Disclaimer: I disclaim anything Professor Tolkien wrote.
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Without further delay, here is chapter eight.
The chill had spread far and wide in the distant lands, and although the bite of the cold was not so severe in the White City of Gondor, the inhabitants were conscious of the changing season. From the distant north, one could spy the mountaintops that were coated in white, and from the far east blew the cold wind. Winter had yet to take its full reign and, already, Gildhel missed the warmth.
Gildhel tightened his hold on the fur of his coat. His dark eyes scanned the open plains of Pelennor Fields from the tower's window, as if attempting to catch a glimpse of the distant Forest of Great Fear. It was futile, he knew, for such a realm was not visible from such a distance. However, he could not seem to turn his gaze anywhere else.
He could hear the heavy patter of his companion's heel, unyielding and uncaring as he paced from one point to the next. Gildhel's heavy thoughts drowned the unrestrained prattle of the other man.
"I've not heard a word from her," said Gildhel quietly in between the man's continued speech.
Cirion stopped upon hearing Gildhel's low voice. He had not uttered a single word since his arrival, and so he quieted, if only to coax any more words from his taciturn companion.
"Are… you worried?" said Cirion, his voice halting, for he feared Gildhel's persistent silence.
"No, of course not," Gildhel denied instantly. His hands clasped together behind his back, his fingers anxiously tracing about the jewel on his forefinger.
"Truly? Because I am."
"You should not. To do so would be to insult her abilities."
And yet even as he said this, he could not shake the feeling of what could only be identified as undeniable worry. While the stern façade was outwardly expressed as was usual, the undeniable emotion in his chest weighed him with the truth—a weight that was not quite light enough to be worry alone.
"Be reasonable, Thengel. It has been months."
Gildhel turned slightly to give him a sharp glare—one that intensified his stern countenance. The lines formed on his face only deepened with his worry, and for once, he pardoned Cirion for the careless use of his given name.
"She will return," he uttered freely, confidently. Straightening his posture, he then said, "She would not allow death to take her so easily."
It was Cirion's turn to send his companion a glare. So disregarding, he was, so uncaring. So dismissive in the fact that he was the reason that Areth was missing.
"Do not look at me like that, my friend."
"And how else should I look at you? You say this only as a way to console yourself. If she does not return, then you are the cause of her demise."
"A demise that is surely better met by the hands of that forsaken forest than by those savages."
"Oh, damn you," Gondorian breathed quietly, though loud enough to reverberate quietly about the silent room.
"You know what she is like, Cirion. Reckless, thoughtless-"
"But certainly not oblivious!"
"No," Gildhel granted, "Never oblivious."
Cirion ran a hand over his face. Tired of standing, tired of worrying, and certainly tired of Thengel's indifference, he allowed himself to fall on the vacant, plush seat. He ran a hand over his unshaved face, easing the furrow of his brow, before grabbing for a half-empty glass of his strong beverage.
"They are hunting you," Cirion uttered, drinking the glass' content in one gulp. He did not grimace when the drink burnt his throat. "They are hunting you all one by one. Most are in hiding, you understand—they all fear for their lives. And yet here you stand"—he threw his hand forward—"before me in utter freedom, for you are the only one that is granted utter protection all in due to your name."
Thengel could hear the bitterness that lay beneath his words.
"What would you have me do, Cirion?" he questioned in mere calm.
"Show them that you mean to stand by her."
"And what means must I cross to do so? Must I pledge myself to her? Is that the only way to satisfy you? She has my allegiance—she knows this."
"But can you not understand that this is not enough?" Cirion stressed.
"What would you have me do?" he repeated. Cirion could not see the face of the Prince, though from his voice alone, he knew that there was already a small fault in his stern exterior.
"I do not have the answer," he admitted quietly, the anger on his face softening, "but condemning her to Mirkwood Forest was certainly not the wisest decision you ever made."
"Areth fully knew the peril that she would face upon entering. She had the choice to decline, had she wished."
And with such words, any sort of sympathy Cirion had for the Prince evaporated like water.
"You and I both know that she would follow you to the ends of this world if you so wished it. But it is evident that you would not do the same for her."
Gildhel was silent. He allowed for Cirion's anger—welcomed it, in fact. As much as he loathed himself for sending her to what could possibly be her doom, there was a just reason for such an action. This one reason was enough to given him confidence in the right of his decision.
