Chapter 8
Many thanks for the overwhelming follows and kudos over the last few weeks. Apologies this took a bit, this chapter was a last-minute addition. I wanted something to buffer the next arc, and an opportunity to remind us of how absolutely cold Thranduil can be at times. Chapters 9 thru 13 have been written and essentially edited to death for months, so there ought to be less of a delay going forward.
…
Before the week is out Thranduil was out of bed and re-installed in his office just down the hall from hers. He wasn't working as many hours as usual — all of his usual meetings with the council were abbreviated, much of his correspondence was still overseen by Morcion, and the chair at his desk saw more use than ever. The aloof monarch was even more secluded than usual, too. Ceven had instructed the king that he must not wear his glamour for more than two hours at a time, to start.
"You can build up to longer and longer spells over the next few months," the healer said sternly. "But it isn't prudent to keep a glamor up indefinitely, as you have been. Breaks will better serve to strengthen your magic."
Miri had seen the way Thranduil's lips twisted at these orders. She wished he did not feel the need to mask himself every hour of the day. Indeed, he refused to let anyone see him un-glamoured now he was no longer at their mercy. It became routine to catch the end of the spell slide into place when entering a room Thranduil had previously occupied solo. Considering his fatigue and short temper these days, Miriel hardly felt eager to assist Ceven in his badgering. Until one evening after dinner, when she found the king in his study in the royal apartments with a goblet of wine and furrowed brow.
His magicked skin melded into place just as she crossed the threshold, and she couldn't help it — Miri snapped.
"I'm not a wilting flower," she said, plucking the goblet from his fingers to help herself to a drink. "You needn't mask yourself for my sake."
The king glared. "Your pride is as pronounced as ever, Miriel Dolithien. Bold for you to assume all that I do is for your sake."
"I've no doubt you tell yourself otherwise," she murmured along the rim of the cup, turning toward the fire blazing in the hearth. Late autumn had finally brought about a proper chill, and every fireplace in the caverns was being put to good use. "What do you tell yourself to excuse this indulgence?"
"That Ceven is an overly-cautious fool," he answered, already moving around to the credenza to obtain a new goblet of wine. The red liquid sloshed against the polished sides of the cup with his hearty pour. "And he wishes to remove all pleasure from my life."
"Sure you do not believe that?"
Thranduil cast her a dark look. "He's been scheming to rid me of my nightcaps for more than a few centuries. Among other things."
"There are more pleasures in life than what can be found in an oak cask," Miri replied
The silence following her statement rang out for almost a solid minute before the awkwardness struck her. She glanced at the king, who was still standing across the room, staring at her with his heavy brows raised. Something akin to amusement glittered in his grey-blue eyes. Miriel swiftly looked back to the fire, the heat suddenly feeling oppressive. She'd not considered her words fully.
"I suppose there are," Thranduil finally said silkily. He moved smoothly back towards the hearth, taking up the chair across from her. His smirk, while predictable, was still insufferable.
"Not how I meant it," she huffed.
"Of course."
Miriel sighed loudly. She had not come to scold him — in fact, she had hoped to raise his spirits. He'd been distant at dinner, only half-listening to Legolas recounting his day. Nothing the elfling had said seemed to spark the king, who had made all the motions of being engaged with his son. Having spent her afternoon in the kitchens, considering repairs needed on a set of ovens, was weary and a little irked at having to feign enough energy for both adults at the table. Still, her worry had outweighed her annoyance. Nearly a month had passed since he'd left the infirmary and though Thranduil was making clear progress in his physical ailments, she sensed his spirit still faltered.
"How was your day?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Much too long," he grumbled into his goblet. "But such is the life."
"Such is the life," she repeated.
Thranduil's gaze softened as he stared into the fire. "I would not have chosen another path. Despite the trials."
"At the risk of inflating your ego further, I would venture to say that the Greenwood is fortunate to have you."
This gave him a small smile, the mere quirk of the corners of his lips. Then he turned his eyes upon her, expression one of remote curiosity.
