Thranduil's Longest Day
By SkyFire
Corienha: Well, your guess falls *somewhat* along the plotbunnies' plans. Somewhat, as there will
be falling, and a horse, and Thranduil's derriere, but not *quite* in the combination you
mentioned. *grin*
--
Drea, Shadowfocs: Well, I had no intention of sticking Elrond in there, but you never know what
the Muses will come up with... ;oP
--
Dragon-of-the-north: Well, the servants *are* somewhat more involved in this chapter, in a manner
of speaking... *grin*
--
Bonnie: "Thoroughly enjoyed this. Poor Thranduil...why do I think he's day isn't going to get
any better." Run with that. ;oP
--
*Star Girl*: Parody? This isn't parody. That's when you're making fun of something specific. This
story is just me making Thranduil's day miserable and embarrassing the heck out of him at the
same time. My warped sense of humor at work... ;oD
--
Saber: Those plotbunnies can be vicious at times, can't they? *grin* My ThranduilMuse definitely
agrees with that! And my GlorfindelMuse... and my ElrondMuse... and... LOL!
*
A/N:
1)This was a fun chapter to write, though I'm next thing to certain that my ThranduilMuse
vehemently protests the fact. *grin*
2) For anyone who might have been hoping for some of those snippets from my "Saruman's Revenge"
AU, I posted one. It's called "Sleepy Sketches."
3) For anyone who likes my young-Twins fic, there is a new one up called "The Invasion of
Rivendell."
4) As always, thoughts are in // //.
Hope you like this chapter! It starts off right at the end of the previous one.
.
For disclaimer, see part 1.
*****
Thranduil's Longest Day
By SkyFire
Part 2
With atypical swiftness, he finished bathing and climbed from the tub, shivering convulsively
with cold, but clean. He looked around for a towel to dry himself with.
It was then that he discovered that at least *something* was going well that morning - the large,
fluffy towel hung in its accustomed place on the warming rack beside the fireplace and should be
nice and toasty-warm despite the delay.
He walked to the rack, careful to mind his step, guarding himself from any untoward incidents
involving slightly raised floor tiles or any more evil rugs. On that day, he wouldn't put it past
them to stub his toes or trip him again.
He arrived beside the fireplace without incident, pulled the thick towel from the rack and
wrapped it about himself, reveling in the warmth.
Then his nose caught a whiff of something foul.
//What is that?// he wondered, looking around. //Burning... something. But what?//
It was only then that he noticed that his luck had not changed for the better after all. The
part of the towel that had been closest to the fireplace was singed and smoking.
With an irritated sigh, he dried himself off as quickly as he could so that the smell of the
smoldering towel wouldn't cling to his skin, forcing him to take another frigid bath. That done,
he walked over to his wardrobe to get some clothing.
Distracted by his irritation, he stood just a *little* too close to the wardrobe, and one of the
doors smacked him a glancing blow to the face as he opened it.
Eyes closed, teeth clenched, hands fisted at his sides, Thranduil breathed deeply and forced his
irritation down inside him. Muttering nearly his entire curse vocabulary under his breath, he
looked inside the wardrobe to pick out a nice robe to wear to the vaguely-remembered meeting.
At last, something was going right! Hanging there was a new robe, finished only the day before.
Made of soft silken velvet in shades of green and brown - Mirkwood's colors - the robe was cut
and patterned to flatter both his figure and his coloring.
Carefully, nearly paranoid now, he reached in and pulled out the new robe. Gently, he shook it
out, then looked it over. The edges were all finished. No rogue pins were waiting to prick him.
All seemed to be as it should.
Perfect.
Robe chosen, he turned around, found his nightrobe from where he had flung it, wrapped the
wrinkled garment around himself and sat down at his dressing table to fix his hair.
Looking at his refelction in the mirror even as his hand reached out for his favorite solid
silver hairbrush - a long-ago gift from his mother - he was glad to see that there was no bruise
forming at the place the wardrobe door had hit his face. All else that had happened so far was
easily hidden from the public. A bruise on his face would be otherwise.