"At the present, she is far safer there than she would be here."
The Silvan guard allowed himself a small sigh as his keen eyes looked to the far distance of the dark forest. He was cautioned to remain wary due to the recent attacks. He knew that he need not worry, as his confidence lay with the hunters by the borders.
His warm breath created a puff of mist. Though winter was usually not always harsh in the north, he always thought it to be severe compared to the lands surrounding their realm. The ever-flowing water that stood over the entrance of the Elven King's palace had waned in its strength and ice began to form on the pond that stood below.
The Silvan's eyes quickly turned once more to the forest upon hearing the faint rustle of dry leaves against the quiet steps of an intruder. A hooded stranger covered in the colors of the forest, the figure then moved forward unarmed, for their wooden bow remained strapped on their back. Still, the guard remained wary.
"Daro, ettelëa," he uttered. The mail of his armor sounded with the movement of his arm as he moved his weapon to block the already closed door. "State your purpose."
"Peace," said the stranger in the tongue native of the Elves, raising a palm slightly in a pacifying manner. With a gloved hand, the stranger made to remove their hood, brushing off a light layer of snow, to reveal bright gold that reflected from the color of their long hair. "I am a friend to King Thranduil's Halls."
"The mortal," he uttered, at once recognizing the light hair that was so strangely similar to his King's, "I did not think that you would return so soon."
With a slow raise of his hand and a quiet command, he reluctantly ordered for the open of the gate.
Areth breathed deeply upon entering, at once feeling the warmth that came from within. The calm and earthy air of the realm that had such close ties to the roots of nature brought certain warmth in her chest. How she had missed the Woodland Realm in the few weeks that she was parted from these halls. As she took her first step inside, she could not help but allow herself a small smile.
The wanderer walked forward with every intention of going to Thranduil's private study. As tired as she was, it would be a great discourtesy to stay in the halls of a host who did not grant her leave. And, perhaps she would not voice it aloud, but she missed that irascible king, if only a little.
Right when she was about to walk past, the guard then called, "I would not accommodate so. I doubt that you will be treated with such welcome this time about."
Areth stopped a few paces away from the Silvan Elf, the sound of her steps fading into nothing. On her face was a façade of indifference that was as cold as the falling snow, and yet the depths of her green eyes were darkened with a sort of knowledge. Her gloved hand clenched and unclenched. However, just as she opened her mouth to speak, she thought against it and merely shook her .The silence was filled with the echo of her heels as she moved forward.
The passages were as vast as Areth remembered from her first venture inside the underground palace of the realm's ruler, and yet, she wound that finding her way the second time about the Halls was not so difficult as it had been the first time. She felt to be a stranger upon her arrival with the Gondorian scholar, but a strange feeling of familiarity washed over her as she beheld the enormity of the passage.
Areth touched a gloved hand over her heart and her step faltered for a mere second, but she moved forward.
As she neared the mouth of what she knew as the King's study for his private usage, Areth was careful to keep her steps quiet. She was able to hear quiet voices from within, and Areth was quick to recognize Thranduil's voice. Despite the chill that was evident in his deep, commanding lilt, the mere sound of it inevitably brought a small smile on the mortal's lips.
"Do not revoke Galenion's command on the southern border."
These words were uttered with such unwavering authority.
"My Lord, we have not had an attack in weeks," the guards rationalized, careful for his tone to remain humble, "Surely, we could spare his troops to defend the gates."
"I will not take such risks," he said. The King's hand was raised in a halting manner, and from where she stood by the ornate pillar of the entryway, Areth could see the slight sheen on the jewels wrapped about his pale fingers. "This is my final word upon the matter."
"Of course," the Elf assented instantly, inclining his head. "Forgive me, my Lord. I did not mean to sound doubtful of your decisions."
From where Areth stood, she could see only the back of the King's head, his fair hair shining from the soft glow of the amber light. His long robe reached the floor as it usually did, the color paralleling the changes of the season. It was a surprise that he had yet to notice her, as his senses were purposefully keen. The mortal exaggerated her steps against the wooden platform, creating a small echo.