"Aside from furthering my healer's agenda why have you come, Miriel? You do not often grace my doorway with anything beyond demands on behalf of the laundresses."
"As your seneschal, requesting improvements to the taps in the laundry is part of my duties," Miri replied dryly. "Though I apologize for my work not being stimulating enough to hold your interest, your majesty. You seemed distracted this evening."
For a moment, he appeared pained. "I did not wish to trouble Legolas," he murmured. "But I fear I was too unfocused."
"He did not notice," she reassured him. "You made all the right nods. He is young yet."
Thranduil nodded pensively. Still troubled, he took a long drink from his goblet, seeming to consider what to say next. Miri waited, turning back to the fire. She'd finally learned with the elf king there were times to push, but those instances were better saved. Only a few years ago, she might have burst in and demanded he explain himself, accused him of withholding from herself and Legolas. The prince was much more resilient than she'd once believed. And her king was far more prone to confiding in her if she could demonstrate a little interest…and patience.
"Ever since the attack, we've seen reports from the south that our enemies have drawn into Amon Lanc." He hesitated. "We have reason to believe they're using it as some kind of base."
Miri inhaled sharply. Thranduil undoubtedly had a myriad of feelings about this, the tainting of the halls of his father perhaps the foremost. Despite the decision to abandon the stronghold nearly a decade ago, the intrusion couldn't be taken lightly. Should the orcs latch themselves to one part of the forest…it was only a prelude.
"They've claimed it as their own?"
"It seems they wish to." The king's nostrils flared. He lowered his goblet, setting the cup upon the table beside his armchair.
"What can be done?"
This, it seemed, was the very question that had been keeping him preoccupied. Thranduil sighed deeply.
"I've been in meetings with my wardens and generals. The answers to problems such as these are never simple."
It seemed simple to Miriel. She frowned. "Surely they can just be driven out?"
If Thranduil appeared weary before, at this question he looked practically ancient. "At what cost? We've already left, not many of our people remain in the southern woods. If a handful of orcs wish to occupy an abandoned hill, I'd rather we watch the situation rather than lose more elven blood."
No other answer could have surprised her more. Miri's mouth flew open before she could think to prevent it. Was he suggesting they…simply leave the situation to fester?
"Does that not leave the possibility of an increased danger within our borders?" she asked, trying to sound level-headed and not frantic. "We've already seen their willingness to attack even a sizable party of wardens."
"I am aware," he replied a terse note in his voice. Then, more gently, "It is a risk I'm willing to balance for the time being."
She did not agree. But, reminding herself she came here for the sole purpose of cheering him up, Miri held he tongue. It took some effort — when it came to the elfking, she was hardly one to hold back her criticism.
Turning the subject to something happier, she rose with her goblet and crossed the room for the decanter of wine. "Tomorrow I think I might bring Legolas with me to pick silverberries."
Once her cup was again full, she turned from the credenza to gauge the king's expression. He appeared impassive. Miri smiled slyly.
"Someone told me," she began. "That our dear king was once sent out to fetch these fruits for Tuigalen, only to return empty-handed. I believe the implication was our fair lord ate all of his harvest before returning to the kitchens."
"Idle gossip," he replied. His lips were quirking in a smile. "You mustn't believe anything the cook says, she has a clear agenda of undermining my reputation."
Miri snorted into her wine. "Trust me, your majesty, you need no one's aid in there."
The glare he gave her had no teeth. It just set her laughing even harder.
"Poor Tuigalen," she finally gasped. "She'd so looked forward to making jam from those berries, and then this shameless elfling devours them all."
"I suppose Legolas can make it up to her," Thranduil replied around his suppressed grin.
"That's the thing," she straightened, taking on a serious air. "I think we'll need assistance, from an expert no less. Neither of us knows the first thing of silverberry picking."
"Am I the expert in this scenario?"
"I can think of no other," she answered, solemnly.
Thranduil considered for a too-long moment. With a heavy sigh, he finally allowed, "I suppose I might have a few spare hours in my schedule."
