Author's Note: Tengwar is the alphabet in which Sindarin is written, that flowing script on the side of the One Ring.
Last of the Edhel, Chapter 5
by CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie
Hours passed. Thranduil did not have to search for things too keep him occupied whilst he waited for Hermione Granger to come to him; living alone and so remotely ensured that there was always plenty to do. Now, with her as his prisoner, he would have to integrate her into his home and his life..
It was easy enough a task to open one of the closed-off rooms in his home, but he was not sure what would serve as an adequate bed. Perhaps he would just give her his bed... he imagined her sleeping in his chamber, under his blankets, whilst he rolled himself in a fur on the floor before the fire. The idea actually held some appeal—it had been a long time since he had lived rough for any period of time, since before his father had died and he had assumed rule.
Yes, that would do. He removed all personal items from his chamber, stowing them in the empty room, before putting his mind to the task of preparing some food for them. Hermione Granger had been tramping through the Forest all night; doubtless she would be hungry by the time she conceded defeat and came to him. He went to the small garden he kept outside the halls of his home and gathered some vegetables and fruit, then went to the chicken coop and killed a plump hen.
In his little kitchen, he stoked the ever-smoldering fire, and spitted the bird after plucking and gutting it. The flames crackled as fat dripped down, and turned the skin a golden, fragrant brown. He peeled and cut vegetables, turning them into a savory stew, and then drizzled wine over the succulent fruit to enhance its sweetness. He was taking far more care with this meal that he would for just himself, but it had been millennia since he had shared repast with anyone. Even if she was more captive than guest, she would have no cause to complain of his hospitality.
While the meal cooked, Thranduil wandered through the rooms again, trying to look at them with fresh eyes. What would she think of his home? Would she find it comfortable, or lacking in some way? Certainly, technology had advanced in the many centuries since he had been out in the world. Would she be terribly inconvenienced to share his way of life, no doubt far more primitive than she was accustomed to? Would she be bored? Perhaps he could arrange with the half-giant for some books to be brought for her, as those in his library were all written in Sindarin. Until he could teach her to read Tengwar, his own books would be illegible to her.
As the day wore on, however, and light began to fade, a vaguely unsettling sentiment—if he were not mistaken, it was worry—took root in his belly. He had left her at dawn, and it was now dusk, and still she had not found her way to him. It was inconceivable to him that she would have refused to come to him after so long. Surely she was no so stubborn that she would deprive herself of rest, food, and safety merely to prove a point?
Then he recalled the glitter of anger and determination in her eyes before he had turned away, and was banking the flames under their food before taking up his knife and bow and retracing his steps to where he had last seen her.
Except she was not there.
Thranduil scrutinized the area for her tracks. He found them heading to the west, and followed them until he found her. Hermione Granger had managed to find her way a few miles closer to Hogwarts, but that was it— she appeared to have given up her trek a while ago, if the scene before him was any indication. She sat at the base of a tree, a cup of liquid— tea, most likely-- seemingly forgotten at her side. Leaning back against the tree, she rested a thick book on her bent knees and slowly turned the pages. To his great discomfort, she was crying. She looked up as he approached, her eyes red and face blotchy, before returning her gaze to the book.
"Why do you weep?" he asked, crouching down beside her.
She did not raise her eyes from the page. "Because I can't do anything to help Ron," she replied, her voice low. Thranduil leant closer to look at the book that held her interest, and was shocked to find several small portraits on the pages spread out before him, startlingly clear and life-like, of herself and various other people. Chief and largest among them was a portrait of her with two young men, one with an intriguing scar on his forehead, the other with a shock of carroty hair.
To his astonishment, they people in the portraits were... moving. In them, Hermione Granger grinned broadly as she gazed back and forth between the other two, who were acting foolishly as young men often do. He had never seen the like of it in all his long life, and so was startled into making a soft exclamation of delight, turning his face to hers with a wide smile. His smile soon faded, however, when her face crumpled and she began to cry once more. Thranduil sighed, then closed the book and began to pack everything in her sack. Once it was bundled away, he slung it over his shoulder before scooping her into his arms and standing, striding back toward his home.
Almost immediately, she quieted, wrapping her arms with disconcerting speed around his neck and curling most inappropriately into him, burying her damp face against his throat. A silent wail of protest rose in his throat, and he clenched his jaw to contain it. A poor decision, he thought. I have made a poor decision in allowing her to live. It is certain I shall live to regret it.
The thought almost made him smile. Regret, rapture, it mattered not. He would live through all of them. He was, to his chagrin, eternal.
Hermione felt, for the first time in her life, far out of her league. After going in circles for hours because she refused to succumb and follow Alfirin home like a puppy, she realized he'd placed an enchantment of some sort on her, and that she'd never get out of the Forest without his permission.
She was not accustomed to being outclassed; even in school, she knew it was simply an issue of knowledge: the professors had it, and she didn't—yet, and it was just a matter of time until she did. Perhaps Dumbledore's level of sheer experience eluded her yet, but apart from that, she was used to being utterly competent and self-reliant, and did not like this feeling of impotence, of futility and helplessness.
In a way, she supposed it might be good for her to realize the extent to which she relied upon magic—this would teach her not to be so dependant on it. But this was not only about reliance on magic; no, there was far more to it than just that. It would seem that she was trapped, in the Forbidden Forest no less, with no way to extricate herself. Her parents would be wild with fear, and Harry... oh, poor Harry. He'd clung hard to her after Ron's injury, had worked hard to talk her into taking the nice safe research job she had instead of something more dangerous.
