewhere inside his robes he procured a ring set with a very large white gem, and slid it onto one of his long fingers.. "You promised to do anything. If you will fulfill your promise, you will pledge yourself of your own free will to my service, as one of my subjects. If you refuse, your alternative is to reside here as my prisoner, until such time as you will be tried for trespass and poaching in my forest. Which do you choose?" A faint smirk played over his face, as he spoke the words.

Another elf standing nearby interrupted to say, "My Lord, this is most unusual. Are you certain you have considered..." The King's hand flew up in a command of silence, as he fixed an unyielding stare on the other elf. "Erynion, am I not King?" The one who apparently was named Erynion bowed deeply while answering "Yes, my Lord." No more was said.

Truly, this one is quite something, she thought. Will it disappoint him, that I do not crumble at hearing his demand? Is he hoping I will beg for something different? He is like the cat, desiring the mouse to squeal and run. But I don't play. I know what I agreed to.

"I will take your oath, my Lord, if that is your will." The mild flicker of surprise on his face amused her mightily. Raising his eyes to another elf, he gave orders in Sindarin for his auxiliary chamber to be prepared, and food brought. What did that mean?

Returning his attention to her, he spoke again in Westron.

"Then kneel, and repeat after me, Miriel daughter of Bëor."

"My Lord?"

The King frowned, as he watched her gingerly lower herself to her knees.

"Yes?"

"You should know that I am not the natural offspring of my parents. They have cared for me back to my earliest memories, but I was not born to them. I cannot tell you my lineage."

He gave her a curt nod, and told the scribe to make the notation. Fixing her again with his eyes, he provided the words that she repeated after him as she looked into his eyes.

"I, Miriel, vow my loyalty and service to Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm. To his laws, judgements and commands I pledge my obedience, forsaking all other allegiance. From this day forward I place my person under his authority, for as long as I shall live. So do I swear." He held out his hand to her, and she realized that she was to kiss his ring. It was the final gesture of fealty. The stone felt hard, and unyielding against her lips.

Bitterness coupled with resignation coursed behind her expressionless face. This was the cost of her brother's freedom, of his life. The King now held his hand out for her to take, but it was not to raise her up, there was more. His eyes did not leave hers as he spoke, his fingers gripping her firmly.

"I, Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of the Woodland Realm, hear your oath. I vow to serve you as your liege Lord, to protect you and care for you, and to honor your service in kind. Your loyalty I will reward with love, even as I will take retribution for disobedience. So do I swear."

His face and voice were soft as he said this, and...sincere? She was floored. There was dissonance in what she had experienced today. A flicker of doubt washed over her violet eyes as he drew her carefully to her feet. Leaning down, he cupped her head with his hand, and placed his kiss of blessing on her forehead, before backing a step away. "Well done, Miriel," he whispered softly in Sindarin. He regarded her for a moment before saying once again in Westron, "Come." Without waiting for her useless legs to slow him down, he picked her up once again. As they left, most of the other elves present looked at each other. It would have taken a practiced eye to see it, but eyebrows raised even as shoulders imperceptibly shrugged.

Miriel felt hard pressed to know what to do with herself. However unflappable she characteristically was, too many things of too much import had transpired, and almost all of them revolved around the King, who, for all practical purposes, now possessed her. Complicated by the fact that she did not know him, and felt reasonably certain that she did not wish to, either. Give or take that he was carrying her, with his face less than a foot away. From time to time, she found her eyes looking at his, but she averted her gaze quickly the moment he moved to look back.

Prey cannot afford to show weakness, she thought.

"You do not speak much, do you, Miriel?"

His voice was as soft now as it had been chillingly angry the first time she heard it.

This one makes no sense, she thought.

"No, my Lord. It is a poor trait, in a huntress."

"Indeed."

Finally, he arrived at a heavy door, which he pushed open. Inside was a living space arguably close to the size of her house in the village. Nearest to them was a small table with two comfortable chairs, and he placed her carefully on one of these. At long last, he removed her bow from himself and laid it on the table. "Miriel, are you familiar with elvish healing?"

"No, my Lord."

He smiled. "There is no need to suffer here from pain, sickness and injuries. If you are ever unwell, you are to tell me. You hurt, from the ride here. I am going to heal you; I will be touching you, over your clothing. Do not move." Remaining imperturbable suddenly became much harder. As a generality, she did not tolerate the contact of others and definitely not anywhere near...there. One time a saucy young man in Dale thought he would enjoy placing his hands on her. Later it got back to her Da that he had spent ten days abed, unable to rise after the blow to the head she'd fetched him. Ma and Da did not worry much over her safety during time she spent off hunting, and for a reason.

In the end her determination to not let him see that she cared about anything he said or did won out. After the promises she'd just spoken, striking him was out of the question no matter what he did...but he genuinely did not seem like his list of faults would include ...that. Though she did not want it to, a soft gasp escaped her lips when his healing commenced. The blistering pain on the inside of her thighs and seat bones was replaced by a sensation of bliss that exceeded anything she'd ever felt in her life. She wanted to despise herself for being sorry when he was finished, but found she could not. With all her will, she schooled her expression to not reveal her experience.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, my Lord." she paused. "Thank you."