…
Silver oleander didn't grow in Lorien, so the silverberries were unfamiliar to Miri. Legolas had been practically bouncing when Tuigalen suggested earlier in the week they collect a few baskets for her. Bright blue eyes glowing, he pulled on Miri's sleeve repeatedly as she tried to listened to Tuigalen's instructions for finding the very best berries.
"Can we, Miri?" he wheedled.
She put on a show of considering his request. "I'm quite sure Istuion said something about you needing to spend every free hour this week memorizing Lay of Leithian…"
Horrified, the elfling shook his head. "That'll take a whole month," he cried.
Tuigalen, at the kitchen's centered table kneading sourdough, barely suppressed her laugh with a faux cough. Miriel looked up at the ceiling, pondering.
"I suppose if you could at least get the first seven verses…."
Legolas flopped back down into his seat, running a hand through his pale locks. "I'll never get even one memorized."
Miri reached down to smooth a hand through his hair. "Yes, we can go. Perhaps your ada might join us," she mused thoughtfully.
And so they found themselves outside of the caverns ladened with baskets for picking and a picnic lunch. They were accompanied by no less than four guardsmen — far more than Miri suspected Thranduil might have called for prior to his injury. They kept a respectful distance, yet there was no mistaking their presence. Was there something more at play than Thranduil's (understandable) overly-cautious nature? She chose not to comment, instead opting to focus on the prince's eager energy.
He walked alongside his father, chattering happily. The king listened intently, nodding, offering the occasional comment. Miri kept back several feet, letting the pair have a moment more to themselves. With much to catch up on following his absence and injury, the father and son had not gotten many opportunities for time together. Today was a chance to remedy that.
The warm rainbow of autumn colors served to brighten everyone's mood as they walked towards the place Thranduil recalled as having a number of silver oleander bushes. Miri loved the way dappled light streamed through the russet leaves, like nature's own stained glass. Many claimed Lórien to be among the most beautiful trees in Arda, but she was starting to believe the Greenwood's own massive oaks rivaled the golden wood's splendor.
Even more charming were the creatures they spotted through the brush. Your usual squirrels chased one another up and down the mossy trunks and branches overhead. Legolas was delighted to point out woodpeckers, chipmunks, and at one point, a family of deer. His ada explained the smaller and more delicate of the group were likely fawns, having just lost their white spots in time for winter. The prince tried to think of a comparison with his own growth and came up short on anything beyond height.
"Trust me, Legolas," his father chuckled. "There will be change a plenty before you reach your one-hundredth year."
Somewhere around midday, they stopped to picnic along the river's edge. It felt a little novel to see the king, dressed in a simple wool tunic and suede breeches, sitting cross-legged in the browning autumn grass. He tilted his face up towards the sun, inhaling deeply as Legolas passed around the corked bottles of cider Tuigalen had packed them. In the noon sun, Thranduil's hair shone like white gold, his pale features almost glowing in the bright light. Miri's heart stuttered at the sight of his unearthly beauty, wondering when it last was he'd left the gloom of the fortress for something other than grim duty.
When the elfking glanced down, his gaze caught Miriel's. Offering a rare smile, he asked, "What are you looking at, Dolithien?"
His tone was light and teasing, but she still bristled. Embarrassed to be caught staring, Miri just tossed her braid over her shoulder, hoping that she appeared haughty rather than flustered.
"Just the way the light reflects off the water, your majesty," she replied, not drawing her eyes away.
The king just smirked.
When all that was left were the crumbs of the sorghum biscuits, Thranduil lead them towards a clearing, its edges thick with silver leaf. He made a point of kneeling to Legolas's level as he explained identifying the ripest fruits. Miri watched, smiling fondly, as he and the prince began to fill a basket together.
"Very good, ion nin," Thranduil praised when the prince offered a handful of berries for inspection. "Perfectly ripe. You have a keen eye."
Their guardsmen were around the perimeter, doing their own foraging. Tuigalen had eyed the collection of ellon when the party had arrived in the kitchens. Evidently, she concluded that if there were extra hands available, they may as well be put to work. So each had their own task of collecting acorns or mushrooms or sumac.
