CH3 - Not My King

Legolas stood before his father who sat upon his throne. Silence and tension crept into the air—poisoning it with dread—for nothing passed between them except Thranduil's icy stare.

Legolas cleared his throat in attempt to interrupt the antagonizing quiet, which only pulled a frustrated sigh from the King.

Thranduil then spoke, harsh and stern, "We must discuss this newcomer you brought into our lands."

Legolas exhaled in annoyance. Any will he had had to restrain the force that would come from his lips dissipated instantly. "How do you know she is not of our lands? We have many Mirkwood elves living in the outskirts of our kingdom—"

Thranduil interrupted his son with a short biting retort, "In the east end of the forest?! I do not think so."

The Prince sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Ada—"

"I will tell you now, she is not one of ours."

Of course Legolas knew that this was what was coming, but he really did not wish it so. He did not want to hear the harsh words and cruel ideology of his father for he knew that anger all too well—he did not desire to bear witness to it once more.

But contrary to Legolas's internal wishes, his father continued speaking, "I received reports of the scene from the members of your sector. Orc corpses burned and slaughtered, withered grounds and smoldering trees, and that half dead elleth tied tight with ropes."

The Prince of Mirkwood nodded in defeat for he knew his father would not change his stance. "Yes," he confirmed.

Thranduil stood up, "And tell me, who do you suppose burned and slaughtered those orcs?"

Legolas looked up at his father with a frown crossing his face. "I suppose..." But he let his sentence trail off into silence.

Who did massacre the vile creatures?

The blonde haired king walked down the winding and twisting steps of the wooden throne and stood directly before his son. He raised both his brows as he begun to circle the elf. "I see you do not have an answer to the present question."

Legolas's expression turned to one of a scowl. "There must have been a third party—someone else there."

"Perhaps." Thranduil turned around facing away from him, "Or not."

"What are you suggesting, Ada (father)?"

"The individual you...saved." He paused, "Sent from our enemies."

Legolas narrowed his eyes, "You must not mean a spy?"

The lack of response from his father answered the question.

The young ellon shook his head. "You dare say that she mutilated herself to gain our trust? What kind of person would suffer to that extent—to death?"

Thranduil let a snarky laugh thunder from his chest and leave his lips, "Do you underestimate loyalty?"

The Prince groaned, "Ada—"

The King shook his head, "They will do anything to gain access within our walls. Do not misread the forces of darkness, Iôn Nin (my son)."

"What dark forces Ada (father)? The spiders? The orcs? They do not have the intellect to recruit an elf for their devilry."

Thranduil did not make eye contact with his son for he knew his expression would betray him. It was not the orcs he feared, it was their will. A will that could only be mustered and rallied. Someone—or something—was gathering them, drawing them in. He prayed that these omens were not history repeating itself.

The King cleared his throat, suddenly realizing his silence. "Well, we shall see when she wakes...again. And when she does, she shall be punished accordingly."

"Punished?!" Legolas questioned forcefully, "Punished for what crime?"

"She tried to kill one of our healers!" He barked.

"She was scared and confused!"

Thranduil scoffed. "Oh, and how do you know such a thing? Did she speak that thought to you?"

Legolas voice softened, "I could see it in her eyes."

...

Three days had passed since the two Mirkwood royals had exchanged harsh words about the injured elleth. And, quite frankly, Legolas was doing his best to avoid his father. Currently, he was distracting his mind with the stories and histories that were kept safe within the Mirkwood library.

The large room had dark wooden walls, creaking corridors, and spiraling staircases to upper levels—all lined with shelves of books. It had numerous nooks and crannies that one could get lost in, corners filled with comfy chairs and couches, soft fur blankets, and fluffy pillows. There was even an ever burning fire encased in stone which provided heat and light. The library was the perfect place to hide from particularly aggravating individuals that one did not wish to see—perfect with no interruptions.

Well, so Legolas thought.

The coveted quiet within the leather bound walls was ended by Belanor, a friend and member of his sector, calling his name.

The Prince sighed in frustrated defeat for it seemed that he could not get a moment to himself. Of course, he wasn't directly angry at Belanor. The incident with his father had just brought about an irked mood that didn't seem to have left yet.

"Over her, Mellon (friend)," Legolas replied.

Belanor rushed to the crevice where Legolas had perched and instantly the Prince knew something was wrong.

"What is it?" He questioned.

"Your father—the girl—she is awake and he is bringing her before the throne."

Legolas slammed the book shut, "Why was I not informed immediately?"

Belanor shook his head. "I only now found out. It seems that your father is unhappy about you taking a liking to this elleth."

The blue eyed elf rolled his eyes and ground his teeth together. He placed the book on the small table beside him before standing up and hastily following his friend to the throne room.

When the two arrived, the recovering woman had not yet entered.

"Ada (father), what is the meaning of this?"

Thranduil sighed for he was hoping his son would not get word of the soon to be encounter. "Legolas, we must know what happened in the forest with the orcs."

