I don't know how I felt about the Desolation of Smaug. If anything, it depicted Thranduil's character for me. Dear gosh golly, Thranduil was great.
Thank you for the alerts, favorites, and reviews. I appreciate it.
I originally didn't know how to go about this chapter, but I'm content with it. Anything else was way too out of character and/or Mary-Sue-ish.
A story about a wandering guide and a Gondorian scholar in the Eastern lands of Middle Earth as they explore the corruption of tyranny.
Disclaimer: Professor Tolkien and Peter Jackson are responsible for such visual/magical experiences regarding LotR, Hobbit, etc.
When her heart had finally calmed, the extent of her weariness hit her all too suddenly. The wave of nausea from exhaustion and dehydration was strong as it collided with her consciousness—a deadly combination, she knew. Try as she might to hide it, Areth's pace lagged and her movements sluggish as she was led by her Silvan guide Ernil.
The Elf was not blind to her struggle. Although his fair face remained impassive, he had inquired about her well-being. With only the raise of his brow to indicate any slight bit of concern, he asked in the Common Tongue, "Are you well?"
"Fine," Areth replied in a whisper, her voice a mere breathe. It is truly impressive how despite her condition, she manages to keep her tone dry, Ernil thought mildly.
The elf stared at her in a disbelieving manner. Even through the dark, he could see her as clearly as if they had been bathed in sunlight, and from that alone, he knew that Areth was not, as she said, fine. Her exhaustion showed by the manner in which she walked—uncoordinated and sluggish.
"I apologize—I would offer you water to relieve you from dehydration, but I was not far from the gates. I did not expect to encounter anyone other than my kin."
"Do not worry, Ernil. I have endured worst."
Still, she had her pride, Ernil knew. That and the fact that Areth did not fully trust him, which he could not fault her for, considering that his companion did shoot an arrow at her sickly friend. The celerity in which he took Aldamir from Areth's hands and into the direction of the Elven King's home was most likely due to the guilt of having shot at a man delirious with poison.
During Ernil's silent contemplation, Areth merely pulled her hood securely about her head, hiding the strands of hair that escaped. She felt a slight sadness as she stared at the ripped edge. It was her best cloak.
Despite being coated in days of accumulating dirt, her hair still shone when exposed to light. It was such a bother, especially when trying to evade her enemies, for it was too noticeable and was a dead giveaway of her location. The hue and length was so very similar to those of the Sindar Elves—perhaps this time, possessing such hair gave her an advantage with her allies.
Areth's footing faltered and, as in the nature of the Elves, Ernil's keen eyes did not miss it.
"Perhaps I… can be of assistance?" Ernil asked, his deep, smooth voice like a steady stream of water against the Common Language. His light eyes stared at her in an odd mixture of curiosity and uncertainty, as if he was not sure if it were appropriate to ask.
"Avo 'osto," she uttered quietly in his tongue, "I am not dying, Ernil."
"Goheno nin," Ernil apologized, inclining his head slightly, "I did not mean to offend. I am concerned that you may be pushing past your limits."
"It matters not," Areth said tiredly, "It appears that we have reached the gates of your Hall."
And so they reached the tall, thin doors that lead to the Great Elven King's Hall.
A great throne under the hill was where the King of the Woodland Realm wandered. A dwelling as beautiful as those who resided in its territory, King Thranduil's domain was a sacred ground, for it was the only place left in the Forest in which safety was a firm assurance.
As the two entered, they were greeted by two of the Mirkwood guards that stood stiff on either sides of the entryway. Heavily armored, they stood tall and firm. Even despite the lower portion of his face draped in dark mail, Areth could see the guard on her right looked at her critically before turning his light eyes upon her companion, as if expecting an explanation.
"Gi suilon," Ernil merely said, inclining his head slightly in greeting. He met the cool, blue eyes of the guard without a flinch.
"It is rather curious that two humans are brought upon the Halls of our king barely scathed," he said in Sindarin. His voice was deeper than that of Ernil, and also far more indifferent. The guard's head then tilted slightly, the metal tinkling and shifting along with his movement. "Barely," he emphasized as he was reminded of the bloodied companion. "But I suppose it is a miracle in itself to have survived from our Woods."
The small hint of wonder in his voice seemed to evaporate with his next words.
"Why are they here, Ernil? These humans are not welcome in the sacred halls of Green-"
"I would be careful with what I say next if I were you, mellon," Ernil cautioned light-heartedly, only with a hint of underlying warning as he glanced mildly at his quiet companion. Areth seemed to notice.