Miri wandered towards Dorchir, inspecting the contents of his basket. "Chicken of the woods, ink caps, lion's mane, black trumpet, and oyster mushrooms," he said proudly, pointing out each of his finds.
"Tuigalen will be impressed by your bounty," Miri laughed. "If you're not careful you might find yourself in her employ rather than Rovain's."
"Wouldn't be so bad," he replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Always did enjoy my time around the stove, when I was a soldier."
The elleth smiled. "You should tell her. She's always eager for more help in the kitchens."
Dead on his feet, Legolas spent the last of the afternoon in his father's arms, dozing. Miri was grateful for the additional hands to assist in carrying their supplies. Even if their retinue proved unnecessary, it had given both her and (more importantly) Thranduil, the opportunity to feel at ease. Their attention had been fully on the elfling they loved. Miriel could not have asked for a better outing.
They reached the massive blue door that lead into the caverns, pleasantly tired from the day's activities. Miri was looking forward to a bath, then perhaps the luxury of dinner alone in her room. Maybe she would even get the opportunity to start a new book….Carwegeth should, presumably, already be waiting to tend to the prince, who would protest at the prospect of a bath and early bedtime. But there was no doubt would fall asleep over his supper.
Alas, the promise of a quiet evening was quickly shattered. The relaxed spell of the day vanished the second they were back within the cavern's walls.
The air was abuzz with frantic energy the moment they passed through the mountain's doors. Miri threw a glance at the wardens who manned the doors, but they were impassive as ever. Galion appeared within moments, looking haggard. He'd likely had others sent ahead to alert him of the king's arrival. At the sight of his advisor, Thranduil instantly slid into a tension Miri recognized. Dread filled her stomach as Galion approached and spoke quietly, eyes lowered and mouth hovering mere inches from the king's ear. The king nodded once and murmured a short reply.
"What is it?" she asked lowly as they resumed their trek back to the royal apartments.
Thranduil's mouth was set in a grim line. "Later," was all he replied.
It was not a reassuring response.
….
The following morning found her on the edges of the throne room. Once again, Legolas had been left in the care of Carwegth so that Miriel might attend the hearing. From her position among a bevy of advisors, wardens, and other courtiers, she observed the shackled dark-haired ellon being led across the winding walkway towards the elfking. The murmuring — which had already been a low, constant thrum since she'd joined the small crowd — picked up at the sight of the captive.
For his part, Thranduil sat on his immense throne cold as granite. The massive stone antlers framing his already striking figure only served to make him appear more severe. It had been some time since Miriel had witnessed him so glacial. Decked out in rich velvet olive robes, a tunic the color of polish pewter, bearing a crown of stag antlers with clusters of blood-colored autumn berries and rust-hued leaves at the base, she was struck by the sharp contrast of the Thranduil from yesterday afternoon.
"It's foolish of me to have forgotten this is also a part of him," she reprimanded herself.
When the guardsmen halted at the foot to the dais, the shackled ellon was forcefully pushed down into a kneel. He kept his eyes down on the stone floor, awaiting the king's judgment.
Even if she hadn't already heard this elf's tale, Miri would have guessed he was a warden. Despite being stripped of the signature forest green tunic, his posture spoke of one used to sitting still among the trees for long stretches of time, limbs comfortably rigid. Though by now she'd heard — as most in the elfking's halls — who this ellon was and what had led him to kneel at Thranduil's feet. He did not appear duly sorry for his actions, in her mind. Miriel thought he ought to at least appear more resigned. Sorrowful, even.
"Faelon Amathleg," Thranduil intoned from where he sat, above them all. "You are here accused of deliberately disobeying the orders of Lord Morcion, Captain of my wardens. Your fellows have reported your careless actions, which have led to the needless death of Raunien Groher, a member your own patrol. What have you to say in your defense?"
The ellon's dark eyes rose, but they didn't meet Thranduil's cold gaze. "My actions were for the protection of the Greenwood."
The king turned to his left, where Morcion stood. His face, normally one of benevolent contentment, what drawn.
"Who among your wardens refutes this?"