As he had every day for as far back as he could remember, he took up his brush and brushed out
his golden hair with long, smooth strokes, again and again, until the golden strands shone in the
light. Another stroke and another, the strokes falling with an almost meditative regularity that
let him--
*SNAP*
Thranduil blinked at the unexpected noise, abruptly coming back from the soft daze he had been in.
He stared down at his hand in confusion for a long moment.
Rather, he stared down at the brush handle that was in his hand. A quick look in the mirror
confirmed it: Yes, the head of the brush was dangling comically at the side of his head, tangled
amongst the hair there.
//This cannot be happening!// he thought in disbelief. That brush had served him faithfully for
millenia! For it to turn on him now was unspeakable!
And yet there it was, in two separate pieces.
Five minutes and several choice curses later, he managed to disentangle the brush from his hair.
Then he was faced with another problem.
He had no other brush.
A soft growl of annoyance, then he began combing his hair with his fingers. It didn't do nearly
as good a job as the brush, and when he was done putting his hair up into its customary braids
and falls it resembled the time he had allowed a young Legolas to braid it for him. Strands of
silken gold stuck out in every direction, and he was certain that at least one of the braids
would not last the day.
Ah, well. It was the best he could do, and no one would mention it to his face.
//They had better hope that they don't, at any rate.//
Hair what passed for done that day, Thranduil's thoughts turned again to his clothing. The robe
he had already chosen, but a robe was merely the outermost part of his daily clothing.
Once again he went over to the wardrobe, careful to avoid the door this time.
//And to go beneath the robe, I will have...// He pulled open one of the drawers at the bottom of
the wardrobe, stared. //Valar, why me?//
The drawer was empty save for one of his hunting outfits and the old shirt he wore with it.
Apparently, his servants had been a bit lax in their duties of washing and replacing his clothing.
//Speaking of servants, where *are* they? They should have been here by now. They should have
been here *hours* ago, and awakened me!//
He closed the drawer with a dull wooden thud and a sigh.
//*What* am I supposed to wear under my robe if I have no other clean clothing?//
Then a thought occurred to him, something he would not even have considered if his day had been
anything other than it had so far. Something he might have done as a wild young Elfling.
He looked back at the robe, gauging its thickness and fall with a careful eye. Then a
mischievous grin made its way across his face.
Yes, it would work, he decided.
Five minutes later, the robe-clad Elvenking left his bedchamber and began his trek down to the
dining hall to break his fast.
//I just hope that my fast is the only thing I will be breaking,// he thought to himself as he
walked. His jaw was still sore.
But he arrived in the dining hall without incident, sat down at his place at the head of the
table. When a kitchen-servant appeared with food for him, he took the opportunity to ask a
question.
"Where were my personal servants this morning?"
The other Elf looked at him, face harried. "They, and more than half the staff, are sick with
fever and spots."
Thranduil blinked. "That is impossible. Elves do not get sick."
The servant grumbled. "You would not say that if you saw them."
The Elvenking sighed. "And when can I expect clean clothes to be delivered to my chamber?"
The servant turned, hurried back toward the kitchen. He called back over his shoulder. "We are
working with a third of our staff. You will get clothes when you get them."
Thranduil stared. No one had spoken to him in that tone of voice since he was a little Elfling.
But still, it was understandable if two-thirds of the staff were inexplicably ill, and all
remaining servants were forced to do the work of three.
A small shrug, then he turned to the meal he had been given. He stared. Oatmeal?! A sigh, then
he picked up the spoon and took a bite.
A grimace of disgust crossed his face as he chewed, then swallowed.
Not just oatmeal. *Plain* oatmeal. *Cold* plain oatmeal.
The spoon clattered to the table as he stood, then walked away. Not even the hungry twisting of
his stomach was enough to make him eat the cold disgusting stuff.