He rose. "These are your quarters. You will find clothing, personal items, and every other necessity in these rooms. You are to bathe, and dress in clean garments. In an hour, I will expect to find you ready. You are to take your meals with me." He reached over to the hourglass that sat on the table, and turned it.

Pausing at the door, he looked at her with a half smile. "Pedhig edhellen?" (Do you speak Elvish?) Miriel remained silent, her expression blank. He continued, in Sindarin, as if speaking aloud to himself. "Of course not. And perhaps, I will enjoy being able to unburden my thoughts to you, though my words will mean nothing. Do I not see that you hear the call of the hunt, as do I?" She allowed her face to take on a slightly quizzical expression, as he smiled, and closed the door. A tiny part of her felt a stab of guilt, in the face of her vows to him, but she did have a loophole. She really could not speak Sindarin, per se. She understood it fluently, but it wasn't exactly the same. Of course she could spit out basic phrases, but she would be hard pressed to turn her ability to understand into an ability to converse. Besides, why would she divulge her private secrets to him? She would not forget, he did not let her say a simple goodbye to Braedon.

As the sight of the sand falling in the hourglass broke her reflections, she rose and began to investigate her surroundings, but not before placing her quiver and assorted knives with her bow. Pushing upon another carven door, she found a bathing pool the likes of which she could not imagine. There was room in it for three people, she was certain, and it was filled with steaming water from a thermal source. Stripping off boots and clothing, and placing them on a chair, she entered the pool, involuntarily groaning with enjoyment. Like with many, daily bathing was a luxury that she could not afford. She did her best to rub her body down with cleaning cloths each day, but certainly her deerskin garments were not as fine as what she'd seen worn here.

In front of her was a dizzying array of cleansers, emollients, and abrasive compounds. Plunging her head under the water, she began scrubbing at the top and kept going until her skin was angry and red from her efforts. She chose compounds that seemed to smell more of tree resins than flowers; no one could hunt a deer smelling like a floral seller's market stall. The ones that smelled like pine and cedar appealed most. She rinsed and dried herself, rubbing at her hair. Finding a comb, she pulled at the tangles and wove it into a loose herringbone as always, to cover her damaged ears. Lastly she searched for clothing. The sight of the gowns and dresses appalled her. It took a great deal of effort, but she located brown leggings and a moss green tunic that was not overly distasteful with ornamentation. Nothing here precisely was the same as the wrap she devised to wear under her garments, by which she bound her breasts tightly against her chest. What would be full and attractive womanly beauty to some were nuisances that brought unwanted male attention and interfered with her hunting, to her. At last she discovered a long scarf of thin silk that would suit the purpose. There were socks, and soft boots that fit over the leggings. She could not recall when she had last felt this clean or has such nice garments.

Having done as he asked, she spent the remainder of her time poking around in drawers, cabinets and storage spaces, trying to understand what was here. As much as she did not wish to acknowledge it, the King was extremely generous. And then her eye fell on a small object on a table next to the bed. Rushing over, she picked up the precious box. Of the most elegant polished wood, she recognized it unquestionably as one her Da had made. She had helped him; this exact piece had given her endless torment. Da had not been satisfied with how she had prepared the varnishes, and countless times he made her sand it out again and again until she loathed the sight of it. It was in his nature that any piece bearing his name has to be absolute perfection. Sitting on the bed, she ran her fingers over the surface that shone like glass. What would she give, to have Da standing here, telling her to sand it out one more time? This thought undid her. She could not stop the tears that came, and sobbed with grief as she clutched the box to her chest.

Her tears released so many things that whirled in her mind...and yet, how much has the King paid for this box? How many weeks has they eaten, because of it? The worst of her emotion now passed, she sighed. Tenderly brushing her fingers one more time over the shining finish, she carefully replaced the box where she found it, and wiped her face dry with her hands. She stood up, and that was when she saw him in the doorway, watching her.

Silently she cursed herself that she had not paid attention to the time, but it was too late now. He had seen, and that was that. She walked forward, and without emotion or meeting his eyes said, "I am ready, my Lord. I apologize for keeping you waiting." He had changed his clothing, she noted, and now wore luxurious fabrics.

His eyes widened at this complete transformation from what he had walked in on. "Miriel, why were you crying?"

She did not immediately reply. He pressed harder. His tone was not harsh but neither was it soft; it carried warning. "Miriel, when your King asks a question he expects an truthful answer."

Her violet eyes, devoid of emotion, now raised to meet his. "My Lord. I apologize for not understanding. The reasons are, first, because while I will serve you well, I grieve the loss of my freedom. Second, I was reflecting that my mother and brother may starve this winter, because I provided most of their food and now I am gone. Third, I thought about what my mother is enduring from the loss of her daughter. Fourth, I feel the guilt my brother will now bear, for causing my loss and the responsibility he must now uphold alone for their survival. Fifth, it hurts my heart to find that particular box of my father's here, as it carries a memory and reminds me of his loss. Sixth, it feels difficult to find myself in the midst of such luxury and generosity when I know my family struggles. Seventh, it grieved me, not to be allowed to say goodbye to my brother. " She now lowered her gaze.

