Sídhon hesitantly treaded down the wooden steps of the palace dungeon, making sure his steps were light and soundless. A week had passed since they had discovered the woman, and a week had she slept. For the time being, the king ordered for her to be kept in the prison, unbeknownst of her strength as a bear. He had identified her as a Skin-shifter. A Beorning, from the Vales of Anduin. A female Skin-shifter was rare, and the king was intrigued.
Still, she did not awaken and the King was growing impatient. Some suggested she was dead, after being inflicted such grievous wounds, but the healers denied this. They had spent long hours healing her when she first arrived, and ensured she was alive and healthy.
It would be much simpler if that beast were just dead, Sídhon thought.
Sídhon was tasked to awaken the woman without evoking her transformation, and then guide her to the king's throne room. He did not know what triggered the transformation, and did not want to know.
Why me? The young ellon wondered, I want no association with that she-beast.
But an order was an order and Sídhon could only comply, though bitterly. He locked away his hostile thoughts and approached the woman's cell with only gentle intents. He was surprised to find her sitting by the door, gazing at him with her dark eyes, as if awaiting him. She was awake at least, and to his delight, not a bear. This made things much easier.
The healing company's work was evident, as her tanned skin showed few scars and was scrubbed clean from its previous filth. She wore a simple green tunic and pants, to Sídhon's relief, and her raven hair had been washed and straightened. He did not know if the wounds on her torso were fully healed. The scar on her eye remained though, bearing a haunting resemblance to her animal form. He took notice of her striking brown eyes, which were dark and bore many secrets. He had only taken a glimpse at the bear at their first encounter, but those undoubtedly were the same eyes. Full of pain... and memory.
The young guard realized he had been staring at the woman for a while, and quickly averted his gaze. When he looked back, the woman was staring right back at him, curious and confused. Remembering his duty, he stood before the woman and initiated a conversation.
"Do you have a name, woman?" Sídhon asked, more sharply than he intended to.
"If I did, I have long forgotten it."
Her voice was strikingly low, almost identical to a man's. She spoke smoothly, but slowly, as if she were unfamiliar with words and was just getting used to the feeling of them on her tongue. Her voice was young. When she spoke, her eyes would dart about as if searching for something. But they ended up meeting Sídhon's by the end of her phrase.
"Shall I address you as woman or beast, then?"
"Neither," she replied, looking away, "I hail to my descendant, Beorn, thus, you may call me Beorning." She seemed unfazed by the guard's rude demeanor. She spoke nobly of her kin, uttering the name Beorn with great air.
"Well then, Beorning," Sídhon said, dryly, "The King wishes to see you. Can I trust you to keep to your human form?" He glanced at her as he unlocked her cell door.
"As long as he does not anger me," she answered, smirking. Sídhon scowled.
She emerged out of her cell, stretching out to her full height. She was several inches shorter than the elf, to his content, but her arms and legs were long and thick with muscle. She was lean and slender, but sturdily-built. Sídhon dared not underestimate her. He hastily handcuffed her wrists in front of her and guided her out of the dungeon, one hand on the hilt of his dagger and the other on her back.
"You need not be wary of me, elf," the Beorning spoke, "I can do no harm."
Sídhon ignored her and lead her through the palace and to King Thranduil's throne. Her face remained stone-cold and unchanged for the most part, but her dark eyes widened ever so slightly as they entered the throne room. He could not blame her, for it was a magnificent sight for elves and foreigners alike. Sídhon watched the Beorning's eyes travel up the winding staircase to the high throne of the Elvenking of Mirkwood.
The king sat comfortably on his wood-carven throne, one leg crossed over the other. He was draped in a grand, grey robe that covered his legs and spilled on the ground like a pool of silvery waters. He adorned rings of white and red jewels on his long fingers, which he tapped lightly against his armrest. His face was long and wise, but still youthful. He bore eyes of blue sapphires that held a light gaze upon the Beorning as she observed him. His hair was long and fair, and a crown sat upon his kingly head, adorned with autumn leaves and red berries. She had never seen anything of the like. If beauty had a form, this ellon would be its epitome.
