Now what was she supposed to say? What he had just done for her family had almost stopped her heart. Had she badly misjudged him? What were his motives? Sometimes the spider weaves a beautiful web, she thought. But he does not know that I understood, she reasoned. If he is doing this to somehow manipulate me, why would he not plainly reveal his deeds? On at least one matter, she had to concede. She had promised him loyalty, not being certain he deserved it. And yet with a few words, he insured her family's future and well-being. If she never saw them again, her actions had bought them this...and that price was not too high to pay. Not remotely. She could no longer be certain that he was...bad-hearted. But she had seen anger, coldness, unkindness and mockery. Why did they exist, alongside this consideration and generosity? Suddenly he no longer seemed like the wildcat. Shaking her head, she knew she must drop this train of thought; she lacked information. In the end, she penned a simple letter.
Ma and Braedon,
None of us expected what happened, but it did. I agreed to enter the service of King Thranduil, and have spoken my oath. I was not forced, this was my decision. No one has harmed me in any way; I am being treated very well. Do not worry about me. I love you and miss you both. I have been shown much generosity, the place I am being allowed to live in is very beautiful. Do you remember the box that Da made me sand and varnish over and over all those winters ago, until I cried and told him I would throw it in the fire? It is here, in my room; the King was the one who bought it. Braedon, do not blame yourself for what happened. It was no one's fault. Remember what Da always said, things have a way of working out in the end. Work hard so that Da would be proud, and take care of Ma.
With all my heart,
-Miriel
There was nothing else to say; she only hoped that reading it would ease their sorrows. Assuming he would read it anyway, she left it on his desk, for the ink to dry, and rose to look at her surroundings with her hands folded in front of her. The room was masculine, bearing the signs of the forest and hunting, decorated in colors of green and red and carven woods. There was a scent in here, as well. His scent. It reminded her of trees and the complex perfume of the forest floor and something that was simply...him. There were books; their bindings written of course in Sindarin. She did not know the letters, and could not put the words to match. Could she secretly learn, somehow? The script was undeniably beautiful, flowing along in sensual curves and elegant lines. As her eye roved around the room, she caught sight of a crown, on a table. It appeared to be made of living wood, with leaves and berries sprouting from it. Her feet remained rooted to the floor. Not knowing when he would return, she did not dare wander around his private home, gawking. In fact, she did not know what to do. The only entirely safe course of action was to sit down again in the chair.
As she watched the illumination play around the room, it suddenly occurred to her; this was an underground fortress, and yet the light streaming in the windows was natural daylight. Her rooms had the same. That meant that these rooms had to be located aboveground, though the temperature was still naturally cool. Did the windows open? She would have to investigate later. The silence and the large meal began to lull her, and she pushed the letter aside so that she might lay her head down on the desk, with her arms as pillows. As she breathed in and out, she memorized his scent until it was written unforgettably in her mind.
She did not know how long she slept, but she woke to hearing a voice. The King's voice, she recognized. Her face was buried in her folded arms, and she did not move but instead listened. He spoke in his language, pouring out resonant tones filled with emotion.
"I am sorry, little huntress, for taking you. But not sorry enough. You will find that I am generous, but selfish too. You cannot understand how alone I am, or what the endless years of bearing the weight of my duties have done to my heart. Your spirit is wild and free, in a way that mine no longer can be. I wanted some of that again, for myself, and you offered it too willingly for me to refuse. My vow to you was a sincere one; you will be cared for in my service. Neither you nor your family will ever want for any necessity. We will hunt, together, that I promise you. And perhaps, one day, you will forgive me for requiring you to share my cage."
Her eyes squeezed shut under the impact of his confession. That she would hunt again, that he would allow it, made her heart soar as much as his words about being caged caused it to tumble again to earth. He was right, she could not understand. She had no frame of reference for his life. Did she want to? That there was more to know, she was certain. And as long as he believed she could not understand his words, she would learn. If she had to pledge her life to him, it did not seem unfair to her that she held a hidden key into the recesses of his thought. No hunter gives up an advantage, she reasoned. He did not, and neither will I. Sleep still tugged after the King stopped speaking, and she drifted off again for a time.