Thranduil's head turned slowly, as if the arrival of another's presence was of no consequence to him. And, Areth supposed, perhaps that was true—after all, he was the realm's ruler. When his blue eyes, keen and always knowledgeable, finally glanced her way, his strong voice faltered into silence. Although there was no sudden quirk on his pale lips to indicate even an inkling of happiness, the rise of his thick brow and the subtle shift in the depths of his blue eyes spoke wonders of what would otherwise be ineffable.
Thranduil slowly turned to face her fully, the length of his light, silken robe gliding on the platform. The Silvan hunter evidently saw this as a clear dismissal and bowed with a quick, deep inclination before taking his leave. The King did not seem to notice.
There was a moment when neither one of them spoke. The Elven King, however, tilted his head in slight, as if to further scrutinize her.
"You are silent," said Areth with only a subtle feeling of anxiousness when he continued to say nothing. Perhaps she had overestimated the extent of her welcome.
The slight quirk of his pale lips brought on a subtle expression that Areth would have missed had she been looking in a different direction. Nevertheless, the small gesture was enough to reassure her.
"I have no words," he uttered truthfully. In one movement of grace, he glided forward and gently took her hand in his. Through the leather, Areth was able to feel the hard metal of the designs against his grip and the heat of his palm. Surprised as Areth was at the King's unexpected show of affection, she was even more surprised by the feeling of regret for having her hand clad in leather. "I did not expect you to return so soon—if not, at all."
"You are displeased?"
"Do not be foolish," he uttered evenly. His expression had smoothened to impassiveness, and yet his words were spoken with fondness.
The soft light in his cerulean eyes took Areth aback.
Clearing her throat slightly, she then took this opportunity to steer the conversation. "I apologize for not sending word of my arrival." She paused as she tugged her hand free of his grip. Thranduil's eyes shifted to her retreating palm before once again meeting her forest eyes. "The storm is harsh—none were willing to deliver my message."
"It matters not, Areth. I meant every word when I spoke of your welcome here in my Realm."
Overwhelmed by the intensity of his cerulean gaze, scrutinizing and unwavering, Areth's eyes shifted elsewhere in sheepishness. Taking this as an opportunity to turn the conversation, she then said, "I do hope that I was not interrupting anything important."
"Of course you were," he said dismissingly with a small wave of his hand. Connecting his palms behind his back, he tilted his head slightly, his half-lidded eyes regarding. When void of any sort of harshness in his fair features, the simple gesture made him look rather youthful. "But it matters not, for you are my guest. Would it not be improper etiquette to leave you so?"
Areth allowed herself a small sincere smile before untying the clasp of her damp robe, ridding her of the weight. The fatigue she felt from the heavy travel through the growing winter did not seem so deterring when in the company of her friend.
Thranduil stepped closer towards her and wordlessly took the cloak from her grasp, gently hanging it on the arm of a vacant chair. Silently gesturing for her to sit on a plush seat while he remained standing, he then walked a few paces away from her to pour himself a glass of fine liquor.
Pulling on her left glove, Areth attempted to hide a smile as she brought the tips of her bare fingers to her lips. Thranduil could not see her, as his back was facing in her direction, and yet she had a distinct feeling that it was inevitable to hide any secrets from him.
He turned his head slightly to send her a small glance. Spotting the expression on her face, his thick brow rose at her in silent question, but not before taking a small sip of his beverage.
"You are always drinking wine when in my company," she said in observation.
The Elven King clicked his tongue. Bringing the beverage up for her to see, he then said, "But, my dear, this is not just any wine. This is a special drink, served only in the best of occasions."
"Should I not also be indulging in such a special beverage?"
He gave her a knowing look, a soft glint visible in his bright eyes. "Perhaps that would not be a wise decision. The strength of Dorwinion wine is not received well by the race of Men."
"Such a comment would surely challenge the self-worth of many of my kin," murmured Areth, leaning her cheek against her open palm. She was quite aware of the Elves' greater tolerance from her time at Imladris.
With half-lidded eyes, Areth was distinctly aware of Thranduil speaking to her, but none more than that. The smooth, deep lilt of his speech brought a calm familiarity to her—one that lulled her. His words did not reach her comprehension, and Thranduil was aware of it.
His keen eyes briefly glanced at her long hair, darkened and limp by the melted snow. The strict façade he wore softened as he regarded his friend, who was determined to remain awake despite her evident fatigue.
The Elven King tilted his head once again, a continuous habit, Areth noted absently, his long hair moving to follow the subtle action.