The king watched her with subtle amusement. "I did not know that the people of Beorn trod upon my lands," he spoke, his voice grand and deep, "You dwell peacefully in the Vales of Anduin. What has you driven you east, to Mirkwood?"
"I give my utmost apologies," the Beorning replied, her eyes meeting his, "I was seeking refuge and was unaware I had stumbled upon your realm, my lord."
"Refuge from what, may I ask?"
"Foul things," she said bitterly, "Orcs, from Dol Guldur."
"Dol Guldur has been empty for centuries," he said, knowingly. The Beorning noticed a subtle hint of uncertainty on the king's face. He knew of the dark shadows that loomed over Dol Guldur. He knew of its evil, but refused to believe it.
"Have you heard naught of the Necromancer?" she asked, "An ancient evil dwells in that stronghold. Foul creatures are lurking in your realm, my lord." She paused, then added icily "I have tasted their wrath." Her eyes clouded as she ran a hand over a long scar under her arm.
Thranduil noticed this, his eyebrows perking in curiosity. "Those are grievous wounds you bear, even after the healer's work," he said, descending down from his throne, "How were you able to escape your enemies after being so lethally wounded?"
The Beorning looked away. "I slayed them." A tinge of guilt laced her words.
"A single beast against a pack of orcs? How commendable," he said, mockingly. He circled the woman slowly, examining her. She was tall and strong, but still had a slender, womanly physique. Muscle was apparent in her bare arms, but she did not seem slow and bulky. When she stepped, she did so swiftly and lightly, akin to an elf. Strong, but dexterous. The king had never seen a female Skin-changer in all his years, and her strengths seemed to be on par with her male counterparts.
"I hold insurmountable hate for the Necromancer, for he was the one who drove my people out of the mountains many a year ago," she said, clenching her fist, "I would not have survived if not for my burning desire to spill orc-blood. That is all."
Thranduil watched the young woman with growing interest. "Do not be so quick to denounce your strengths, young one. Your rage is not your only strength." His voice was kind and convincing.
She said nothing, but closed her eyes wearily as if reminiscing on painful memories.
A comfortable silence befell the room before Thranduil sparked another question. "Where do you dwell now, Skin-changer?"
"Why should I tell you?" she said, grudgingly. She had soon realized that she should be more cautious with her tongue, as she did not want the Elvenking to know too much about her and her people. She had already said too much. She now spoke darkly and distrustfully.
The Elvenking chuckled to himself. "You have no reason to," he admitted, "It was simply out of curiosity. I do not wish to manipulate you, if that is what you think I am intending with such questions."
She did not speak. She grew warier with each gentle word he spoke. Lies, she thought to herself, That is exactly what you will do.
Thranduil noticed this suspicion and only continued to chuckle, his laughs low and hearty. "Why are you so wary, Skin-changer?"
"Beornings are wary of all except their kin." she replied honestly. She decided not to speak any more. She did not want to say too much.
"You need not be," he told her, mimicking her words to Sídhon, "I hold no harmful intentions. You may take these words or discard them. That is your choice." The king spoke with such kindness and sincerity, it was if he were apologizing. The Beorning hesitated, contemplating whether or not to trust the king. The latter could result in severe consequences. Privacy was most valuable to the Beornings, and especially to her, as she held many secrets. But she felt his words tugging at her heart, and she felt her heart slowly giving in. She had not spoken of her past for many a year, had not told anyone of her doings. To bring it up once more in front of this king... did she really trust him enough? She had a undeniable desire to simply tell him everything. She had bottled up her secrets for too long and the Elvenking's words were kind and promising.
She gave in and began to speak.
"I was born in the mountains with my kin, but dwelt in the Westfold of Rohan for much of my life," she told him, "Before I was banished." Her eyes grew dark and cloudy as she said this. Thranduil remained silent, waiting patiently for her to continue.