"I can't bear to lose you, too," he'd told her, his eyes impossibly sad under those unruly bangs of his. He'd lost so many in his short life. And now it looked as if he had, in fact, lost her. What would he believe had happened to her? She knew he'd think the worst, that he'd tear the world apart trying to find her. And she also knew that, no matter how he searched, he never would.
What would Ron think? Would he believe she'd abandoned him when she no longer came to visit him? The thought of him alone in his hospital room at St. Mungo's, unconscious but still wondering somehow where she was and why she never came anymore, brought tears to her eyes. Before she knew it, she was full-out sobbing, and plopped down on a fallen log to indulge in a good cry. When she quieted, she opened her backpack and pulled out the photo album she'd brought in hopes of using it to show Alfirin exactly who she was trying to help by using his precious Source.
Alfirin. Just the thought of him made both longing and anger zing through her. She was furious beyond description that he would thwart her so, that he would stand between her and what she needed to help Ron. She was also furious that he would basically kidnap her to prevent her from revealing anything, anything at all, about the Source. And most of all, she was furious that in spite of it all, she still wanted to fling herself at him. However, he'd made it clear he did not share her interest. That was going to be a hard attitude to overcome, she thought with a sigh, and felt her weariness all the more.
Tea would help, even if it were cold. She dug her thermos out and poured a hefty measure into the cap, drinking half in one deep swallow. I'm hopelessly lost, she thought despondently. I'm stuck in this forest, with an elf of all things, who I can't stop thinking about and who seems to want nothing to do with me, and he won't let me use the Source, and he won't let me go home, and I'm so tired and sore and-- Before she knew it, she was crying again.
And then he was there, hovering uncertainly over her before kneeling at her side. She saw his amazement at the moving photographs, and thought her heart would stop at his glorious smile. For some reason, it had spurred her to cry yet again. He'd heaved a deeply-felt sigh and shoved her things back in her rucksack, then picked her up. To Hermione, starved for a little comfort after the horrible twenty-four hours she'd experienced, it was like a dream come true. Strong arms supporting her, broad shoulder under her head, delectable scent in her nose and silken hair fluttering against her cheek—all her concerns seemed to melt away.
It just gave her more time to think about her situation, albeit more calmly. Yes, she was far out of her league with him. She was no match for him whatsoever in a physical confrontation, and he also had the magical advantage of her in the Forest, rendering her magic useless. But what if he were not in the Forest? Hmm. She tucked that bit of speculation away for perusal at a later time.
She was, in effect, his prisoner. He also had something she needed. Clearly, she would have to make him see reason, to see the logic and necessity of not only permitting her to return home but studying and using the Source as well. Peeping up at him, she wondered how she might accomplish such a thing. He seemed rather rock-like: impermeable, cold, hard. Her appeals to pity had not moved him, and her tears had only engendered an expression of vague disgust. How long had he been stuck in the woods? Perhaps a different, more physical, sort of entreaty would be more effective...
The idea of seducing him cheered her immensely. Oh, she doubted she actually could— he'd probably know what she was up to in a heartbeat and quash it immediately—but a girl could daydream, couldn't she? Allowing her thoughts to wander in one pleasant direction in particular, she was unaware of how her right hand was stroking over the back of his neck, under his hair.
He, however, was perfectly aware of it. Blood rushed first to his head in his fury that she would dare to touch him with such familiarity, before traveling in the opposite direction as a different emotion entirely welled within him. It was wrong to feel lust for this woman, he knew. She was mortal, for one thing; she was after the Source, for another, and therefore not to be trusted. But, whispered a tiny, evil voice in the back of his head, she is warm, and pretty, and willing. He knew that if he gave her any sign of his inclination he could have her on her back within moments.
For a second, he indulged himself in the thought of dropping to the leaves beneath his feet, stripping off their clothes, and sheathing himself in her body. "I'm in love with you," she had said, and he could imagine her saying it, over and over, as he took her. The idea had more appeal than was even remotely safe or healthy, and he quickened his pace, hoping to reach home before she drove him mad.
Another mile, and her teasing touches abated; her breathing slowed, and he realized to his great relief that she'd fallen asleep. He left her that way until he was within elven-sight of his home, and then jostled her gently awake.
"We are almost there," he said, turning his head to speak into her ear. She stirred against him, murmuring sleepily, and he repressed the urge to fling her to the ground and run away, screaming. Ai, what a disaster, he thought sourly. I have brought ruin upon myself. With great relief, he set her firmly upon her own feet and strode away, only half caring if she followed him or not.
"I thought you said we were almost there," she prompted after a minute of brisk walking. "I see nothing."
"Of course you see nothing," he replied, greatly affronted. "What sort of secret-keeper would I be if the location of my home were easy for the world to see?" He strode the last few steps to the entrance.
Before them rose a steep embankment of what appeared to be sheer rock, an assortment of vines climbing up its face. Brushing aside the vines, Thranduil revealed the crevice that was the doorway to his abode, turning to glance at her with what he considered permissible smugness.
"You live in a cave?" she asked, trepidation clear on her face.
He nodded. "And now, so do you."