Thranduil's lips parted at the response he had insisted upon hearing. He remembered his thought of this morning. I owe these people nothing. Except, he now very much owed the one standing in front of him something. He did not respond. He did not know how to respond, in words. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and looked at him again. His face was as soft as she had yet seen it. Was it possible he actually had feelings? "Come," he said softly, gently steering her back out the door. At the next doorway over, guards stood at attention. In Sindarin, he asked one of them to have the captain from this morning's detail into the woods report to him here immediately, on his return. With a curt nod, the guard left at once. Opening the door, he ushered Miriel inside, and led her to a fine table with a meal already laid out. Still she revealed no emotion, though she was feeling a great deal of it inside. That alone discomfited her; her days were ones that were calm, focused, untroubled. Obviously these were his private rooms; meaning also that her own quarters were next to that of the King. She realized now that his decision to take her was not as simple as she'd imagined. What did he want from her? Why on earth would he treat her like this? Wariness and warning coursed through her veins. She must calm herself, and bide her time. The truth of any matter reveals itself eventually, she reminded herself.

The King courteously held her chair for her, indicating she should sit. "Thank you, my Lord." The scent coming from the foods laid out in front of her caused sharp pains of hunger. She had never seen this much food, nor food so fine, ever in her life. But her parents had raised her to be mannerly, and she did not honestly know what to do with the array of utensils in front of her. But she could observe, and so she carefully watched him and imitated. He filled her plate, and then his own. She picked up the same utensils, willing herself not to tremble from the self control needed to refrain from the desire to choke down the food as a wild dog might. She forced herself to match the rate at which he ate...mostly. He did not speak as he enjoyed his food. Allowing herself to go just a little faster seemed like it could be permissible. Clearing her plate, she remained silent as did he. Though, she could not contain the gleam of hunger in her eyes. There was so, so much food. Thranduil saw. "You would like more?"

"Yes, my Lord." Again he filled her plate, and continued eating. By the end of the second helping, she no longer felt crazed with hunger, but she could most definitely eat more. A knock came on the door, and a soldier entered and bowed to the King. As he filled her plate yet again, he began speaking to the other elf in Sindarin. "The stag was taken to the family of this woman?"

"Yes, my Lord. All that we saw was as she said. The mother was...grieved, my Lord."

Keeping a neutral expression at his next words may have been the most difficult achievement of her life.

"You are to make ready provision for that family, to be taken tomorrow. They are to have more than enough food brought to them to last the winter, and beyond. You are to determine further their circumstances, and find out what else may be done for their well-being and comfort. They are to want for nothing. Return to me, before you depart in the morning."

"It will be done, my Lord." With that, the guard turned and withdrew.

It took sheer force of will to continue to look down at her food, chew, and pretend obliviousness. Her heart was rocketing inside her chest, and emotion surged which made it difficult to draw breath. She did not dare meet his eyes, for fear she would come undone. Her eating was slowed, both from finally feeling filled as well as the news she'd had. Yet at last, her plate was cleared, and she placed her utensils in a mirror of his own plate. When she finally had gathered herself to look up again, she saw his eyes on her. He was drinking wine, seemingly content.

"Would you like wine?" he asked.

"I do not know, my Lord. I have never had it." It was true enough; it was a luxury outside the reach of her family. She had seen the stalls of the wine merchants in Dale, and had also instinctively disliked the rowdiness and...behavior...that seemed to go with those who consumed it. But clearly that was not occurring here. He poured some for her, into a drinking bowl.

"Try it, then."

She raised the bowl cautiously to her face. Frowning, she tried to decipher the complexity. There was fruit, but also notes of wood. Why would that be? The smell was pleasing, more than not. Having discovered all she could from the scent, she cautiously took a small sip. The flavor combination was not what she expected. How could one beverage taste like so many things? And as she swallowed it, she realized that her perceptions changed as it washed over her tongue, and even afterward. Certainly, it was not dislikable. Another sip, this time more.

Her thoughts, this time, were not schooled off her face. The King watched in fascination as the experience played over her features. And it told him something else; she did have feelings, and in abundance. She merely had the self discipline and skill to almost always erase them from the view of others. To him, this was an admirable trait. But at the moment, simply watching her brought him more pleasure than he could recall feeling in a very long time. He did her the courtesy of not remarking on what he had just seen.

"And?" he asked her, though he perfectly well knew the answer.

"I now see what all the fuss is about, my Lord," she replied. "It is a very complex and appealing thing."

"Would you like more?

"Not now, thank you," she said, her face returning to its usual blank slate. The corners of his lips curled slightly, when he watched her finish what she had been given.

Standing, he held her chair for her once again, and bade her follow him to a desk, and which he indicated she should sit. "You can write?" he asked, indicating the quill and ink, and bringing out sheets of parchment.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Then write what you wish, to your family. It will be delivered, soon."

She looked up at him, her mask threatening to drop. "Thank you, my Lord," was her only reply. With a nod, he turned and left her alone; she heard the outer door close. Cautiously, she rose to verify that she was indeed alone, before she returned to her chair.