"I apologize," he murmured, his hand shifting to grip the back of her seat, "for being a poor host. My attention was by the surprise of your arrival that I failed to meet the needs necessary to make your stay comfortable."
Areth waved of his words with a slight movement of her hand. Thranduil could not help his light amusement, for she seemed slowly falling into a state of unconsciousness. He did not take her exhaustion in offence, for he understood the time and energy necessary to make it through the snow from wherever it was she came from.
And so the woman fell asleep by the music of the Elven King's deep, soothing lilt.
"I find myself surprised."
"I am not incapable of injury, Rovain," Ernil uttered plainly, that being the only indication of his irritation. He could never find it in his heart to darken his tone at his old friend.
"Yes, but you seldom allow yourself to receive any," said the healer in reply. Wrapping the bandage around his strong, damaged forearm with great care, she then continued, "Your opponent must have been worthy."
"Or cowardly," the hunter quietly scoffed. Suppressing a hiss from the pressure of Rovain's prodding, Ernil's head bowed slightly, his long, auburn hair succeeding in framing his expression from the healer. "They dared not attack without the advantage of their strength in numbers," he finished bitterly.
"You were ambushed?" Rovain questioned with what could be discerned as irritation. It was the only indication of her worry.
"Yes," he replied flatly.
"Then this injury is no fault but your own," she uttered in a rather scolding manner, "as you were so willing to part from the company of your fellow guardsmen."
"I am not so foolish, Rovain. While they thought I was in the company of none but my own solitude, my troops were watching from the shadows of the trees."
Ernil watched his friend as she turned to wash the bloodied rags in the basin, as if imploring her to understand. He was not careless, nor was he arrogant in his abilities as a Mirkwood guard. The Silvan Elf sighed, however, for he knew that Rovain would continue to believe what she wished, and looked away.
Rovain was not so blind in the distress she caused the guard and felt the slight weight of rue on her shoulders. Truly, she did not mean to treat him without the warm affection that was expected from an old friend, but such display was simply beyond her capabilities. The healer's dark eyes softened as she regarded the injured Elf. He was a gentle soul, she knew.
"Did you manage to capture anymore?" she asked, consciously stripping her words of the concern that she felt.
"I'm afraid not," Ernil uttered with solemnity, his voice gaining the strength of a royal guard, "Two were slain, but the rest saw this as a time to flee." At this, he uttered a tired sigh before briefly bringing his hand to his mouth. He was tired of the entire affair—that much, Rovain could comprehend. "Ever since the last capture, the rest have grown more cautious."
"What are they doing here?"
"I'm afraid I do not know," he said slowly. Rovain's eyes narrowed slightly, for she could discern the hesitation evident in his halting lilt. However, she would not press him.
"The attacks increased as of late," he continued. Pressing his clasped hands against his mouth, Ernil then muttered, "I have grown rather wary."
"And yet, these series of unfortunate events has done nothing to deter the King's better spirit. He is less ill-tempered, I think," said the healer as she proceeded to wash away the crimson of Ernil's blood on the basin. She kept her dark eyes on the water, stained and slowly morphing from translucent to red.
"That is not saying much, considering the fact that he is always ill-tempered," the Silvan uttered with a short, breathy laugh.
"What an unkind thing to say."
"What an honest thing to say."
Rovain almost smiled. Even she could not deny the Elven King's notorious temperament.
"It is no doubt the work of Lady Areth," Ernil uttered briefly.
He was, of course, happy at the unexpected arrival of his mortal friend, and he expressed so openly. However, though more subtle, he could not help but notice the change in his King, as well, at her appearance. Admittedly, Ernil was a bit surprised by the strength of their relationship, but he would admit that the Elven King's mellow demeanor was preferable over his ire.
"Yes, he is rather fond of the mortal." Gazing sideways at her companion, she then said mildly, "As are you, if I observed correctly."
"She is truly unlike any other," he conceded with a small smile.
"I'm afraid I've not made much time to attempt any form of conversation," Rovain admitted, "though I did see her often when her irritable scholarly friend was under my care. I suppose she was pleasant enough."
Ernil laughed softly. "She is quite a character. However, I do not think that you would like her much."
"Any particular reason why?"
"I am not quite sure. I will admit that the first meeting with Areth does not leave one with the best of impressions."
