Cobwebs strung across her mother's sofa. Their thick strands caged doorways and corners, her mother's beloved books and old vinyl, even the floral carpet. Her mother didn't seem to mind.
"Don't just stand there in the doorway." An alert Dora pulled Charlotte into the cold house. Her vibrant green eyes held a spark Charlotte hadn't seen in years, and there wasn't a single wrinkle or dark circle on her face. "Come in and take a seat. I'll get the sun tea off the porch; it should be done by now."
"That's fine, mama," Charlotte said, but her mother waltzed through a fluttering hole in the webs and was gone. There was a crash, and Charlotte followed her to the kitchen, prepared to clean up whatever had been broken, and distract her mother with a different task.
Her feet stuck in the webs, and she had to yank herself loose with each step. In the kitchen, her mother stood at the sink, her hands buried under a mountain of bubbles. "Mama? I thought you were getting the tea?"
Dora turned, and Charlotte screamed.
"Goodness, dear. You're going to give me a heart attack like that."
Charlotte took a step back. The webs sealed behind her. Her mother held out a dark grey, mottled hand, dripping with soap, and her broad smile displayed rows of sharp, narrow teeth. Charlotte could feel herself shaking. As she watched, the grey spread across her mother's face, her eyes dulled, huge lumps formed beneath her skin. An orc stood in her place, her mother's voice still ringing from its lips.
"Could you wash the last one? I'm waiting for a call from Abby; she's coming for dinner."
Somehow Charlotte ended up at the sink, with her hands searching the basin until they found the dish her mother spoke of. Her hands swayed through the bubbles, stirring the hot water, growing increasingly frustrated at its emptiness, when they finally closed around a familiar handle. She pulled the jagged black dagger from the depths, stood frozen with it clasped between her quaking hands.
The tip had a single dark blob on it, and as she watched, it grew and expanded until it was bubbling and cascading down the blade and over her fingers like lava. Her arms were soon covered in the tar-like blood, and she thrust her hands and the knife into the soap bubbles to hide them. A dark stain appeared in the middle of the pristine suds, spreading until she had her hands submerged in a basin of viscous orc blood. It gurgled and splattered when she pulled the plug.
"Look who's here!" Her orc mother said.
Thranduil stood in the doorway, dressed in his elaborate robes and his high branching crown. "You should've gone with Amroth," he said.
It was dark, and she couldn't see anything. She huffed as something huge knocked her on her back, and then she was scrambling. Pushing, kicking, screaming. So much weight. She would be crushed! Her lungs were aching. Her arms searched desperately. White spots danced in her eyes.
Her eyes flew open and saw Thranduil resting in the second bed, his silver eyes open and vacant. Berior was curled and asleep on her other side. She clutched a hand to her racing heart, trying to slow her breathing, uncertain if she was still dreaming. Thranduil shifted and stirred, and she panicked and fled the room.
She couldn't deal with conversation right now. The moon was still out, but she took her chances and darted into the garden where the air seemed lighter. The chill seeped into her skin. The first thing she'd do when she got to Emyn Duir was purchase a thick cloak like Thranduil's. Once she figured out how to pay for things. It would be a cold winter if she didn't come up with something fast.
It wasn't that she didn't have useful skills. She could learn languages quickly, translate texts, mix delicious drinks that would put a grown man on his ass… None of those would be useful. She could teach, but there weren't schools in Middle Earth. "I'm screwed." She doubted there was pay for possible-but-unlikely "chosen ones."
The stars glittered at her, nearly undisturbed since the moon hung low over the forest. She looked over the sprawling camp of elves. Glowing embers showed where the fires once burned, and if she squinted, she could see the ghostly shapes of the night watch on their rounds. Would Ellavorn be patrolling down there? Monitoring for the orcs who could creep upon them under the night's shield?
There was a heavy growl, and a bear, twice the size of the ones she'd seen at home, with scraggly black fur and dark brown eyes, ambled around the rose bushes. Beorn seemed wholly wild at the moment, and Charlotte tried to hold her breath and prayed he wouldn't notice her. He did.