"I care not," she dismissed in the Common Tongue, her voice but a mere mutter.
And really, she didn't. Areth did not have the energy to ponder over proper etiquette in Sindarin and so she said only what she could in a more familiar language—blunt enough to be listened to but polite enough to avoid hostility. She did not think that she had any patience left to spare.
"Let us continue on," she said in Sindarin.
The guard raised a dark brow underneath the shadow of his helmet. He regarded the woman in mild surprise. An apprentice from the Western lands, he thought.
"Excuse us," Ernil said smoothly, walking past the guards. He urged his companion to follow.
Only when they were away from hearing range did her guide try to speak.
"I am sorry about him," Ernil said sincerely, "As I said, the people of our realm had long-"
"-Since grow wary of strangers," Areth uttered for him. She raised glove-clad hand and waved it away in a dismissing manner. "Avo 'osto. Do not fret, Ernil. I am not offended, nor do I think any less of the Wood Elves of Greenwood for one guard's behavior."
Ernil merely inclined his head slightly once again and did not press any more on the subject, though he did glance at her curiously. It almost seemed as if she was used to such treatment. From the Silvan hunter's short acquaintanceship with the mortal woman, he gathered that she was well-traveled, for not only did she speak fluent Sindarin with a Western dialect, but her clothing indicated the different customs of different parts of the land.
"It is fortunate that you and your companion were so near our home," Ernil said, "If we were but a few days from the Gates, I would not be able to guarantee anything regarding the welfare of your friend."
He may not have known it, but despite the fact that Ernil was merely stating an observation, it calmed Areth to an extent. Her shoulders loosened from an involuntary tension.
Soon, the Elf and guide found themselves facing a long, winding path.
Areth found her breath stolen from her as her green eyes looked up.
Even her exhaustion could not prevent her from admiring the beauty that was the Halls of King Thranduil. Surely, it was spacious and fit well for the Silvan King of Old. A long winding pathway of wood trailed from where they stood to the distance of what Areth correctly assumed sat the throne of King Thranduil himself. An ethereal glow of amber casted itself upon their heads and it seemed not to make a shadow. Such a majestic wonder was the Woodland Realm—the winding wooden steps and pillars seemed to speak of its majestic beauty and its servitude to nature.
As they took their first step towards the throne, Ernil could not help but cast a small smile as he observed the breath of his companion being stolen away by sheer beauty. It seemed that some things were able to surprise her yet.
Areth seemed to notice. Instead of hiding her evident awe as Ernil expected, she sent him a half-hearted smile. Small as it was, it seemed to bring more light than any flame could to a shadow, for it held more sincerity that any fire ever could.
Ernil's smile faltered and blue eyes softened, as if looking past her to a distant memory. Seeing this, her smile dropped suddenly. Areth turned her head towards the winding path, her light hair moving to cover her face, and moved ahead.
From the distance, only Ernil was aware of the light narrowed eyes that seemed to pierce through his companion.
It seemed to be hours for Areth before they reached the final steps that led to the throne. Though she felt it enough time to bask in the beauty that was the Hidden Hall under the Hill, her exhaustion was relentless, for it seemed to steal away her better consciousness. Areth was not so disoriented enough to miss her step as she walked the winding path, but she did feel an irrational irritability at the sheer indirectness of the trail.
Soon enough, the flat steps made from the branches of the trees opened into a wide platform. Like everything else in the Hall, it was a mass made of wood that was held high from the hill's pits by the intricate patterns of the trees. From there, the steps ascended to the heart of the Hill—the Elven King's throne.
Areth and Ernil walked along the platform before the King, with Ernil's steps muffled completely compared to Areth's, who, despite her lightness of footing, could hear the echoes of her own shoes. The two stopped before the ground could reach its ascent to the seat.
Cold blue eyes seemed to pierce shadowed green.
Areth fought past her exhaustion to keep the King's gaze. As custom of the Wood Elves, the wanderer quickly lowered her eyes and inclined her head before placing a hand upon her breast as sign of peace. As custom of her people, she bowed on one knee, but raised herself to a standing position before the King permitted it.
"El sila erin lu e-govaned vin, Melda Tar," Areth said automatically, her stare returning to the keen eyes of the King. Her reverence was only half sincere, but as it was the proper Elvish custom, she did not want to seem ungrateful.
While she did not trust the elves east of the Misty Mountains, Areth was thankful that they were healing her companion to their abilities. Whether or not they were welcomed, however, remained to be seen.