Ernil could not help but grimace at the remembrance of the horrid state Aldamir was in upon their first encounter. He could also recall Areth's cloaked silhouette, visible only due to his keen Elven eyes and the long strands of her exposed hair, and could not help but shake his head. Never would he have expected them to become friends.
He told Rovain so.
But Rovain knew the reason. She knew that no matter how much he attempted to bury it, Ernil felt a longing in his heart to discover a world beyond these small borders. To travel the world and to discover a life more than this old, dark forest could offer. The healer did not doubt the fact that had that mortal woman offered Ernil a place beside her as a companion in her travels, Ernil would spend no further contemplation before accepting.
And because he had not been presented an opportunity to leave behind this wretched forest, Rovain knew that the mortal would serve instead as an object of Ernil's fascination.
"This was the sixth attack from this month alone," Morhir uttered with a quiet sigh. His solemn demeanor did not change, though but his eyes looked tired. He locked his hands firmly before him. "I daresay that these mortals have grown much bolder."
Upon the summon of King Thranduil, the High Council of Mirkwood gathered together in the heart of the Halls, surrounding a large, wooden table with the Elven King at the head, seated on an ornate throne. The nine members sat somberly, for they knew exactly the concern that they must discuss.
The King himself, however, looked unconcerned and indifferent as he usually did. Unlike the Council, his attitude was completely lax, his legs crossed and his ringed hand supporting his chin. The Council would not be fooled, however, by the façade, for despite his outer appearance, his keen eyes belied his disinterest, for the Elven King was very much aware and involved.
"They are foolish," said a Silvan Elf with a slight shake of his head. "What do they hope to accomplish by committing such folly?"
"These numerous endeavors of theirs—it cost a great amount of loss for them. Whatever it is they are after should be, I would imagine, worth their lives."
"What are we to do?"
"What more can we do but strengthen the defense of our borders?" Erithiel uttered beside her husband Morhir.
"This has gone on far longer than I anticipated," said Thranduil, his clear voice instantly quieting the hushed conversations between the other council members. The Elves instantly straightened and looked to their leader.
"No longer will we wait for these attacks," said Erithiel with calm conviction. Her dark eyes shifting to meet cerulean, she then said, "My Lord, we must call for the start of the hunt."
"Why are you all so determined to remain blind to what it is that brings them to our Realm?" Alagos interrupted with strength. He spoke to Erithiel with the regard of an equal, and yet, when he turned to address Thranduil, his voice instantly subdued to humbleness and he uttered, "Forgive me, my King, for saying so, but it is the mortal that drives these enemies to our realm."
"Alagos, you speak with your heart-" Melhros attempted.
"Do not try to deny the truth, Melhros," he interrupted, raising his hand slightly, "The race of Men has not attempted to interfere with the affairs of Greenwood for a great span of time before she was welcomed into this Realm. Ever since her return, the attacks have increased with such severity, consequently injuring one of our commanders." At this, he then looked to Morhir, who merely held his gaze with a stern edge, before shifting his eyes to Erithiel.
Erithiel, however, would not be deterred in her position in vouching for the mortal, and merely allowed her eyes to darken.
"Why do you oppose to Lady Areth's presence with such ferocity, Alagos?" Erithiel uttered with a quiet edge seeping through her usually airy lilt.
"No, Erithiel," said Thranduil, raising a hand in a gesture of permission to the other Elf, "Allow him his right to a voice."
Inclining his head in gratitude to the King, he then addressed everyone in the room and said, "Her presence is but a burden to our kin."
It seemed as if only Melhros caught the subtle tension in the King's grip on the arm of his seat.
"What do you suggest we do, Alagos?" Thranduil uttered with calm.
"Send her away, my Lord."
The Elven King regarded him with an undecipherable expression on his face, his dark brow narrowing slightly over his half-lidded eyes.
"In a situation in which I take a remote second to consider allowing such a suggestion, Alagos, tell me then what would happen to Lady Areth."
"My Lord-?"
"Seeing as you have no answer," said Thranduil drily, his jeweled hand rising to stop Alagos, "I will take care to enlighten you. To speak simply, she will be ambushed by her assailants and, no doubt, will be mutilated and slaughtered, as is the custom of the enemies who seek her."