His fist-sized snout twitched as he caught her scent, and he took great lumbering strides until he was directly in front of her. She was an idiot. He'd warned her not to go outside. Told her on her first night that doing so was a death sentence, and she went strolling because of a nightmare.
The bear sniffed at her, stirring her curls, and she squeezed her eyes shut. His breath was surprisingly minty. It blew across her face, and she cracked one eye open to a close-up view of strands of saliva stretched between sharp teeth. He was grinning at her.
"You're a jerk," she said, just as he dropped to his haunches, his stupid pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. "I thought you were going to eat me."
The bear made a huffing sound like laughter.
"You and Berior would get along splendidly. I feel like he's always laughing at me." She glared at him. "His seems a bit more loving than yours, though."
The bear sneezed and shook out his fur.
"Do you always roam alone at night?'
He nodded.
"Any orcs?'
This time a shake.
Charlotte heaved a sigh. "Would you mind some company? I doubt I could sleep now if I tried."
Beorn shifted closer in answer until she could lean sideways into the warmth of his thick fur, and the bear and the elleth silently watched the sun chase the moon away.
Amroth found her in the morning, dogpiled with Beorn as a bear and Berior, who had come searching for his rider when he woke in the night to find her bed empty.
The Lórinand Elvenking greeted her with laughter. "I cannot believe you're cuddling a bear."
Beorn grumbled and peeled back his lips to display his teeth. She groaned and stretched her aching neck. At some point in the night, she'd flopped her head onto Berior's side, and Beorn curled up against her to keep her warm like a living bear rug.
"We're not cuddling," she said, mostly to pacify the massive bear. "You obviously can't snuggle a lethal wild bear."
Beorn jerked his fluffy head in a nod.
"And yet, here you are—"
"Amroth," she warned. She turned to Beorn, "You can eat him. I don't mind. Just wake me when the mess is cleaned up, yeah?"
Amroth laughed uproariously. He was clearly one of those frustrating morning people. Charlotte felt a shimmer in the air, almost like a change in pressure, and Beorn, the man, stood before her.
"Can't eat the elf," he grumbled. Ah, good, a grumpy morning person like her. That she could deal with. "He'd give me indigestion for weeks."
"Try some milk," Charlotte suggested, "in the long run, it'll make things worse, but short-term it'd cover you so you can eat him and I can sleep."
"No more sleep for you this morning," Amroth chuckled and held out a hand out for her to grab. She did so begrudgingly. "Thranduil is already beside himself, thinking the savior of the realm fled. You might want to go find him before he scares poor Legolas."
That was the last thing she needed. Legolas was already upset about the last time she'd gone missing.
Thranduil was pacing the hall when she entered, his long traveling cloak whipped around his heels as he pivoted to stalk the room. When he noticed her, he stilled, his face carefully controlled. "Where were you?"
She did not like that tone. "Out." She said.
"Where?" He was dressed in his robes, his eyes like ice as he studied her dusty leggings and tunic, her wild hair.
Charlotte spread her heels apart and crossed her arms. He would not be talking to her like that. "Wherever I wanted to be. Amroth said you were looking for me?"
His eyes narrowed. She counted her heartbeats in the silence. He waved a hand at her, a clear dismissal. "It's no matter. You've been found. You might let your king know before you wander off into danger again. Return to Amroth, then; we depart in an hour, and Meluieth has seen to your belongings."
He made her sound like some recalcitrant toddler! She bared her teeth, "You are not my king." The nerve of him.
Her heart stuttered when his face crumbled. It lasted a single second, so brief she would've missed it if she hadn't have been watching closely, and she realized what she said and who else had said those words to him.
"Thranduil, I didn't—"
"I am not interested in your apologies," he folded his arms over his broad chest. "You have made a vow to aid my people. Will you uphold it?"