Once again, she began to stir, her mind not on anything but the sensation in her neck. Wincing in discomfort, she realized her neck had been twisted and an unfortunate angle, and was stiff and painful. Truthfully, she still felt disoriented, and not on account of what he'd said. Having slept very deeply, it felt difficult to re-engage with her surroundings.
It serves you right for eating like a hog at the trough, she grimaced to herself. Yet she could not really believe her own self-reproach. While she did not starve, neither was there ever enough. Braedon was younger than she, needing more food, and she always gave him some of her own. She reached her hand around, while she raised herself up, trying to knead at the offending set of muscles. I am never doing that again, she thought. A rustling noise behind her reminded her that she was not alone. Feeling considerably more kindly disposed toward her new ruler, but yet cautious, she turned to look. He was watching her, his face kind and pleasant.
"I wondered if you would wake for dinner, Miriel," he said with mild humor. She blinked at him, still trying to reclaim her sensibilities.
"I had not intended to fall asleep, my Lord. I wrote the letter you asked for." She paused. "May I ask you how long I slept?"
"You may," he smiled. "A little over two hours, I would estimate." She nodded. "Thank you." Recalling her manners, she added, "and thank you for the food, my Lord, and for...everything."
His face broke into a full smile, which she had not yet seen. He is beautiful, she thought. At least, when he is not ugly. She could not recall ever seeing such a contrast in one face before. "You are welcome, Miriel."
He stood. "Would you like to see more of your new home?" he invited. "I have some duties to attend to soon, but I have little doubt that you can learn your way around swiftly on your own. I have time to at least show you how to find your way back here."
"Yes, my Lord."
He walked across the room to place his crown on his head, and then courteously offered her his arm. She fought back against feelings that threatened to unsettle her. The sight of him crowned, wearing his kingly robes...what was she doing here? She was utterly common, by contrast. How could she possibly find a way to belong in this place? It was his decision, she reminded herself. He wanted this. And if he wanted it, all of that just became his problem. She took his arm, feeling the hard muscle underneath his clothing. It would be preferable, she thought, to see him in his hunting gear.
As they exited, he informed the guards that she was to be allowed admittance to his rooms at any time, unless he gave a specific order to the contrary. Why would he allow that? So much was becoming completely unfathomable, to her. Including the expanding realization that it was going to become very difficult, as time wore on, to keep in mind all the things she was not supposed to have heard or understood. Never speak to him without thinking carefully, she cautioned herself.
On their walk through the passages, he would stop and turn from time to time, pointing out visual references to her. Eventually they reached his Hall, with his throne. He ensured she saw which passage to take that led away from it. "Most every path leads back here eventually, so if you can find the Hall, you can find your way to the rooms."
"I cannot become lost, my Lord?" she asked. "If you do, I will find you," he smiled. "Enjoy your exploring." With that, it was understood that she was dismissed. Was that a challenge, she wondered? She watched him ascend to his throne. As his back was turned, she withdrew down...some other passage. There were other elves that walked, and she recalled after she saw the first gesture of greeting that they had wordless forms of acknowledgement; she had seen it in Dale. They placed a hand over their heart, and extended it outward, and she returned the same so as to not be rude. She could not afford to attempt to communicate with others much, as it would strain her already taxed need to pretend she could not understand them. It occurred to her that relatively few of them might know Westron...maintaining her ruse would cost her an easy ability to assimilate here...if assimilating was what she was even meant to do. Nice clothes and a full stomach aside, she had no real knowledge of her purpose here, save as some sort of...comfort? amusement? to her King.