The King leaned forward on his throne in slight interest as he regarded the human woman. Tilting his head in mild curiosity and in suppressed wonder, the grip of his long, bejeweled fingers seemed to tighten on the wooden arms of his throne. His cold eyes seemed to brighten against the soft, amber light that emanated from the torches.
The intensity of the King's gaze was powerful, almost to the point of intimidating. It was unyielding and unforgiving, much like a harsh winter. Had she been any other, Areth surely would have shielded from his searching eyes, but to do so was not in her character. The wanderer did not like kings. Her green eyes remained strong, as a small action to challenge the power of a monarch.
The Elven King, like all elves, was fair. His face was beautiful and young, his skin as light and flawless as an everlasting white rose's petal. The pale yellow of his long hair was befitting for a Sindar of his high status. However, Areth had long since been affected by the natural beauty of appearances.
What belied Thranduil's youthful façade was the depth of his cerulean eyes. They were a pair of light jewels that spoke of centuries of life, death, knowledge, and sorrow. No longer did the light blue of his irises shine with the vigor of youth, but of the haunted shadow of a long life.
"Curious, is it not?" said Thranduil in the Common Tongue, his dark brow raising slightly as he regarded her. His gaze shifted, and Areth found it so strange that his attention seemed to be more on her pale hair. "Never would I have imagined a mere mortal to find the path to my domain. A human woman, at that."
Ernil internally flinch, the only outward evidence of his concern coming from the slight twitch of his brow. With a quick glance at his companion, he saw that Areth held her usual expression of indifference in place. If anything, her forest gaze seemed to have grown colder.
"I apologize for not exceeding your expectations, my Lord," Areth uttered drily, with only a hint of irritation. Seeming to realize what she said, her green eyes widened slightly and she inclined her head in slight rue. Now was not the time to lose her composure to exhaustion.
Ernil's gaze shifted to his king as he waited in silent trepidation. The King was not known for his tolerance, and the guard knew that it was even shorter with strangers. A harmless comment it may have been, but it demonstrated a lack of proper respect, no matter how small.
To his mild surprise, the edge of King Thranduil's lip lifted slightly in wry amusement, successfully bringing his expression from the indifference that Ernil was so used to. Areth did not notice, as her gaze was drawn to the polished wood of the hall.
Tilting his head once more, King Thranduil rose from the seat of his throne and slowly descended, caressing the twisted carvings of the antlers that surrounded him with the tip of a forefinger. With each muffled step, he came closer to Areth. The wanderer only lifted her gaze when the King's shoes and long robe swept to her view. Lithe was his frame and tall was his stature, for Areth's height only came to his chest.
"That is not a reason to apologize for," he uttered softly, that shadow of a smile still in place. It looked more menacing than assuring, she noted warily. Leaning down slightly to reach the level of her green eyes, Thranduil continued with the same gentle lilt, "After all, I always find myself enjoying surprises."
Areth tried not to flinch at their close proximity.
Straightening his posture, allowing a gap to form between him and the wanderer, he let the expression drop from his face and once more, he returned to being the King of Mirkwood. His voice deep and even, he continued, "Such as your knowledge of Sindarin—I found that rather surprising, especially when you spoke with the Western dialect."
Areth merely inclined her head in acknowledgement, though said nothing more. She feared that her tongue would betray her once more and found safety in silence. And, perhaps, she did not wish to speak to this King any longer, for she found him so very strange in his manners. Never before had she met an elf who elicited such a presence.
"I invite you to speak freely in my halls," Thranduil said. He swept a hand adorned with rings about his domain, allowing the arm of his loose robe to trail after his sudden movement, his stare unbreakable. "You have nothing to fear."
Areth's mouth opened, as if to speak, but really, she found no words. She was silent by nature and often had little to say, save for the very few that held her friendship. Anything that she could possibly conjure up for this King would be but empty words.
Finally, she said, "I am Areth and my sickly companion is Aldamir of Gondor."
"Areth," he repeated quietly, deliberately, his voice like a dangerous caress. The King raised a single, thick brow. "Do you hail from nowhere? You did not fail to mention your companion's homeland and yet omitted the name of your own."
"I hail from Rohan, but I would not go so far as to call it my home."
"And why is that?" he asked. The King clasped his hands behind his back, his lithe fingers tracing the ornament of his ring.
"Home is lost to me."
His brow raised higher, his fair face morphing into curiosity. "Your allegiance is not pledged to your king?"
"I do not pledge myself to tyrants," she uttered, as if she had been asked a million times previously.
And that was their conversation.