Then the meeting popped back to the forefront of his thoughts. A soft sound of annoyance, then
he took off at a dash for the council chamber. With any luck, he wouldn't be so late that the
others would have left already.
His new robes swirled around him as he ran.
He was dashing up a railless stairway when a servant came into the room below, pushing a mop in
front of her. She looked up at the flash of quick movement.
She saw her King, Thranduil, running up the stairs. She saw his new robes, saw them swirl
dramatically in the wind of his passing. Then a combination of the stairway's curve and the wind
from his run parted the robes enough for her to see....
The heat rushed to her face.
//Elbereth,// she thought to herself as the sound of his passing vanished into the maze of
hallways that was Mirkwood's palace. //Doesn't he know that he is supposed to wear *something*
under those robes?!//
***
Oblivious to his unwitting flashing of the servant, Thranduil continued on his dash to the
council chambers.
Upon arriving, he threw open the doors and walked in, already speaking.
"Forgive my tardiness, my... lords?" His voice trailed off into a question as he found himself
facing a nearly empty room. One eyebrow raised in question, he walked over to the only other
person in the room; one of his advisors. "Where is everyone?" he asked simply.
"Everyone?" came the question in reply.
"Yes, everyone. For the meeting about the-" //What was it? What? Ah, yes.// "-the nut tax."
His advisor stood, reached out a hand, laid it on Thranduil's forehead. "Are you feeling well,
my King?" he asked in concern. "You have not caught the fever, have you?"
Thranduil batted away the other's hand. "I am not ill. Now answer my question. Where is
everyone?"
"Sire, the meeting of which you speak is yet a week away."
TBC...
--
Ai, poor Thranduil. And his day has just begun! *evil grin* I'll be a little easier on him next
chapter. A little. This much: - - LOL! Then he'll be a bit more miserable in the next chapter.
Then even more so in the one after that... ;oD After that... well, we'll see what comes; that's
as far as the plotbunnies have gotten so far, though I am hearing vague mutterings now and
again.... :oP
So... review? The plotbunnies and I really, really like reading them! :oD
By SkyFire
Corienha: Well, your guess falls *somewhat* along the plotbunnies' plans. Somewhat, as there will
be falling, and a horse, and Thranduil's derriere, but not *quite* in the combination you
mentioned. *grin*
--
Drea, Shadowfocs: Well, I had no intention of sticking Elrond in there, but you never know what
the Muses will come up with... ;oP
--
Dragon-of-the-north: Well, the servants *are* somewhat more involved in this chapter, in a manner
of speaking... *grin*
--
Bonnie: "Thoroughly enjoyed this. Poor Thranduil...why do I think he's day isn't going to get
any better." Run with that. ;oP
--
*Star Girl*: Parody? This isn't parody. That's when you're making fun of something specific. This
story is just me making Thranduil's day miserable and embarrassing the heck out of him at the
same time. My warped sense of humor at work... ;oD
--
Saber: Those plotbunnies can be vicious at times, can't they? *grin* My ThranduilMuse definitely
agrees with that! And my GlorfindelMuse... and my ElrondMuse... and... LOL!
*
A/N:
1)This was a fun chapter to write, though I'm next thing to certain that my ThranduilMuse
vehemently protests the fact. *grin*
2) For anyone who might have been hoping for some of those snippets from my "Saruman's Revenge"
AU, I posted one. It's called "Sleepy Sketches."
3) For anyone who likes my young-Twins fic, there is a new one up called "The Invasion of
Rivendell."
4) As always, thoughts are in // //.
Hope you like this chapter! It starts off right at the end of the previous one.
.
For disclaimer, see part 1.
*****
Thranduil's Longest Day
By SkyFire
Part 2
With atypical swiftness, he finished bathing and climbed from the tub, shivering convulsively
with cold, but clean. He looked around for a towel to dry himself with.
It was then that he discovered that at least *something* was going well that morning - the large,
fluffy towel hung in its accustomed place on the warming rack beside the fireplace and should be
nice and toasty-warm despite the delay.
