Where it begins...
Berwe raised her glass to her lips and sipped delicately, resisting the urge to shift in her chair. She focused her attention on what Lord Elrond was saying, resolutely refusing to allow her eyes to be drawn elsewhere. She had laboured too long and too hard to merit a seat at this table to be distracted by the disapproval she sensed radiating from the still presence opposite her. Even with her eyes fixed on the current speaker, she was intensely aware of the Elven King, lounging with boneless grace on a chair that was a hair's breadth from being a throne. He contributed little to the discussion, but when he did speak, the others listened. Elrond commanded respect; Gandalf a reluctant, somewhat indulgent hearing; Saruman, courteous attention, lacking warmth; the Lady Galadriel, awestruck deference. The ruler of the Woodland Realm had only to raise an eyebrow and the gathering clamour of dissent cut off, replaced by wariness like pinpricks on the skin.
Raised at court to be adept at navigating murky political intrigues necessitated learning at a very early age how to read a room and weigh character. This room crackled with carefully concealed tension, much of it surrounding the intimidating immortal whose eyes burned her like ice. She swallowed, feeling his gaze track the movement like a physical touch. Never before had she felt even close to being out of her depth. Even with such august persons as Lord Elrond, the Lady of Lothlorien, the head of the wizard's order, and her own beloved Greyhame, she had not experienced the least apprehension. Then the last of their summit to arrive swept in, dwarfing the chamber with his height and presence, and every hair on her neck stood straight up in immediate, unsettling awareness.
Berating herself for foolishness, she had waited coolly for him to greet the others formally, before finally turning to her, as etiquette dictated. She inclined her head regally, then glanced up, and up, into cold blue eyes, which held hers for a timeless moment before sweeping her from head to toe in complete, indifferent dismissal. Her jaw still ached from how tightly she'd gritted her teeth, battling to keep her expression neutral. She must not have succeeded; as his gaze returned to hers, it had sharpened, and a wintry smile that did not reach his eyes had touched his mouth as he turned away. Tamping down her temper, she released a breath she had not known she'd been holding, only to suck it in again as he swung back and stepped closer, eyes narrowed and intent upon her throat. Her pulse tripped over itself, and she locked her limbs in place lest she back away from the danger she suddenly sensed in him.
The murmur of conversation elsewhere in the room ceased abruptly, and Lord Elrond spoke from behind her left shoulder. "Shall we begin? The refreshments are here." If her senses had not been in a state of almost painful awareness, she might have missed the tiny note of concern in his voice. She had no time to ponder what that meant, for the Elven King's eyes had locked with hers, and the leaping flame of rage they contained caused the sweat to break out on her brow. She lifted her chin and cocked her head slightly, refusing to be cowed. He was the most intimidating being she had ever encountered, but she saw no reason to let him know that. He possessed too many advantages already. But she, too, was Queen, and his equal.
"Is something the matter, your Majesty?" she inquired sweetly, crushing the silk of her skirts with fingers that shook slightly. There was a beat of heavy silence, then he said slowly: "Is this someone's idea of sport?" His words were soft, sibilant, and slithered across her nerve endings like a warning. One large hand rose with glacial deliberation, as if against his will, and hovered in the space between them, the long immaculate fingers halted just shy of touching her. Eyes, which a moment ago had been narrowed and furious, were blown wide, incredulous, and a minute, continuous tremor he seemed totally unaware of travelled through his body.
"My Lord Thranduil." Gandalf was a solid, reassuring presence at her right side, and she drew what felt like her first breath in minutes, planting her feet more firmly. "Time slips from us, and we have many matters to discuss. Perhaps this can wait?"
The King was motionless, his eyes hooded, then the room seemed to shrink and darken as he straightened to his full height, and Berwe tried to work moisture into a mouth suddenly as dry as dust. She put her hand on Greyhame's arm impulsively. It had never once occurred to her that he might need protecting.
"Wait, Mithrandir?Wait? I have waited longer than you have drawn breath for my wife's gems to find their way back to me. Now they are within my grasp, and you would have mewait?!" The last word was a roar. He closed his eyes, seeming to struggle within himself, and Berwe found herself being pulled backwards by both Elrond and Gandalf. Stumbling over the train of her dress, she did not see the Elf King's expression, but the cold steel in his voice made her wince. "Antolle ulua sulrim, Mithrandir."
