Again, I can't thank you enough for your reviews (and patience! damn you writer's block!). I knew the last chapter would be a bit of a risk, I'm so glad people are enjoying my story and Noelle!
I am playing with Thranduil's heritage and history in this chapter. It is inspired by the canon, but seeing as there is so little canon to pull from in Thranduil's case, I'm basically making this up as I go. Part of the delay with this chapter does fall on my obsessive need to keep canon characters a close to their canonical selves as possible.
Chapter 7
Of Wild Flowers
The last of festivities did not end until well after the breaking of dawn. Many of the Mirkwood elves had retired to their homes to recover from a week of wine-drenched celebrations. Now that the summer season had been properly venerated, it was time for autumn to grace the forest.
Only the king lingered inside the great hall. He slouched on his throne, his body and mind heavy in it's inebriation. Towering above even him, the ossified antlers that decorated his seat cast shadows over his sullen face.
His hazy eyes scanned the empty hall. The ceiling stretched far above and shafts of warm midday sunlight came pouring down, revealing the terrible mess below that had yet to be touched. All that remained from the night before were glasses and bottles - some shattered- next to plates and bowls of untouched food.
The only sound came from a monstrous hearth that sat behind him where coals that had been burning for days were finally dying; spitting out small crackles with their dying breaths.
Lofty carved statues lined the doors that lay across the room. One depicted Oropher, Thranduil's father, the first king of the Greenwood. The resemblance between him and his son had once been thought uncanny and unmatched. But then Thranduil's own son, Legolas was born with a likeness so identical even the queen made jest of it.
Even the queen.
Thranduil's eye turned to the second statue. It was not a carving of his mother, as tradition would dictate, but of the Greenwood's first queen: his ardent wife, Gilorndis.
He reached again for the bottle on the table, but found it too had been emptied. His throat quaked with unquenched thirst. But it was his quaking heart that he felt most fervently.
To an immortal being, time was nothing more than an inconvenience. The changing of the seasons was dependable but fleeting. He could remember so clearly the first day of summer and now in a flash it was gone. He had not properly prepared himself for the coming of autumn.
Though his very namesake tied him to the season of blooming flowers and new life, it was the color and vigor of Autumn that he most cherished. For more than any other season, it reminded him so completely of his lost wife.
As grand as the statue was, it was no comparison to her true beauty. During it's construction, he thought often of what she would say at the sight of it. He thought of her now, her voice loud as a bell in his muddled head. Not wanting the voice to fade, he dove far back into his memories, to the day he had first met her, to the very first words he had heard her speak.
Now that she was gone, that day seemed almost like a dream.
He and his father had only just arrived in the Greenwood.
They had journeyed from Lindon, where the rule of the High Elves was absolute. His father, who had lost his own home during the great war, despised living under the demands of another. The Silvan elves of the Greenwood were in need of a leader and Oropher was more than capable of adopting such a role. Taking with him his son and a small following of like minded elves, Oropher left Lindon behind and never looked back.
While the journey had been easy, adapting to such a volatile land had was not. Greenwood forest was beautiful, but it was also inhabited by strange and vile creatures. The Silvan elves had lived many years separated from their kin. To Thranduil, they were a foreign people. Unlike anything he had seen before.
In the short time he had lived in the forest, Thranduil watched the Silvan elves, observing their customs, eager to understand. It had been his father's command, but his own youthful curiosity made it an easy mandate to follow.
In particular, he found himself fascinated by the wood elves baneful war tactics. They had revolutionized archery. They were swift. Silent. And above all, deadly. A mere handful of adept foot soldiers could do the work of an entire fleet if given the chance.
After only a week living amongst the Silvan elves, Thranduil snuck away into the depths of the forest, anxious to master their ways.
It was not an easy task.
"Oh, you must be one of them." Came a voice from behind.
Thranduil stilled, his hands tightening around his bow. Masking his chagrin, he peered over his shoulder.