She began to take note of alcoves and rooms that seemed to be everywhere. The problem, as she saw it, was twofold. There was a three dimensional element to the caverns; it was difficult to estimate location based on...location. Ascents and descents in the stone floor could be subtle. Unlike in most dwellings she had ever seen, right angles were not often in use; there were curves and twists depending on what the stonecarvers had believed necessary when the caves were delved. And not being outside eliminated much hope of properly orienting herself by the compass. So she wandered, and wandered. There were tunnels and passages, forks. And more forks, and passages. Some rooms were large, and held decorations or tapestries. They portrayed scenes she did not understand, but were beautiful. Then she saw one that caused her to gasp. It was of the King, hunting on his elk. It showed the forest with herds of game running ahead of him. The threads shimmered and were unaccountably lifelike; the images almost seemed to move if she did. How beautiful it is, she thought. She wished to reach out and touch it, but knowing better, did not. There were narrow walkways, high above the main cavern, that went to and fro. Eventually she felt thoroughly lost, but cared not. There were streams and waterfalls here, actually inside the cavern, and she discovered a bench on which one could sit down and look at the water, listening to it. Rays of light shone through hidden places in the cavern roof, turning the mist and spray into rainbows of color. She closed her eyes, and let the mist fall on her face, breathing in the fresh smell of it. "I enjoy coming here as well." His voice spoke from close behind her. She did not move, but said only, "It feels like being outside, my Lord." Who knew, how long they sat there. Yet, it was long enough that without her noticing, her clothing had become quite damp. Standing, she realized she was far from warm any longer. It would likely be rude to simply leave, she reasoned. "I believe I should move on, if I may, my Lord." Her tunic had three quarter length sleeves, and gooseflesh covered her arms. Rising, he offered his arm again. Wrapping her hand around it, she was not minding the warmth that his arm gave off. He led her away, which was just as well. She had no idea where she was, but eventually they emerged into his Hall.
"Now you lead," he said, "back to our rooms." The hardest part was finding her way to the throne, as they had emerged to the other side of and above it. Realizing the difficulty, he showed her the shortest path to where she needed to be. Now she flawlessly navigated the rest of the way back. He opened her door for her, indicating she should go inside. Her bow was yet on the table. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward it.
Why would he ask now, and not earlier? "Yes, my Lord."
Turning it over carefully, he admired the craftsmanship. "Where did you get this?" the King inquired.
"My father made it for me."
He gazed on her. "I was unaware that he made weapons," said the King. "And Miriel," he added softly, "I am genuinely sorry for your loss. He was a skilled man, who did fine work."
She nodded, briefly meeting his eyes. "Thank you, my Lord. He did not make many bows. I can only recall one other besides this, which he referred to as the one he learned on." The King tested the draw weight and found it heavier than expected. Returning the bow to the table, he now examined her arrows, taking note of their length. "You should have more than what is here," he observed. "I will remedy that."
"That is very kind of you, my Lord." The King frowned. "Your clothes are very wet," he said.
"I will find a way to dry them, my Lord."
"Surely there are other garments?"
"Not like these, my Lord."
Frowning more, he marched to her wardrobe and opened it; many lovely gowns greeted his eyes. He looked back at her, baffled. "Miriel, there are many choices here." A look of dread came over her eyes, and she remained silent. He walked over to her, and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Miriel, tell me what is wrong," he said kindly.
"They are...dresses, my Lord." At last, it began to dawn on him.
"You have never worn dresses, Miriel?"
"Not since...not really, my Lord."
She felt his fingers come up under her chin, raising her eyes to look at him.
"Not since what, Miriel? I wish to know."
The extremely unpleasant memory that she had long pushed into forgetfulness now flooded back to her. She did not want to answer but knew she must. Her voice sank in volume. "I was young, playing near a stream one day. A much older boy stole up behind me and grabbed me. He pinned me down. He tried to...touch me, under my skirts. But I hit him with a rock and ran away. The next time Ma tried to make me wear a dress I screamed and yelled and threw it into the fireplace. I thought I would be punished for doing this, but nothing was said. She never tried to make me wear another." Though she tried to fight it, a tear rolled down her cheek as she spoke.
He released her face and drew her into his embrace. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him as more tears came.
"What happened to the boy?" the King asked, his voice now very cold with anger.