Much wind pours from your mouth? "How dare you?" she exclaimed, shaking off Elrond's restraining hand and stepping forward. "Greyhame has more wisdom than you will ever achieve, even living all the ages of Middle Earth!" Thranduil's gaze zeroed in on her, and she knew what it was to be the rabbit in the eyes of the eagle. She might never hunt again. "Do not think because you are King that you need not show respect to those who have earned it!" She ignored Gandalf's faint groan, the warning clearing of Elrond's throat, and Saruman's huff of disapproval alike. Galadriel stood some paces removed, serene as ever, her eyes watchful.
"By that token, I need show you none, Berwe of Ieantha," Thranduil replied silkily, placing his hands behind his back and slowly circling her as she stood rigid and quivering with temper. "You are a child playing dress-up in adult's clothing." He paused in front of her, his eyes flicking between her pale face and the jewels surrounding her delicate neck. Lightening swift, he leant forward, his face so close to hers he could feel the heat of her blood, see the pores in her skin. "The time has come to relinquish your props, little mortal," he continued, "and return them to their rightful owner."
Berwe's fingers rose automatically to touch her necklace, finding reassurance in the familiar gesture. For generations, it had symbolised the royal dignity of Iethana's ruler and had eventually been incorporated into the sigil of her House. Its weight and startling coldness served as a reminder of what she came from, all she lived for, and all she aimed to achieve. From mother to daughter, it had been passed down in an unbroken line for centuries, and although it was true that its origin was shrouded in mystery...
She raised her brows in faint hauteur, despite the hammering of her heart. "What are you implying?" Even to her ears, her tone was icy, and to dispense with the formality of his title was - courageous. Still, she was entirely done with pandering to a King who seemed to believe everyone else was beneath him.
"Only that the gems you are wearing so prettily rightfully belong to me. I have searched for them for-" Thranduil broke off, shaking his head. "Longer than I care to remember." He gripped his lips together firmly. Was that a hint of vulnerability she detected? Berwe scoffed inwardly. This entitled Elf was about as pervious as the mountain Giants of the North. "Now that I have found them," his eyes pierced her, "I will not let them go."
Her chest felt high and tight, as though never again would she be able to draw enough breath. In an instant, she saw all her life unfolding behind her. It had all led to this moment. It was what she had trained for. She was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been before, but she must conceal it. Never let them see you bleed, or falter - was that not what her mother had taught her?
"I see," she mused, examining the nails of one hand consideringly. "Then, I regret to say that we may be headed for a slight difficulty, my Lord." Excruciatingly polite. From beneath her lashes, she saw his fist clench and suppressed a smile. "What proof of provenance have you?" A pulse throbbed in his temple, and she regarded it interestedly. "You would not, I know, expect me to relinquish the historic symbol of my rulership without convincing evidence supporting your claim?" Her voice was syrupy with sincerity, as though her only goal in life was to solve a problem they shared.
He regarded her levelly for a moment, then turned his head. "Mithrandir?" he prompted, bored.
Berwe whipped round to Gandalf so quickly that her neck ached, saw him adjust his shoulders uncomfortably beneath his robe, and knew she was lost. She waited painfully for him to speak, hoping against hope-
The words crawled reluctantly from his mouth. "My Lady. What King Thranduil says is true. The White gems of Lasgalen are his." His eyes were sorrowful as they met hers, but there was no doubt there, no hesitation. No room for her to manoeuver. She licked her lips, parted them-
"Elrond?" Implacably the hateful voice continued, dismantling her foundation.
Lord Elrond favoured Thranduil with a long, cool look as silence descended. His face softened slightly as he turned to her, but he nonetheless bowed his head in confirmation.
"Well," grunted Saruman, "now that's settled, perhaps we can return to the important issues at hand." Seating himself at the round table, he gestured impatiently. "Come, my lady, give him his jewels so we can put this little unpleasantness behind us." There was a slight shuffling as the others joined him, until only she and her nemesis were standing, locked in a silent battle of wills.