High above him, stooped precariously on a boulder that jutted out of the cliffside stood a young elf. To Thranduil's great confusion, she was dressed in the clothes of a guardsman. Her slim legs were wrapped in brown leather. A vest of mossed green covered her chest. Her hair, the color of strawberry wine, was pulled back into a tight braid. If it wasn't for the willowy timbre of her voice, he would have mistaken her for a soldier.
He straightened and tried to adopt his father's effortless nobility. But Thranduil was still a young thing himself and nobility eluded him.
"One of them?" He repeated, demanding clarification.
"From Lindon, of course." She said. Without another word, she jumped from her perch and landed with practiced grace on the forgiving forest floor.
"It's your stance," She said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "How many times have you held a bow? Is this your third? Fourth?"
Thranduil bristled at her accuracy. He wished he had brought his sword with him. He had always been better with a sword in hand.
"Second," He admitted.
"Oh," She said, surprised. "Not hopeless then."
She laughed and Thranduil was reminded of the mischievous sprites that frequented his mothers stories. With great ease, she jumped up onto a fallen tree, walking along it's narrow back while expertly spinning an arrow of her own between her fingers.
"Who are you?" He spat.
"I am Gilorniel, daughter of Eristneth, Captain of the guard."
She jumped over onto the log he stood on. "Shall I show you how it's done?"
Thranduil stepped down. As she focused on his target, a small knot at the center of a great oak that stood high above the cliffside, he pressed the toe of his boot onto the side of the log. It shifted ever slightly. He watched her carefully and, just as she took aim, he pulled his foot away causing the log to rock towards him. Gilorniel pitched forward as well, her shot falling inches short of it's goal.
"Ah," Thranduil sneered, hoisting his bow onto his shoulder. "Pity."
Gilorniel scoffed. Hopping off of the log, she went to retrieve her arrow.
As she passed him, her shoulder purposefully collided with his.
"I think you mean petty." She said, her eyes alight with a ravenous spark.
Thranduil laughed. Such brassy discourse, of which he had always had a penchant for, had been looked down upon in Lindon. Perhaps he could grow to like the Greenwood.
"What is your name?" She called over her shoulder.
"Thranduil." He answered, stepping onto the log once more.
"Thranduil." She repeated, mimicking his tone. "Why Thranduil is the name of our new pri-"
She stopped short, her melodic mockery caught in her throat. She spun around, mouth agape; her face erupting in a rosy blush.
Thranduil bared his teeth in a wicked smile.
"Prince?" He finished, his silver eyes as sly as a fox.
"Y-yes," The young elf sputtered as she scrambled to her feet. "My lord, I-uh, do forgive me. I was not aware that I-"
"Please," He interjected, raising his hand. "It's far too late for such cordial words. Now, what can you do to earn a reprieve?"
Flustered, she hurried over to him. He could see the gears in her head working to come up with a proper response. She stepped up onto the log again, uncomfortably close to him. She carried with her the aroma of wild flowers. It permeated his senses, leaving him strangely light-headed.
"What are you-" He started.
Before he could finish, she pressed her lips to his.
Startled, he reared back but she grabbed at his collar holding him steady. Just as quickly, she pulled away.
"Will that do?" She breathed.
As Thranduil tried to form an equally shrewd retort, she leapt away and disappeared into the trees.
The last surviving ember emitted a sizzling hiss, pulling Thranduil from his reverie. His eyes rolled open slowly and the memory faded from sight.
How bizarre that the memory seemed so clear in his mind. He could imagine so completely the feel of her lips pressed against his. As though it had only just happened. His brow furrowed.
But it had. A thought pressed in his head.
He had kissed his wife.
Last night, He thought. Though his head still felt very much submerged in a vat of potent wine, he adamantly remembered...he had kissed his wife only hours ago.
I did. In the shadow of the west wing. As we always did during the-
Thranduil flung himself from his seat so violently, an approaching attendant fell over his own feet to assist him.
"My Lord, are you-"
"The trespasser." Thranduil blared. "Where is she?"
Noelle was lost again. Lost in another dream. When she realized where she was, she cursed.
Not again.
"Not another one!" She shouted.