Always, the wanderer spoke, but never fully answered and always, the Elven King asked, but never sought to inquire on what she would not willingly give. It was as if she did not wish to give too much away—as if she did not trust him. And Thranduil supposed that she didn't, especially if Areth was acquainted with the Elves of the West.
After a moment of silence, the King moved away from Areth and towards the ascension of his throne. The bottom of his long, silk wrap glided over the polished wood of the stairs. With his back turned from her, Areth regained the feeling of being able to breath. Ernil noticed and took amusement in it, though it quickly dropped and his face became a blank look once again as soon as the King took his seat.
Crossing his legs with swiftness and drumming his fingers over the arm of his throne, he allowed himself a moment to simply gaze at his guest's pale hair before once again moving on to her green irises.
"A tyrant, indeed," the he murmured softly. Regarding her with half-lidded eyes, he sought to introduce himself properly. "I am Thranduil," he uttered, his voice deep and once again deliberate, "Elven King of the Woodland Realm." Resting his head on his palm as he regarded her, he then added wryly, "Or, perhaps, the tyrant of Mirkwood, if you wish to call me so."
Areth inclined her head and said nothing more.
Suddenly, he straightened himself and his voice strengthened, and he was the King once more.
"Ernil will lead you to the guest hall."
The said elf bowed in acquiesce.
"That will not be necessary, King Thranduil," she interjected with a small shake of her head. The Elven King's brow raised in slight. As a sort of explanation, she said, "You need not trouble yourself on my account. I will be content to rest with my companion."
"You mistrust us so," he uttered softly, almost inaudibly. Strengthening his voice so that it was audible beyond Ernil's keen hearing, he then said, "The mortal will be well taken care of, I give you my word. Or does your resentment for the crown cause you to doubt the promise of a king?"
"I never said I resented the crown," she interjected in her defense. "Unless my Lord acknowledges himself a tyrant, then I do not understand why you take my comment to heart." She could not resist and said unthinkingly, dryly, "My opinion hardly matters as I am, after all, a mere mortal woman."
The edge of Thranduil's lip lifted slightly. Finally, she speaks.
Ernil quietly observed from the side. Long had the feeling of trepidation of his King's reaction passed, replaced then by mild curiosity. From the subtle changes in the Elven King's demeanor, even by the slightest raise of his lip or the widening of his blue eyes, Ernil knew that their thoughts regarding the wanderer followed the same direction.
Leaning most of his weight on the left side of his intricate throne, regarding her with the same piercing gaze, he said, "Very well. The room is at your disposal should you wish it. Ernil will lead you to the healing chambers."
Areth sealed her lips and bowed in gratitude. In fear of saying anything else that she may later regret, she turned on her heel and walked the even path of the winding branches without waiting for her elven guide. Her heel clacking against the wood. So brisk and sudden was her movement that her hair and cloak trailed behind her.
His gaze not once breaking from the movements of her shining hair, King Thranduil regarded the wanderer with half-lidded eyes filled with intrigue as his ringed forefinger curled under his pale lip.
Just as Ernil began to follow after Areth, Thranduil said softly in the smooth tongue of his kin, "Make sure she is well taken care of."
Glancing back briefly, Ernil merely nodded.
Curious, indeed.
Areth could finally breathe properly when she was no longer in the presence of the King. From the moment she turned, she could feel the intense, lingering stare of Thranduil follow her until she was completely hidden from his keen eyes by the pillars of the next room. It unnerved her. He unnerved her.
It was a miracle how she kept the façade of her usual indifference in proper place, let alone speak so boldly before the Elven King. She feared that she might have been too presumptuous, and yet she saw that he took amusement from it.
The wanderer had heard of the words and whispers that accompanied the name of King Thranduil during her visits to Imladris. Cold, they called him. She particularly remembered the words of a close friend: "If the world was to burn," he said, "the Elven King of Mirkwood would not give a damn so long as his domain lived peacefully in its ashes."
And yet, not one of them had spoken of Thranduil's peculiarity. No one spoke of the passion in his every word, nor the unpredictability of his manners.
She entered his Halls knowing what to expect, and yet upon meeting this King—this king that was meant to be cold and indifferent—she was met instead with an elf with such a demanding presence that wanted nothing more than a pleasant exchange of words.
Still, in Areth's eyes, Thranduil was so very strange.
Areth shook her head and pulled her cloak tighter about her body. She did not expect to see much of Thranduil, which she was slightly thankful for. She did not like having to bowdlerize the honesty in her words for the sake of proper etiquette.
After all, what was the use of words and voice if not to express truth?
There. Our introduction to the Elven King.
I think this is a good place to stop. Don't you?