Melhros' eyes widened briefly in surprise as full comprehension dawned on him. It was in this moment that he knew. Thranduil had already made his decision of allowing Areth refuge in Mirkwood from the very beginning. The High Council was not summoned to contemplate the decision, but rather to inform everyone of the King's decree.
"Tell me, why send her to her death when we are capable of providing protection?" he uttered mildly.
Alagos' mouth opened, but no sound came out.
There came a silence that only Melhros seemed to have the courage to break.
"These attackers are gwathuirim," he began slowly, "of Dunland—indeed, a faraway land that, until now, has strayed from the affairs of our kin."
"Then their affairs do not lie with the Elves of Greenwood," sighed another member of the High Council, Arthon, "I am afraid I will have to agree with Alagos regarding the welcome of Lady Areth. While I hold no personal contempt for the mortal, I believe it to be best if she were to stray beyond the borders of this Realm."
"Her presence here is but compromising the safety of your ward, my Liege," Alagos, brought once again to confidence due to another's support, uttered.
Thranduil's face was impassive, though he was evidently unmoved. Only Erithiel seemed pleased.
"From the moment of our friendship, I pledged my unquestionable alliance," he uttered, his lilt unwavering, "I cannot forsake her."
"Cannot or will not?"
The King's eyes narrowed considerably. "It would be wise to take careful use of your words, Melhros. This persuasion is sounding far too close to impertinence."
Melhros bowed his head in repentance, though was not at all swayed in his stand. As much as it pained him to side with Alagos the Unbearable, his belief regarding the situation was justified. However, although he was not unfamiliar with the King's ire, Melhros was determined to make Thranduil see reason.
His brother Morhir then took this as the time to intervene. "I have nothing against the lady in question—in fact, her relation to my son is enough of a reason for me to hold her in my high esteem. However, I will not allow such an opinion to hinder my duty to this realm."
"King Thranduil, we are spending a great amount of our power to our borders," said another, "power that we cannot afford to spare, especially since the dark creatures from Dol Guldur started growing in numbers."
"Will you have me condemn her to that brutal band of assailants as well?"
"My King, we are only stating that it would be wiser to revoke her welcome," Melhros persisted, "Indeed, we will provide her with the proper escort until perhaps Esgaroth or Dale."
"And beyond there? Who has a say of her fate beyond the northern lands?"
"None but the will of Eru, but we are not responsible for her," Morhir uttered lowly, solemnly. Always the voice of reason, he then said, "The Lady has lived quite well on her own for the short years she has been upon this earth—surely she will continue to do so, even without our protection."
"My, how adverse you all are to her presence."
"She must go, King Thranduil. Surely, you cannot deny the reasons."
But at this point, all knew that the King's mind was unmoved. And so, Erithiel saw that it was no longer necessary to speak for the mortal's defense.
"Truly, I am rather surprised that you did not act upon this from the beginning," uttered Arthon, "for you are usually quick to act when the safety of the realm is compromised."
"To turn her away at such a time is to kill her," Thranduil responded in simplicity.
"What makes this any different from our refusal to aid Erebor during the attack of the Serpent?" Melhros countered. Seeing that there was nothing to convince him otherwise, the Silvan Elf attempted a different tactic.
"Indeed, I do not understand why we must even go to such lengths to decide the fate of such trivialities. She will die, as all mortals do."
Thranduil held up a hand before any other could add onto such comments, for it would surely start an entire debate on its own.
"That is enough."
He uttered these words quietly, and yet it would not have made a difference if he had yelled them, for the effect was instantaneous—the entire room resonated with silence.
He then continued, "While I certainly understand your concerns, rest assured, I will continue to command a strong guard. The strength of our defense is great enough to hold such enemies." Nodding to Erithiel, he then said, "We will start to pursue them. However, I refuse to exile her when it was I who granted her leave in this Realm."
"Would you allow your own attachment for this mere slip of a girl to get in the way of reason?" Alagos' tongue slipped in his frustration.
Upon hearing his words, Melhros' eyes slowly closed in exasperation before shaking his head. This truly was the problem with Alagos.
"Would you care to repeat that?" Thranduil uttered dangerously, his head tilting slightly.
Instantly bowing his head in repentance, Alagos' attitude subdued with a single glance, and he spoke no more.
Melhros then dared to utter what many of those present in the room thought but had not the courage to say. From across the table, he shared a grim, knowing look with his brother, and with a slight nod from Morhir, Melhros spoke.