"He died later on, because of how hard I hit him in the head. They said I killed him. We had to move away because of how much trouble it made for Ma and Da."
His voice was soothing and gentle as she heard it through his chest. "I am sorry, Miriel, for what happened. You understand, none of it was your fault?"
She released him, and stepped back to look up at him. "I did not blame myself, my Lord. I blamed the dress."
As she listened to herself, she now realized how...ridiculous this sounded. "That makes no sense, does it...but I still do not like them. They trip and make free movement impossible, they attract unwanted attention, and it is impossible to hunt in one." He released her chin.
"Miriel, I am not going to require this of you. We will find you other clothing. But I would be untruthful if I did not say that someday, I would enjoy seeing you wear a dress. You are a beautiful woman, and deserve to appear as one." He released her and opened the door to the bathing room, returning with a stack of clothing. "The problem is solved. Your original items were cleaned and mended, during the afternoon." Smiling, he placed the pile on her bed. "I take my leave of you now; I will return for you when it is time for the next meal."
When she heard the outer door close, she wasted no time removing the damp garments and slipping into her comfortable dry ones. Whoever they were, they had done a magnificent job. The deerskin looked like it did the day she had pieced it together. All of the items now looked as new, really. She laid out the damp ones carefully to dry, on racks in the bathing room. And she closed the wardrobe door, so as to not have to look at the gowns.
Flopping back on the bed, she tried to process the multiple improbable things that had just occurred.
As if it were a checklist, she ticked off the observations: He easily convinced me to give up a difficult and private memory. Not that I had a choice. I actually cried in front of him. I returned his embrace? He thinks I am beautiful?
A groan of annoyance escaped her lips. I need to hunt, she thought. I am going to go mad in here. Already I am behaving like someone I do not recognize. Springing onto her feet, she went to the window that admitted so much of the daylight. The mechanism was not one she has seen before, but she managed to puzzle out how to open it, allowing the large tinted glass pane to swing inward. Leaning out, she reveled in the sight. The trunks of tall trees were but ten feet away from her; their canopy spare enough to admit plentiful light. If she were to guess, they were perhaps twenty five feet off the ground; the rock face was sheer to the ground, under the window. With relish she thought, it is my own private entrance and exit.
Perhaps no one else would have thought thus, but most others lacked her skill at climbing. In her hunting bag she kept two items of her own creation. In their travels to Dale, she had met fisherfolk that had kindly taken the time to show her many knots, bends and weaves of a clever nature. From her hunting, she had amassed large amounts of sinew that she prepared into long cords of great strength, over the years. The first device had a steel grappling hook attached to about thirty-five feet of sinew cord. She modified the grapple so that one of the three flukes was blunt, another sharply pointed, and the third somewhere in between. At intervals, measured to her height, five inch wooden pieces of an ellipsoid shape were secured by the cord. It resembled many tiny batard bread loaves, all along a length of sinew. Each wooden piece was carefully wrapped in cloth, that in turn was glued in place by mariner's tar. This creation provided her a light, weatherproof retractable ladder that would produce no sounds from touching other objects. It only needed to have the hook be attached to a secure mounting, and she could scale up and down the line with practiced ease by using the wooden pieces for hand and foot holds. The other device was considerably less elaborate; it was simply a twenty foot section of wormed, parceled and served line, with large eye splices on each end. The eyes were large enough for many purposes. She could double them over a tree branch for a secure hold, loop them to make a truss for carrying game, use it to scale a tree trunk; she could not even recall the many uses to which she'd put these things.
It was impossible to miss the decorative steel ring embedded deep into the stone of the wall, right under the windowsill. Her heart felt light. When she must feel the earth under her feet, it was readily available. After fastening the window, she sat in all the chairs, one by one, until she found one she liked best. Hooking her leg over the armrest, she slouched back and imagined enjoying the trees, by moonlight. Perhaps she might find a suitable piece of fallen wood. While Miriel had never taken to woodworking the way her father and brother had, she had often occupied herself with carving and whittling. Some of the knives in her bag were not strictly for skinning game; she might occupy the long hours waiting for prey to come along by making assorted miniature animals. Many of her creations were remarkably good; even Da had complimented the better ones. The King had been very kind to her; maybe he would enjoy a diminutive wooden elk. Her thoughts drifted along thus, happily.