"I wandered the forests of Fangorn before travelling North to find my kin in the Vales. As I traveled along the Anduin to the Ford of Carrock, I was ambushed by a group of orcs, but I managed to kill them and find sanctuary deeper in the forest." Her eyes softened, and she added, "Or rather, I was just looking for a fairer place to perish." She chuckled as she said this. "It seems fate has other plans for me though."
"So it seems..." Thranduil murmured, intrigued by the Beorning's story. He stared at her, his eyes half-lidded as he pondered his words contemplatively.
He began to walk again, turning his back to his guest. "Tell me," he said, low and clear, "Why did a daughter of Beorn decide to live in Rohan? Were you not fond of your people?" Behind him, he heard her gritting her teeth uncomfortably.
She grimaced. "'Twas a rather personal matter, my lord." Now, she could not tell him this.
Thranduil gazed up at the palace ceiling thoughtfully. Another silence fell upon the room, and for a moment, the Beorning thought the king did not want to continue with the subject. She was proven wrong.
"Was it a lover?" he asked, breaking the silence. He did not face her, and spoke blandly.
She was shocked by how easily he had guessed it. But she would not - could not, admit this. "No," she replied firmly.
"There is no use lying to me, Skin-changer," he told her with a mocking tone.
She was aghast. Had he really solved her that easily? "I-I..." she started.
But she could say nothing. She gave up, her arms falling to her sides in defeat.
Thranduil smirked to himself. "How interesting," he spoke, "A Beorning and a Rohirrim."
She did not speak. Her face remained stoic.
The Elvenking evaluated her expression before chuckling softly and walking back to his throne."You shall tell me more of it on a later date," he commanded, "For now, I will let you rest. I have prepared proper chambers for you." He waved his hand, signaling for an escort.
"Thank you, my lord, but I do not want to burden you anymore with my presence," the woman said, somewhat nervously, "I do not deserve such treatment. My sincerest thanks for your hospitality. I will be on my way as soon as you permit me to." She wanted to leave as soon as possible.
The Elvenking held up a hand, halting her. "Please, you are a welcome guest here," he told her, smiling gently, "But in any case, do you not owe me a favor for saving your life?" A glint of mischief sparkled in his eyes and his warm smile became a sly smirk."Feredir was gracious and foolish to have brought you into my palace. He overestimated my hospitality for wounded animals." He spat the last words icily and with distaste
"I could have ended your life right when you passed through my doors. But I spared you," he continued.
The Beorning gulped, taken aback by his sudden sharpness. "What do you require from me?" She hated obligations, and desired to fulfill them as quickly as possible.
The king's smile grew larger. "I require your service to Mirkwood, for three months."
"But – " she protested, but the King held a finger to her lips, silencing her.
"Remember, I spared your life," he spoke, his face eerily closer to hers, "Will you not show gratitude to me?" His ice cold eyes stared into hers, causing her heart to beat as fast as a galloping steed. His glare was intense and did not waver, and they pierced into her like sharp daggers embedding themselves into her soul.
"Y-yes… my apologies, my lord."
"My king," he corrected her, "You shall address me as that." He began to ascend up the stairs, back to his throne.
"My apologies, my king," she said pointedly.
"And what shall I call you, Beorning?" He seated himself down.
"I do not have a name," she said dismissively.
"Preposterous. You will be given a name."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his blue eyes gazing at the Beorning in deep thought. She felt uncomfortable as those cold eyes searched her, examined her meticulously.
"Lavaneth," he stated finally.
"What does that mean?"
The king stared down at her from his high throne, his eyes cold and condescending. He said his words, heavy with disgust.
"Animal."
Thanks for all the follows/faves guys! I really appreciate it. I managed to squeeze this chapter out before school starts tomorrow, but I will undoubtedly be working on the third chapter in the coming week. (and avoiding my homework)
I'm sorry if Thranduil is a bit off-canon here... he does seem a tad bit nice, but I tried to change that at the end of their conversation. And also, I know it's inaccurate to give her a Sindarian name, but after all, Thranduil is an elf and I was tired of referring to her as "Beorning".
Thanks for reading, mellon nin!
EDIT 1/12/2014: Decided to add a bit more to flow with the theme of my third chapter.