"Thranduil," Melhros uttered softly but firmly, "She is not Isilthel."
A small silence filled with trepidation erupted, as loud and deafening as any great explosion.
And yet, Thranduil's face held an impassive façade. His cerulean eyes were the only indication of a change, for they visibly hardened.
"Call upon the commanders and send them to eliminate these nefarious parasites," he uttered, his voice commanding with no room for argument, "Under no condition will there be anyone to enter past our borders without my leave."
"But, my Lord-"
One single blazing glare from the King's crystal eyes, which had turned into a pair of icy jewels, hard and unmoving, and Melhros was silenced.
King Thranduil would not repeat himself.
"My," Areth uttered in a disbelieving breath, "the Elves of this realm are rather festive."
Entering through the ornate opening of the King's private study, Areth smiled slightly upon seeing Thranduil standing over the wooden table that supported his fine wines. She knew that he was aware of her presence, and so she entered and slowly made her way towards him.
Thranduil, however, merely turned but remained silent. He took a small sip from his wine glass, regarding her silently over the rim.
"Prestad?" Areth uttered in evident worry as she approached him. Tilting her head—a habit that she no doubt acquired from the Elf before her—she regarded his fair features. Tense and rigid as he was, she could not help but notice the ice of his cerulean eyes melt when she sent him a small, hesitant smile.
Thranduil smiled slightly, but the hard expression in his features did not dissipate completely.
"This fair face of yours does little to fool my eyes, my friend," Areth uttered, giving him a knowing look, "Ernil said that you were in quite a mood upon dismissing the council."
The edge of Thanduil's lip quirked slightly at her description on his features, but he thought against commenting, for he was sure that Areth would not appreciate such a jest. Instead, he twirled the remaining liquid in his glass absently and said, "I was not aware that Ernil spoke of his grievances to you."
"Grievances?" she uttered a breathy laugh, "Hardly. He worries for his king, you understand. He also wonders what could possibly sour your demeanor."
Thranduil did not even entertain the idea of telling her the truth.
"It is nothing that you should concern yourself with, mellon nin," he said softly, his half-lidded eyes genuine, "for it is the affairs of our realm."
"I will not press you so, for I see that the High Council left you in great distress," the mortal uttered, her lilt equally quiet. Regarding her friend with an expression of utmost sincerity, Areth touched her hand lightly against the silk of his shoulder, tense even against the gentlest touch.
Thranduil stiffened, but then relaxed. He exhaled a small breath before putting his palm over her hand. "Your presence is enough to ease my ire."
"I'm glad to be of service, my Lord," she jested mildly, keeping her hand still beneath his lithe fingers, "I'm certain that many are thankful to be spared of your rather severe temper."
"Severe temper?" he questioned in dry jest, "What have I possibly done to you?"
Taking her hand from his shoulder, the Sindar Elf kept their fingers intertwined and used that to gently pull her towards the vacant seats.
"Nothing at all," she shrugged as she pulled her hand from his, "However, I confess that my imagination has gotten the better of me after hearing such rumors of the Elven King's easily-roused ire."
"Oh, how you insist to think so unkindly of me," he said in false woe, as a small smile played on his lips. And yet, even through this light jesting, the thoughts that were plaguing the Elven King's mind had not completely left.
"Something still lingers in your mind," Areth pressed.
"A concern that you are better off not knowing, my dear," he uttered simply as he sipped the last of the glass' remains.
"Perhaps it would do you good to talk of such concerns."
Thranduil would usually not tolerate such persistent inquiry, but looking at Areth's face, he knew that she only meant it in his best interest. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a small sigh as his continence slowly went lax, and for the first time, Areth did not see the authority of the King of Mirkwood.
"You are tired," Areth whispered, lifting her knees and folding them over her chest, "Perhaps you should rest."
Thranduil hummed before draping his arm across the back of the seat, the tips of his lithe, jeweled fingers gently brushing over the strands of her golden hair. "I am resting."
In an attempt to alleviate his mind, she then said, "Will you tell me of Greenwood and its roots?"
Thranduil smiled.
"As you wish."
Brief Middle-Earth History: Thengel (also known as Gildhel in this story) is the son of Fengel and the father of Theoden. He is also the king that Aragorn fought alongside with when he took the name of Thorongil.
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