As she heard the door latch click, she rose out of her chair. At seeing her waiting, the King smiled. Unthinkingly, she smiled back. "Come," he said, gesturing for her to walk past him, and directing her once again into his rooms to the dining table. "I trust you are hungry?" He asked the question without a hint of sarcasm in his voice, though she could not have blamed him if he had chosen to tease her. She paused to look at him. "Yes, my Lord. If I cannot take food, you may begin to worry about me." Looking down at her and seeing that she was poking fun at herself, he chuckled. "Duly noted."Once again he served her food, and this time without asking, poured her a bowl of wine. What would Ma and Da say, to see this, she wondered. How did she deserve to be waited on by a King? It seemed completely absurd. She thanked him, and waited until he began eating to touch her own food. The cutlery seemed slightly less intimidating this time, though she still carefully watched and copied what he did. In the same manner, she did not drink any wine until she observed exactly the manner in which he did this. The food was delicious, and she steadily demolished what he had served her.
His question broke the silence."Your clothing is of deerskin?"
"Yes, my Lord. From two different stags."
"You made these?" A hint of being favorably impressed colored his tone.
She nodded. "It is quite a process, and I will not claim that tanning is my favorite hobby. But I do not believe in wasting any part of the animal for which I can find a use. And, these are very nice to wear."
"Would you tell me, how you prepare the hides?"
Smiling, she said, "I am glad to, trusting that you will stop me before your eyes can glaze over from the weariness of listening. I was forbidden to speak of anything having to do with deer at home, because of being too enthusiastic."
"Miriel, I do not believe you will ever find me tire of anything to do with game and hunting. But in the unlikely event, rest assured I can care for myself."
On hearing this, a dazzling smile washed over her face. He was struck by her loveliness, and the way her already jewel like eyes came to life as she spoke of what she loved. It was hard for him to believe that this was the same person who had not spoken a word to him most of the morning, as she chattered away about the good results of tanning with brains, her favorite method of stretching and scraping hides, and the relative merits of different patterns for skinning the deer.
As their meal concluded, he invited her to sit with him on a couch near the fire, where the conversation turned to what game was like in his forest a very long time ago, and how his father had first taught him to hunt. Listening, fascinated, she realized how long he must have lived, already. His eyes shone with a light she had not yet seen, as he spoke of these things. She had never met another whose heart echoed her own thoughts and feelings in this manner. With guilt, she now realized that while she loved Ma and Braedon, the only place she wished to be was in this room, having this conversation. Contentment filled her. With her head full of new tales, he finally told her "It is time for you to rest, Miriel."
She smiled, and inclined her head to him. "Thank you, my Lord. I have not enjoyed conversing this much in..." she shook her head, unable to locate a time frame. Because there was none; this had been the best discussion of her life. He saw her to her door, and bade her goodnight. But she was not tired. If anything, the words they exchanged escalated the desire to be out on the woods. Unlatching the window once again, she looked out. The moon was not long risen in the east, and the light was strong. She donned her cloak, gathered her hunting equipment, and carefully attached the grapple to the steel ring. She added a twine reinforcement, to ensure the hook could not come free off the ring, and found a small cloth with which to wrap the ring itself. It would not do to have it making a clanking sound. Everything she did was always to ensure stealth and silence. She lowered her ladder, checked that her gear was secured and with only the lightest of brushing sounds, swiftly descended. Before she departed, she marked the exact position of the outer walls against the visible constellations, committing them to memory. This was her backup, in the event she became disoriented. Silently, she moved off into the trees, slipping from one to the other like a wraith.