He walked to the rack, careful to mind his step, guarding himself from any untoward incidents
involving slightly raised floor tiles or any more evil rugs. On that day, he wouldn't put it past
them to stub his toes or trip him again.
He arrived beside the fireplace without incident, pulled the thick towel from the rack and
wrapped it about himself, reveling in the warmth.
Then his nose caught a whiff of something foul.
//What is that?// he wondered, looking around. //Burning... something. But what?//
It was only then that he noticed that his luck had not changed for the better after all. The
part of the towel that had been closest to the fireplace was singed and smoking.
With an irritated sigh, he dried himself off as quickly as he could so that the smell of the
smoldering towel wouldn't cling to his skin, forcing him to take another frigid bath. That done,
he walked over to his wardrobe to get some clothing.
Distracted by his irritation, he stood just a *little* too close to the wardrobe, and one of the
doors smacked him a glancing blow to the face as he opened it.
Eyes closed, teeth clenched, hands fisted at his sides, Thranduil breathed deeply and forced his
irritation down inside him. Muttering nearly his entire curse vocabulary under his breath, he
looked inside the wardrobe to pick out a nice robe to wear to the vaguely-remembered meeting.
At last, something was going right! Hanging there was a new robe, finished only the day before.
Made of soft silken velvet in shades of green and brown - Mirkwood's colors - the robe was cut
and patterned to flatter both his figure and his coloring.
Carefully, nearly paranoid now, he reached in and pulled out the new robe. Gently, he shook it
out, then looked it over. The edges were all finished. No rogue pins were waiting to prick him.
All seemed to be as it should.
Perfect.
Robe chosen, he turned around, found his nightrobe from where he had flung it, wrapped the
wrinkled garment around himself and sat down at his dressing table to fix his hair.
Looking at his refelction in the mirror even as his hand reached out for his favorite solid
silver hairbrush - a long-ago gift from his mother - he was glad to see that there was no bruise
forming at the place the wardrobe door had hit his face. All else that had happened so far was
easily hidden from the public. A bruise on his face would be otherwise.
As he had every day for as far back as he could remember, he took up his brush and brushed out
his golden hair with long, smooth strokes, again and again, until the golden strands shone in the
light. Another stroke and another, the strokes falling with an almost meditative regularity that
let him--
*SNAP*
Thranduil blinked at the unexpected noise, abruptly coming back from the soft daze he had been in.
He stared down at his hand in confusion for a long moment.
Rather, he stared down at the brush handle that was in his hand. A quick look in the mirror
confirmed it: Yes, the head of the brush was dangling comically at the side of his head, tangled
amongst the hair there.
//This cannot be happening!// he thought in disbelief. That brush had served him faithfully for
millenia! For it to turn on him now was unspeakable!
And yet there it was, in two separate pieces.
Five minutes and several choice curses later, he managed to disentangle the brush from his hair.
Then he was faced with another problem.
He had no other brush.
A soft growl of annoyance, then he began combing his hair with his fingers. It didn't do nearly
as good a job as the brush, and when he was done putting his hair up into its customary braids
and falls it resembled the time he had allowed a young Legolas to braid it for him. Strands of
silken gold stuck out in every direction, and he was certain that at least one of the braids
would not last the day.
Ah, well. It was the best he could do, and no one would mention it to his face.
//They had better hope that they don't, at any rate.//
Hair what passed for done that day, Thranduil's thoughts turned again to his clothing. The robe
he had already chosen, but a robe was merely the outermost part of his daily clothing.
Once again he went over to the wardrobe, careful to avoid the door this time.
//And to go beneath the robe, I will have...// He pulled open one of the drawers at the bottom of
the wardrobe, stared. //Valar, why me?//
The drawer was empty save for one of his hunting outfits and the old shirt he wore with it.
Apparently, his servants had been a bit lax in their duties of washing and replacing his clothing.
//Speaking of servants, where *are* they? They should have been here by now. They should have
been here *hours* ago, and awakened me!//
He closed the drawer with a dull wooden thud and a sigh.