The words left her mouth in a cloud of smoke.
It was cold. Cold like ice. Noelle wrapped her arms around herself, a chill like no other rattling her bones. She was standing at the floor of a massive valley. To her right, she could see a towering, snow covered mountain. It's jagged peaks were surrounded by a swarm of white clouds. They rolled slowly by, most likely moved by heavy windstorms too high for Noelle to hear or feel.
Her eye trailed downwards, until she realized in a fit of horror that she was standing in the middle of an icy lake.
She gasped and nearly toppled over. Her arms swung out, flailing wildly until she regained her balance.
As a child, she had once fallen into a cold river and she had feared drowning ever since. She could still remember the freezing water clawing at her skin, enveloping her, trying to pull her down into the dark. If it had not been for her father's quick hand and steady head, she might have drowned that day.
Noelle choked on her breath, calling upon all her will to banish the fear away. It seemed whoever, or whatever, had crafted these dreams had discovered this fear of hers. Tears pooled in her eyes.
Crying out, Noelle clamped her hands around her head and began to whisper to herself. She tried to conjure up better thoughts, other thoughts, anything to transport her away from this place.
"Why is this happening?!" She cried out, her words echoing across the landscape.
No answer came.
First fire and shadows, now this. She thought, too frightened to move. What is going on?
In the distance, she heard the bone cracking cry of a raven. It slit shivers through her spine. Her instinct begged her to run, but she was too fearful of falling into the ice. Soon a chorus of cries littered the horizon, but Noelle couldn't catch sight of a single body.
It's just a dream. She thought. Only a dream. It's not real. None of this is real. Nothing here is real.
The chorus grew louder and louder until quite suddenly it ceased altogether.
Noelle pulled her hands away from her head, lifting her chin she peered around.
Nothing. She thought. I see nothing.
From behind her, she heard a soft flutter of feathers.
She turned. There on the ice sat a large, sleek raven. It locked eyes with her for a short second, before it began to claw at the ice. Then, it lifted it's beak into the air and brought it down hard. With a sickening crack, a break began to form in the surface of the ice.
No. Her heart plunged into her stomach.
"Stop!" She cried, her feet slipping beneath her.
But the raven continued, it's beak hacking into the ice until it split completely. The splinter was small at first, but it began to grow and grow inching closer and closer to where she was standing until-
Noelle awoke drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. As terrifying as the fire had been, the raven's murderous actions had seared through her like a knife. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. Her breath came thin and hot, filling her lungs and radiating through veins. Her heart was beating in her skull and she felt though she could collapse in exhaustion.
She realized far too late that she wasn't alone in the room. Looking over her shoulder she saw two women watching her.
"Oh," She said, wiping the knuckles under her eyes. "I didn't know. I-"
One of them, the elder, approached her and gestured for her to stand.
"Who are you?" Noelle asked, tired of being ordered around.
The women, both dressed in robes of silver and moss, looked at one another and began to speak in low tones. At first Noelle wondered if she was so rattled that she couldn't properly identify what they were saying.
It's that other language. She realized. They must not understand me.
Not wanting to cause any more trouble, Noelle stood and offered them a small reassuring smile. They responded in kind, leading her back up the rounded staircase.
It soon became clear to Noelle, that they had been called to help dress her. However, with a language barrier and a muddled head, it soon became an irksome process.
Above all else, the clothes felt impractical. The lightness of the fabric brought a blush to her face. Noelle felt as though she could step into a mild wind and be stripped bare. Thankfully, a mirror was present and she could see that it was indeed a modest outfit. Noelle ran her fingers over the skirt. The fabric was thinner than the robe she had commandeered the night before, but its many layers did enough to cover her. It was pale olive in color, hemmed with copper threads and altogether plain compared to the extravagant textiles that had sheltered her before. She gasped as a stringed corset was pulled tight across her gut, thankfully the woman loosened it some before cinching it off.
Before Noelle could protest she was pushed into a seat and the other elf began to weave small sections of her hair into braids.
"This really isn't necessary." She said, still a fluster from her nightmare and sudden waking.