Unbeknownst to her, Thranduil had his own window open, and was enjoying the same sight of the moon over the forest. His sensitive ears caught the soft noise, and he frowned, never having heard the sound before. Walking across the rooms to the table at his bedside, he raised up a small and very ornate mirror. "Show me Miriel," he commanded. All he needed to see was the hooded figure moving through the trees. Carefully returning it, he threw down his elaborate outer robes, even as he grabbed his hunting cloak from its peg. His sword he buckled to his belt, as he strode across the room. A tree stood but five feet from his own window; for centuries he had taken advantage of this escape as well. That she would have a similar skill had not dawned on him.
He did not know yet how to feel about her exit, because he did not know her motive. For her sake, he sincerely hoped she was not running from him. The mere thought of this was enough to begin stirring his anger, but he forced it down. He smirked. Tonight, she was his quarry. With a sense of elation, he began to track her.
Flitting on for hundreds of yards, she saw the tree canopy becoming dense, and decided to take to the heights. She had never told Ma and Da about this, they would have never survived the knowledge. She donned her half gloves and quickly wrapped her band of line around a suitable trunk and propelled herself upward, using the strap as a brace. Soon she was in the lower canopy, and now could look for suitable branches to simply hop from tree to tree. As a safety measure, she always ensured there was more than one target branch across from her, in case one broke or in case she somehow missed her jump. She spotted a beautiful conifer, near a clearing, and felt it call out to her. That would be her perch. There had been no intention of roaming far tonight; she only wished to be in the forest. Arriving at the branch she found desirable, she seated herself much as she would on a park bench; the branch below her made a nice rest for her feet. She looped her line over the branch above her, and now had a pleasant handhold. Sighing inaudibly with comfort, she pulled her hood over her golden hair and wrapped her cloak around her. Relaxing her body, she opened her mind to the sounds and scents around her. She could not remember ever being this happy.
Thranduil tracked her easily until her trail suddenly vanished at a tree. Reaching out with his mind, he sought hers. She moved through the canopies, he saw, fascinated. He listened to catch the faintest rustlings, able to follow from below. His connection to his forest was undeniably magical; he was its guardian, and his awareness infused the length and breadth of it. Like a shadow himself, he eventually located her. That it had been any effort at all to do so spoke of her phenomenal skill in the woods. With relief, he confirmed that she was not seeking escape. Though he should probably forbid her these outings, a part of him did not have the heart. Was this not why he had wanted her? He had searched her thoughts, and she was here for the exact same reason he was now thoroughly enjoying himself. He watched her as she sat, immobile, for perhaps twenty minutes when a noise came in the distance, drawing near. A buck, the magnificence of which she had never seen, staggered into the clearing, and collapsed. Even in the moonlight, she could see the arrow protruding from its hip. The animal's sides were heaving.
Filled with pity, Miriel pulled the line from the branch above her and silently dropped on her feet to the lowest limb, still about seventeen feet up. Looping the line around that one she jumped backward off the branch, hard. For a moment, Thranduil's heart caught in his throat; she could not survive that fall without injury. In the dark, even his eyes could not make out the cord. But when he saw her swing in the air, he realized something was there. As her momentum carried her forward, she released one loop and somersaulted to land on her feet, coiling the trailing line swiftly into her hands and returning it to her pouch. She approached the animal cautiously, from the rear. Making very low, soothing sounds, she kept her eye warily on its large rack of antlers, which had many points. The wound was festering.
And yet he had a strong heartbeat. Closing her eyes, she knew she had to try. "It is not your time yet, old one," she whispered. "I will do my best." Reaching into her bag, she retrieved the carven box she carried, that was carefully overlain with leather. She kept it as full of dried athelas as was possible, at all times. Thinking her most soothing thoughts with her hands on the animal, she began to gently cram the dried herb into the wound. She felt his muscles tremble at her touch but thought as hard as she could, cuio, cuio, cuio. Live, old one, it is not your time. There were times it felt right, to use Sindarin words. She braced her fingers against the side of the arrow shaft, and in one clean pull tore it from the wound, casting it aside. Until she had stuffed every last grain of athelas into the wound, she did not stop. As the animal continued to breathe heavily in pain beneath her, she placed both her hands over its injury and thought again and again in her mind, asking it to live, to heal. A golden sheen surrounded her as she worked. A moment came when she sensed she could do no more, it was now up to the spirit of the stag. She put her box away, and took the arrow. Rising and stepping backward, she carefully came around to face it, at a respectful distance. "Please," she whispered. "It is not your time."