The Prince stepped forward with glaring eyes, "But Halafarin said she needed more time—"

Their conversation was abruptly cut short by the sound of the vast doors creaking open.

The attention of everyone in the room was immediately torn from the King and Prince's argument, for their curious eyes now rested upon the one who entered.

Accompanied by several elven armored guards, she strolled in.

Instantly, Legolas's lips parted as if the breath that had run through them had been stolen. He wouldn't have recognized her if it wasn't for those piercing green eyes.

The battered elleth was wearing a simple dress dyed the color of dark winter berries—likely picked out by a maid. All the dirt and grim that had encaged her skin had been scrubbed off to reveal her features. Sharp they were, for her expression did not falter. Her jaw line was curved and acute, accentuating the bend of her cheekbones. The dark locks that sprouted from her head stayed loose like they were before, yet this time they were brushed into cascading satin. Her pink lips pulled tight and her dark brows called attention to those fierce emerald orbs. She emitted strength, power, confidence and poise—which was all the more impressive if one turned to observe her injuries. Bruises and cuts were scattered upon her body—her face, her arms, her neck, and likely more than that, for the elven wardrobe was modest. But it was still clear that she had just been in a fight—a fight for her life.

She stood upright before the King, but not a word leaving her lips.

"It is custom to bow before a King," Thranduil stated sternly.

Her jaw clenched and her gaze narrowed. "You are not my King," She responded with a cutting tone.

Legolas's eyes widened at her boldness as he repressed a leering grin that tugged at his lips. The guards, on the other hand, shifted nervously for no one ever spoke to Thranduil that way.

The King's ever present stare flickered with rage given that he did not appreciate being disrespected.

"Watch your tongue," he retorted. "You don't want to end up in the dungeons, now do you?"

She did not reply with any statement.

"What is your name, elf?" Thranduil demanded.

She did not speak.

"Your NAME!" He unexpectantly hollered.

She smirked before simply stating, "Arryin."

It was clear that she was pressing and pushing the King—testing the waters and tugging at every string.

The King raised his eyebrows in annoyance as he reiterated another question, "Arryin of?"

She held her expression strong as if she was forcing back emotion, "I do not have a home. I am a ranger; I travel the lands of Arda."

"Where was your birth place?" Thranduil pushed further.

"I do not know," was the response that left her lips, but it was not the truth. "My village was destroyed by orcs when I was young," She continued, yet that part was sincere.

Thranduiluncrossed his legs as his gaze lingered upon her. He was studying her—or at least trying to as were the rest of the elves.

After a moment, the King spoke again, "Well, Arryin the Ranger, pray tell, what happened in my forest?"

She spoke with her features as firm as porcelain glass, "I don't remember."

"What about your attempt to kill one of my healers?"

A crossed expression danced upon her face at this statement. Slowly, she reached up to gently touch a cut upon her head, "My injuries must have taken my memory."

Thranduil nodded, seeming to accept her answer. The next words that left his mouth were a shock to all for never was Thranduil generous to the unknown. "You are permitted to stay in Mirkwood until your injuries fully heal and your memory returns."

Arryin's jaw tightened, "I would prefer to leave."

The blonde haired king raised his brows before a deep chuckled erupted from his chest. "You are to stay and how you do it is up to you—in the dungeons or in a room."

Now that sounded more like his father, the Elven Prince thought. However, not entirely. Legolas guessed that his father must have an underlying plan for his impression of the elleth seemed to have changed.

Thranduil had waited for a response from Arryin, but when she offered none he looked at the guards and spoke. "Show her to a room in the East Ward."

The guards started to usher her away but she stood firm in her place. "My weapons—where are they?"

The King looked down at her in question, "Your weapons?"

Clearly he had not read all of the report, Legolas thought.

The Prince stepped forward and spoke, "We collected multiple elven weapons from the battle."

Arryin tilted her head towards the one who had spoke. In the couple seconds that she had, she studied him. The elf was wearing a dark green tunic and worn-down, brown, leather boots—not attire of one who was on guard. Yet, the few weapons that were strapped to his body conveyed that he had skill. She instantly assumed he was off duty. Her first thought would have been that he was an advisor of some sort—if was not for that striking, long, blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes. The physical features upon him were similar to that of the King's.

His son.

However, Arryin noticed that he did not have the same harsh and demanding aurora as his father. He seemed simpler—kinder.

The elf must have felt her piercing gaze for his attention encountered hers.

It was as if the deep churning of the sea and the fresh breaths of the sky met the moisture of leaves and the honey laden soil—blue against green.

Arryin felt a shock run through her heart, electrifying the blood that ran through her veins; but it was gone as soon as it came.

His gaze left hers as his attention turned back to his father.

The King's voice echoed across the stone, interrupting the rush of thoughts that scrambled across Arryin's mind. "You shall have your weapons returned to you."

The strange elleth was then ushered from the throne room, leaving the sight of those gentle blue eyes.