I can't tell if they understand me and are just ignoring me...
If Thranduil truly was a king, it seemed right that he would be multilingual.
The more I think about it...I think he's the only one, aside from the guard that spoke English. I still can't pin down what language these...elves speak. God, listening to me! Elves?!
Once again, Noelle had to stop herself from wandering down the path of how-the-hell-is-this-possible.
It hasn't done me an ounce of good. There are more pressing concerns anyway…
Chief among them, was her disastrous trek the night before. Noelle felt a shiver run up her spine at the very thought.
As...insanely nice as that was...it could cause me trouble.
Without her watch or phone, she had no idea how much time had passed since the fateful encounter.
I could have been sleeping for an entire day. I still could be sleeping.
Whether Thranduil would recover from his drunkenness with a clear recollection or an empty head, Noelle could not know. And there was nothing she hated more than uncertainty.
"Leave us."
Noelle leapt to her feet. The women that had been wordlessly primping her left side and slipped away without question.
In the bustle, Noelle lifted a hand to her head. Small sections of her hair had been expertly braided and left to hang against the curled mess of it's fellows.
Swallowing, she turned her attention back to Thranduil.
To her dismay, he looked just as illustrious as he had the day before. Once again he was crown-less, but the metallic black robes he wore only added an air of menace to his already intimidating stature.
Has he already sobered up?! How is that even possible-No, don't concentrate on it. Noelle reminded herself. Above all else, she could not let him think she was as terrified of him as she felt.
Raising her chin, she tried to match his effortless elegance as best she could.
"What's this about?" She demanded to know, gesturing at the clothes she wore. She hoped her words sounded dismissive and not affected.
Thranduil said nothing. He folded his arms behind his back, his eyes grazing over her.
As frightening and forceful as his voice was, his silence was all the more effective. Noelle sighed, disguising her discomfort as exasperation.
He stepped towards her and then around, circling her as keenly as an eagle did it's prey.
God, he knows. He must. Noelle thought, beads of sweat forming at the back of her neck.
"I guess I should thank you for the clothes," She said aloud, her voice breaking. "But I really should be going. If you could just retrieve my bag…"
He was behind her now. So close behind her, she could feel his hair brush against her back.
Noelle jerked forward instinctively.
"Well," She continued, stepping tenuously towards the door. "I suppose you have someone to do that for you."
Still, he did not speak. Nor did he try to stop her.
Somewhat emboldened, Noelle reached the door and placed her hand on the sleek handle.
"I can't honestly say it was a pleasure but I've endured worse lodgings. So I'll just be-"
A large hand, his hand, fell over hers. Noelle's gulped, the last of her words completely vanishing from her mind. His touch felt warm against her shivering hand.
Firmly, but not harshly, his lifted her hand away from the handle. He pulled it away, spinning her around and pressing her up against the door.
Lord, again?! She bemoaned.
He leaned down low so that his eyes were level with hers. Unable to help herself, she met his gaze. His eyes were gray steel, as sharp as a dagger's point.
"Do you think you can simply walk out of here?" He said in a voice no higher than a whisper.
"I thought I'd try," She responded with a grim, breathy laugh. Can't make it any worse, Can I?
"You defied my command," He continued, clearly unamused.
Noelle felt her gut jump into her throat.
"I am afraid...Noelle," Her name slithered luridly across his tongue. "That I will not let you go so easily."
I do apologize for the shortness of this chapter. The next one is looking to be much, much longer.
So I think it goes without saying, (but heck, I love talking about this stuff) that while I am trying to stay as close as I possibly can to the movie/book canon, this chapter definitely sways away from the movie version a tad. I did not know a lot about the character before the movies, but after doing some research (and rereading The Hobbit a time or two), I have a hard time believing Thranduil would be so classest when it came to the Silvan elves. Basically, I think that whole scene with Tauriel in the 2nd movie is OOC (but hey, I can't knock it completely, it did give me an elvenking bath/hot tub). So I'm changing it a bit.
As always (and always and always) thank you for reading and I would love a review! :0)