The stag lurched to his feet, letting out a powerful bellow. She bowed slowly to it, then turned and departed. It was long past time to return. Just before she left the clearing, she spotted a chunk of fallen wood that she believed would suit her purposes for carving. She placed it in her pouch, and disappeared into the trees.
Thranduil's lips were parted in astonishment at the spectacle he had witnessed. But he had no time to think on it, as he needed to follow. She ran back more with speed than stealth, though her passing made no sound. While she emerged a little off course from where she meant to, the convenient glow of firelight from Thranduil's window clarified her error. As she came underneath, she halted. Thranduil's open window.
Turning to face the woods, she said in a voice softer than normal speech but louder than a whisper. "My Lord." A tall figure emerged from the shadows very close by, and approached her. "Am I correct in assuming that any attempt to send you to bed in the next hour is futile?"
She smiled. "You could command it, and I would obey, but I would not sleep. Not for awhile, at least."
"Then go up", he gestured to his window. She pulled out her cord, and in a matter of seconds was up the tree. It was an easy jump into his open window. Before she finished coiling the line, he was at her side.
"May I see that?" he asked.
She handed it to him, and he examined it.
"Perhaps at another time, you will show me the use of this," he said, returning it.
There was a silence, as they regarded each other.
"What is it you wish to know, Miriel?"
"It is not my place to ask questions of you, my Lord."
"And yet, I am offering you the opportunity to do so," he said, his face unreadable .
"Two things, then. How did you know I left, and, should I ask your pardon for having done so?"
He smiled. "Little escapes my notice, Miriel. Though the manner of your leaving would have been undetectable to anyone else, I heard you descend from your window. And no, you do not need to ask my forgiveness. You have done nothing wrong. That being said, I followed you in part because my forest is not entirely safe. While your abilities are exceptional, you are my responsibility now. I will not command you in this, but I will ask you to understand that if you go, you likely compel me to follow."
"Yes, my Lord." She now recalled the arrow taken from the buck, and retrieved it from her quiver. It was ugly, and black. He held out his hand for it, and she gave it to him. He saw her own bloodstained hands, and brought her to a basin to wash. She noted his kindness, as he poured the water for her while she scrubbed her fingers clean.
"Now it is my turn," said the King. "Where did you learn the skills I witnessed tonight? "
"From doing, my Lord. How I move around has...evolved, over time, as I learned and tried different ideas. On trips to Dale with Da, I learned from the fisherfolk about their use of line and what things were possible on account of it. They taught me their art, and I adapted it for tracking and hunting. If you are asking if anyone taught me, the answer is No."
"You were never taught to hunt?" he asked, incredulous.
"Only from those who hunt themselves, my Lord. The fox, the wildcat, the wolf and the bear all have mothers to teach them. And I, in turn, had them."
There was more he wished to learn, much more. But he also wished to reflect. "That is all, for now, Miriel. I wish you to rest. Come. I am sorry to not have you use the door, but I am sure you can understand wishing to keep this means of coming and going a secret. Even my guards do not know," he said, as his face split into a broad smile.
"I do know, my Lord," she said, grinning. In a flash she was back out the window, leaping easily into the tree and hopping down its branches. The lowest was only ten feet up, so she simply swung off of it and landed on her feet in a crouch. He followed swiftly. "Now allow me the amusement of seeing how you return", he said to her. "Good night, Miriel."
"Good night, my Lord." Turning away, she sprang swiftly up the wooden bits in her line, ascending the stone wall of the Palace. He watched as the creation silently disappeared into the window, that then closed. Smiling and shaking his head, he returned to his own rooms and prepared for rest.