//*What* am I supposed to wear under my robe if I have no other clean clothing?//
Then a thought occurred to him, something he would not even have considered if his day had been
anything other than it had so far. Something he might have done as a wild young Elfling.
He looked back at the robe, gauging its thickness and fall with a careful eye. Then a
mischievous grin made its way across his face.
Yes, it would work, he decided.
Five minutes later, the robe-clad Elvenking left his bedchamber and began his trek down to the
dining hall to break his fast.
//I just hope that my fast is the only thing I will be breaking,// he thought to himself as he
walked. His jaw was still sore.
But he arrived in the dining hall without incident, sat down at his place at the head of the
table. When a kitchen-servant appeared with food for him, he took the opportunity to ask a
question.
"Where were my personal servants this morning?"
The other Elf looked at him, face harried. "They, and more than half the staff, are sick with
fever and spots."
Thranduil blinked. "That is impossible. Elves do not get sick."
The servant grumbled. "You would not say that if you saw them."
The Elvenking sighed. "And when can I expect clean clothes to be delivered to my chamber?"
The servant turned, hurried back toward the kitchen. He called back over his shoulder. "We are
working with a third of our staff. You will get clothes when you get them."
Thranduil stared. No one had spoken to him in that tone of voice since he was a little Elfling.
But still, it was understandable if two-thirds of the staff were inexplicably ill, and all
remaining servants were forced to do the work of three.
A small shrug, then he turned to the meal he had been given. He stared. Oatmeal?! A sigh, then
he picked up the spoon and took a bite.
A grimace of disgust crossed his face as he chewed, then swallowed.
Not just oatmeal. *Plain* oatmeal. *Cold* plain oatmeal.
The spoon clattered to the table as he stood, then walked away. Not even the hungry twisting of
his stomach was enough to make him eat the cold disgusting stuff.
Then the meeting popped back to the forefront of his thoughts. A soft sound of annoyance, then
he took off at a dash for the council chamber. With any luck, he wouldn't be so late that the
others would have left already.
His new robes swirled around him as he ran.
He was dashing up a railless stairway when a servant came into the room below, pushing a mop in
front of her. She looked up at the flash of quick movement.
She saw her King, Thranduil, running up the stairs. She saw his new robes, saw them swirl
dramatically in the wind of his passing. Then a combination of the stairway's curve and the wind
from his run parted the robes enough for her to see....
The heat rushed to her face.
//Elbereth,// she thought to herself as the sound of his passing vanished into the maze of
hallways that was Mirkwood's palace. //Doesn't he know that he is supposed to wear *something*
under those robes?!//
***
Oblivious to his unwitting flashing of the servant, Thranduil continued on his dash to the
council chambers.
Upon arriving, he threw open the doors and walked in, already speaking.
"Forgive my tardiness, my... lords?" His voice trailed off into a question as he found himself
facing a nearly empty room. One eyebrow raised in question, he walked over to the only other
person in the room; one of his advisors. "Where is everyone?" he asked simply.
"Everyone?" came the question in reply.
"Yes, everyone. For the meeting about the-" //What was it? What? Ah, yes.// "-the nut tax."
His advisor stood, reached out a hand, laid it on Thranduil's forehead. "Are you feeling well,
my King?" he asked in concern. "You have not caught the fever, have you?"
Thranduil batted away the other's hand. "I am not ill. Now answer my question. Where is
everyone?"
"Sire, the meeting of which you speak is yet a week away."
TBC...
--
Ai, poor Thranduil. And his day has just begun! *evil grin* I'll be a little easier on him next
chapter. A little. This much: - - LOL! Then he'll be a bit more miserable in the next chapter.
Then even more so in the one after that... ;oD After that... well, we'll see what comes; that's
as far as the plotbunnies have gotten so far, though I am hearing vague mutterings now and
again.... :oP
So... review? The plotbunnies and I really, really like reading them! :oD