Berwe struggled to work the constriction from her throat. The unearthly beauty of his face in no way softened the uncompromising set of his mouth or the implacability in his eyes. He was intent upon a goal; she was in his way. He would crush her as he would an Orc's head, unhesitatingly and with boundless contempt. She felt helpless, deserted, and very close to panic. It suddenly became vitally important that he not win so easily. That his victory concerning the gems was inevitable, she did not question. But his utter certainty, his arrogant assumption that all would bend to his will, galled her to almost physical pain. He meant to take something from her and her people? Very well, she thought viciously, I'll make him pay dearly for it.
"I cannot - I will not - give them up," she declared firmly, her words dropping like stones into the deep silence that greeted them.
A sound that might have been a snarl hissed from between Thranduil's teeth. "Very well, then, firen - if you will not give them to me, I must take them!" He flowed towards her, all menace and black scowl- and halted as her knifepoint touched the notch in the middle of his collar bone.
Berwe fought the absurd urge to whimper as she calmly met his eyes, gleaming with a species of fury she had never before encountered. He was preternaturally still, though she doubted very much it was because her dagger intimidated him. There was a war raging for control behind those eyes, and she did not want to be in his vicinity if he should lose it. Hurrying into speech was her only option unless she tried to push her knife home, and instinct told her that she would not get so far as to break his skin before he snapped her neck.
"I may be human, Elven King, but unlike you, I do not consider that to be a disadvantage. Clearly, we still have the power to surprise." She glanced pointedly down at the dwarvish-made blade and was relieved to discover that it was rock steady in her hand. Tuning out the cacophony of remonstrating voices behind her, she focused attention on the toweringly angry male in front of her. "You want something in my possession, your Majesty, and I am uninclined to yield it to you. How shall we resolve this little problem, my lord? Battle it out in single combat? Command our armies to war?" She spoke lightly, mockingly, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. "Since possession is nine-tenths of the law, I do believe my people's claim to these gems is as valid as yours." His eyes flashed, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his fingers twitch. "Perhaps we could share custody?" she suggested, with faux earnestness. "You have them for a century, then us, then you..." she allowed her sentence to trail away, meditatively.
"Or," she said briskly, stepping away and returning her dagger up her sleeve with a skilful flick of her fingers, "we could behave like rational adults instead of spoilt children. I know which one of us has the least excuse for acting in that way." Her mouth quirked, and she looked him full in the eye, chin raised in mute challenge.
Colour starkly tinged his high cheekbones, and the gold brocade of his robe stretched across a broad chest as he drew in a deep breath. Thranduil strode to the table and poured a glass of wine, his back to the aggravating human child, and studiously ignored Elrond's faint smirk. He could not recall ever having felt so...off-balance. He stared down at his glass as he swirled the liquid inside it. The mortal Queen was nothing more than an ant beneath his boot, and yet-
"It seems to me," Gandalf began after a slight cough, and Thranduil resisted the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It seems to me that a compromise might be reached." He eyed the King warily as Thranduil tossed off the last of his glass and poured another. "Now that you have found your wife's gems, my friend, might they not remain in Iethana, on loan, as it were?"
"After all," Elrond added, "they have become intrinsic to that nation's culture, and- forgive me," he paused, bowing to Berwe, "you will have them back in a millennium or so when Iethana as we know it ceases to exist."
Berwe blinked, absorbing that, before contributing her own voice to the swelling argument. "And meanwhile, I promise to send you regular updates on their welfare, your Majesty; when they were last cleaned, how long they've been exposed to daylight, where they sleep at night..."
Gandalf closed his eyes. You could lead a horse to water, but if it chose to drown itself, what could you do?
"We could even arrange visitation rights for you," Berwe was saying brightly. "Do feel free to come and spend time with the necklace whenever you wish. Only, pray write to forewarn us of your arrival. We would not wish to receive you with anything less than the pomp and circumstance you evidently consider your due," she assured him kindly.
A shaky outpouring of breath from Elrond did nothing for Gandalf's efforts to conceal his own horrified amusement, and even Saruman turned away to knuckle his beard. Galadriel turned gracefully to commune with the stars, but her eyes, as they crossed his, contained more than a hint of mischief.
The blood pounding in his ears, Thranduil replaced his glass on the drinks tray with careful deliberation, lest he snapped the delicate stem whilst imagining his slim fingers about her soft white neck. Her insolence was staggering. No one had ever - ever - dared to speak to him and of him as she had done, repeatedly, unrepentantly during one evening.