Lord Morcion inclined his head to an elleth and ellon waiting at the foot of the dais. "Warden Ionwë, Warden Beriadhwen."
Both shifted forward, expressions solemn. The elleth spoke first.
"Warden Faelon tried to convince the patrol to sweep further south in the hopes of encountering a party of orcs we suspected had ventured northward from their camps around Amon Lanc. He was eager to run them out of our territory. However, they were still leagues from the perimeter set by Lord Morcion."
"He mentioned wanting to set an example for other hunting parties," Ionwë added. "When the patrol as a group refused, he took advantage of his duties as scout for the patrol and deliberately directed us into the path of the orcs. We had no choice but to defend ourselves. One does not merely pass by those foul creatures peaceably."
Beriadhwen continued when her companion finished. "We've had direct and clear orders from Lord Morcion that any sign of hunting parties are to be reported to him. Patrols are not to engage with a band of orcs unless absolutely necessary. Faelon scoffed in the face of those orders."
"And in doing so, surrendered Raunien's life," Ionwë concluded bitterly.
The king had listened intently to this testimony, mouth a hard slash set in his stony features. The other elves gathered below his throne were hushed, awaiting his insights.
"Is this true, Faelon?" he finally asked, looking down on the elf at his feet. "You purposefully drove your patrol into a conflict with the orcs?"
Faelon finally lifted his gaze to meet the elfking's. "They were a threat, your majesty. It would have been irresponsible to allow them to go any further."
"Yet your captain commanded that patrols not engage with hunting parties without ample assistance," Thranduil's voice was sharp, giving his first display of true rage. "Lord Morcion has been Captain of my marchwardens for longer than you've been alive. He's well aware of what a team of orcs can do to even the most well-equipped, competent patrols. It is arrogant to assume you know better than he what you and your fellows can handle."
"You majesty," Faelon was shaking his head, fingers curling to fists where they were bound before him. "To continue to let them roam our southern wood unchecked is dangerous. We must push back against the threat of their occupat—"
"You dare accuse me of endangering my people?" Thranduil seethed. He had risen and was stepping down from the dais to stand directly before Faelon. The ellon coward as the king bent at the waist to meet his eye level.
When Thranduil spoke again it was with a deadly quiet, his tone detached. "I will not have my decisions questioned by a green, prideful elf who believes himself capable of putting other's lives needless at risk." Straightening, he spoke louder. "The death of your companion is a tragic waste. An elf's family is now bereft of a strong and true loved one. But they shall not feel the material loss."
He looked down upon Faelon, who seemed to have shrunk beneath the king's now-fiery gaze. Pale and wane, the ellon suddenly did not seem so prideful.
"In addition to the five lashes you shall receive — one for each member of your patrol, including Raunien — you will forfeit your position as warden. For the next fifty years, you shall work under the gamekeeper Barathon. Your wages will be given to Raunien's family. After that time, we shall see if you have learned from your errors and have the temperament to return to a patrol."
Faelon was shaking. "Your majesty," he barely managed before Thranduil raised his hand in dismissal. Two guards took it as a sign to haul Faelon onto his feet and steer him back towards the winding walkway, away from the scornful eyes of the court.
Thranduil turned and resumed his position on his throne. His impassive expression fell back into place as he looked down at the wardens who had spoken against their comrade.
"Thank you," he said. "It takes much to speak against one of your own. You have done the Greenwood and yourselves a great service."
The pair bowed before shifting back into the crowd.
With a glance at Galion, who stood to his right, the scandal was laid to rest. Galion called for the audience to depart, and with another wave of murmurs, the massive chamber cleared of the dozen or so courtiers.
…
Miriel took a risk in sneaking down to the rest chambers below the throne room. It was a space she'd rarely had occasion to venture into. But she suspected Thranduil would retire to the lavish room following the events of the morning. Her instinct proved correct when, a little under an hour after Faelon had been hauled away, a weary elfking appeared.
He halted when he saw her sitting at the edge of the room's tranquil blue pool. Miri rose immediately and set about pouring him a goblet of his favorite Dorwinion wine. She's had the foresight to request a bottle before she'd settled in to await him.
"I'm in no mood for battle, Miriel," he warned, voice icy.
She turned to him, goblet outstretched. "It's a good thing I came unarmed, then," she murmured.
He reluctantly accepted the cup, stared into its garnet-colored contents for a long moment, then took a long, long drink. When he lowered the goblet, it was empty.
Miri swiftly took the cup from his hand, setting it on a nearby table and resuming her ministrations.
…
Thranduil was immediately wary when the elleth's hand rose to his head. He lifted his own to stop her, but Miri made a soft noise with her mouth, and dumbly, he stopped. She gently lifted the crown off of his temples, careful not to let any stray hairs catch in its decoration. Once it was free, Miri set it on the table beside his empty goblet and took his hand in hers.
She led him to a pile of cushions she'd prepared along the poolside, gently pushing on his broad shoulders until he sank into the pillowy nest. Miri sat beside him, still holding his hand in hers. Gently, she coaxed Thranduil to lie back and rest his head in her lap. Stiffly, he did as he was told.
"You're too tense," she murmured, running light fingers along his brow. The sensation was electric and he had to hold back an exhalation at her touch. "Close your eyes."
Again, the elfking complied. Her scent — pine and fresh bread, spicy floral notes drifting along a hint of smoke — filled his lungs, and finally, finally, his muscles began to relax.
"I am surprised you are not berating me for my cruelty," he said softly as her fingers traveled upwards to massage his scalp. Each gentle tug of his hair felt strangely comforting.
Miri paused for a moment but quickly resumed. "You were cruel," she admitted. "But it was a necessary cruelty."
Thranduil allowed himself a bark-like laugh. "I doubt many will agree." His voice was hollow. "My position requires a certain level of fear. I like to believe myself to be fair, even when I must exert the power necessary to instill that fear."
She continued her massage, moving down to the base of his neck. After a thoughtful silence, she said, "I don't think your people fear you, Thranduil. I believe they respect you and know all that you do is for their sake."
"But you do not agree what I ask of them is the correct course."
"I didn't say that."
"But you also didn't refute it."
Miri hummed, beginning to knead the taut muscles of his neck. "I thought you did not wish to battle."
"Miriel," he opened his eyes, voice commanding as he could muster. How did he feel so weary after a mere thirty-minute hearing?
"My king," she said with a forced lightness. "You are still under strict orders from Ceven to avoid unnecessary strain."
His nostrils flared as he glowered up at her. "Answer me."
Another pause.
"I am not king," she said finally. "So while I have my own thoughts regarding your decisions, they come from a place with less context than what you have on your side."
"I would still wish to know them."
Nimble fingers had found the exact spot where his neck ached after wearing that blasted crown. This time, he could not suppress a throaty moan. Miriel's fingers froze momentarily, as though fearful she'd hit a painful spot.
"Keep going," he breathed.
"Only if you cease trying to bait me into a debate, Thranduil," she replied crisply.
The elfking pursed his lips. "For the moment," he warned.
She returned to her massage. And slowly, with the sound of the water gently sloshing against the sides of the mosaic tile, the feel of his seneschal's strong fingers working against his tight muscles, the warm of her thighs against his head, the king allowed himself to drift into a fitful doze.
...
Whooa she's a long one. This stretched on longer than I anticipated, but I really enjoyed exploring a lot of new ground here with different settings and motivations. I went on an autumn hike today so the berry picking scene was very driven by that mood.
I'm struggling with this, but I hope no one else is. Wardens = protect the Greenwood as a whole, guards = oversee the safety of the royal family and the elfking's hall under the mountain. Idk what is canon but it makes sense (to me, anyways) that they would be two distinct, separate groups. I realized while finishing this chapter I'd never specified who oversaw the wardens, so I decided it would be Lord Morcion. I might go back to clarify this in earlier chapters. Rovain, who gave Legolas his archery lessons, is Captain of the guard.
Thanks again for all of the lovely reviews, follows, and kudos. If you have any questions, I'm happy to offer clarification!