"You require a lesson in manners, your Majesty," he said softly, arranging himself elegantly in the most ornate chair at the table. "Before your pert remarks, I was on the cusp of agreeing to the Council's solution. Despite my misgivings. But now-" He smiled maliciously at her. "Now, I have no intention of leaving Rivendell without those gems." He caught her eyes and held them. Spoke calculatedly. "Even if I have to strip them from your neck forcibly."
Heat blossomed over every inch of her skin, and she was suddenly uncomfortably warm. Sweat trickled between her breasts and wended its way down her spine. Berwe bit her lip, placed one damp palm on her abdomen and faced him with head held high. "Make the attempt, Elf-lord, and you could find yourself missing certain vital body parts!" she snapped. "I am not easily overcome! Even if you did succeed, you would find I would have no choice but to serve you with articles of war. The Iethanan people do not take kindly to acts of treason against their Queen." She bared her teeth at him in a parody of a smile. "They're very loyal."
He looked amused. "Then their loyalty will mean their death," he shrugged. "They cannot hope to outmatch my armies."
Berwe wondered whether it was possible to actually combust with rage. "Oh, I don't know," she returned with poisonous sweetness. "I've heard you run from battles you don't think you can win. All I'd need is a dragon. You may not be aware, your Majesty, humans being so far beneath your notice, but Iethana isdripping with gold."
He gripped the table's edge so hard the wood groaned in protest, causing Elrond to send him a fulminating look, which Thranduil completely disregarded. He almost hoped she'd get her wish; if she burned in dragon-fire, her venom-spewing mouth might just be stopped. Her mouth...his eyes dropped involuntarily. Her top lip was a perfect, restrained bow, supported by a full, pouting curve that he suddenly had to taste-
"I wouldn't advise it," Gandalf said drily, and Thranduil glanced at him, shocked. How had the wizard known...? "Dragons cannot be reasoned with, and even you, my Lady, might not be able to prevent one wreaking havoc on innocents." The King relaxed, leaning back in his chair and wiping all expression from his face. A moment of weakness, that was all. Anyone was entitled to a moment of weakness, after so many years...he found he was tapping one long finger insistently against the arm of his chair, and ceased. He glanced up and encountered Galadriel's benevolent gaze, and was the first to look away. The Lady of Lothlorien saw too much.
The human woman spread her hands, as though appealing to some higher power. He snorted inwardly. He was the higher power. "Then it seems we are at a stalemate," she was saying composedly in her clear bell of a voice. "Neither will give way to the other. What say you, Elven-King? I cannot, in good conscience, expose Middle Earth to another war for a matter this trifling. Will you?" She weighed him with serious dark eyes. It made his teeth itch. How had she managed to paint him as the villain of the piece? Not that it mattered one whit to him what others thought. The principle of the matter, though, the injustice -that he found harder to overlook. He was being held to ransom over his own property, by a chit of a girl barely out of the schoolroom, who had somehow managed to manipulate the situation so that, far from being summarily dismissed from her seat at the adult's table, she sat wholly unchastened opposite him, while his ancient friends and allies regarded him reproachfully.
It beggared belief. Thranduil crossed his legs elegantly, toying with the rings on one hand. A month -no, a week!- in his dungeons and that stubborn spirit of hers would be tamed. He smiled anticipatorily. He would see to it. One way or another, the Iethanan Queen would bend her stiff neck in homage to him. She would heartily regret the day she chose to cross swords with him. He would humble her, and she would pay ten-fold for daring to gainsay him, for withholding that which belonged to him. He lost himself for a moment in schemes which, in some mysterious way, all ended with the little human in his power forever.
"There is a manifestly simple solution," Galadriel's smooth voice brought him out of his pleasant reverie, and cut off various sentences mid-flow as they all gave her their attention. She gestured between them, encompassing both Thranduil and Berwe in her understanding smile. "The King of the Woodland Realm will take the Queen of Iethana as his wife. The white gems of pure starlight she will bring with her as dowry. Thus they will come full circle." Utter silence held them all immobile, no one dared even take a breath, as she concluded with finality, "You will marry."
The meeting broke up in pandemonium.