She felt her temper rising again. She'd slept terribly, her neck hurt, and now he was questioning her honor? Was that all this was? Sprinkle some kindness and share his tragic backstory to convince her to travel to his wild kingdom and save his people from some unnamed villain?
"How dare you? You know I've promised to attempt to help your people."
"I don't presume to understand the loyalty of mortals."
She stepped back as if slapped. "You know nothing of the bonds between mortals."
Storming from the room, she planned to hunt down Amroth, who was far less arrogant, when Thranduil silkily said, "Be ready in an hour to depart if you plan to keep your word."
"Stick your departure up your ass!"
Amroth was still in the garden when she stomped out of the house. He took one look at her thunderous expression and said, "I know just what you need."
He led her to the camp, Berior diligently trailing behind them, and took her straight to Ellavorn.
"Are you still prepared to do what we discussed?" Amroth asked the captain.
"I haven't had a moment to clear it through the king yet." He shifted his weight. "I can go ask him now though?"
Amroth glanced at the still fuming Charlotte before shaking his head. "I don't think you'll find him very hospitable right now."
Ellavorn studied her and sighed at whatever he saw. "I'll be cleaning the stables for a month if he doesn't like this."
"What exactly are we doing?" Charlotte asked. She was careful not to take her mood out on them, but she was beginning to hate being talked about while she was present.
Amroth grinned and dipped his hand into his boot, withdrawing a small dagger. He handed it to her, hilt first, and stepped back with a cocky grin.
"Stab me."
"Tempting," Charlotte said. She tested the weight of the blade. It was more substantial than she expected. "But I probably shouldn't murder the king in front of his people."
"They'd be fine under Celeborn. Now quit stalling." He paused, a smirk forming, "You do know which end to use, right?"
"They'd probably arrange a statue in my honor."
Ellavorn chuckled, "Definitely would earn you a feast."
"A single one?" Charlotte scoffed. "A full week of celebrations, or it's no deal. Wait, what am I saying? I'll do it for free."
"Alas, the Elvenking of Lórinand has been slain—nay, scorched by the Annuiel. My heart will weep for eternity."
"How old are you?"
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, though the twinkle in his eye gave him away. "3,687."
"You certainly don't act like it," she teased.
"Ah, well, I am young yet. Thranduil is another century older, after all."
And that sank her mood rather quickly. "Alright, show me how to stab you with this thing."
"First of all," he shifted forward and tightened her hand around the gold hilt, "if you don't actually grip it, you'll drop it."
"Which way do I hold it?"
Ellavorn stepped in and pulled a dagger from his boot, holding its tip up in his fist before flipping it to point toward the ground. "Either way," he said. "You need to train with both grips. If you drop it, and you will, you may not pick it up in the grip you're used to."
Charlotte started with the dagger pointed up. "Okay, now what?"
Ellavorn and Amroth took turns guiding her, moving her arms until they were sore from slashing and thrusting the blade. They worked in tandem, one dodging her fledgling efforts, the other correcting her stance and technique.
"Aim for his knife hand," Ellavorn said. "You're smaller; you need to even your chances of survival. Get the blade from his hand, and you'll be the only one with a knife. It won't guarantee your safety, but it'll give you a better chance."
At some point, Amroth had grabbed a short stick for a practice blade of his own. He was moving exceptionally slow to give her time to spot opportunities.
She brought the blade down on his wrist.
He flicked away at the last second. "Excellent. Now faster."
"Won't I cut you?"
Both ellons laughed, which irked her. She moved faster, knowing that she wouldn't touch him, but also wanting to prove that she could be quick.
A crowd formed around them, and at one point, she grinned when she heard a tiny voice yelling, "You can do it, Charlotte!"
It distracted her, and Amroth flipped her on her back. She scooped up the dagger, the tip pointed downward.
"If you end up on the ground under them, aim up," Amroth said. He pointed an index finger to a spot just on the inside of his thigh. "Stab here. It'll disable them, and you might be able to regain your feet or even run."
"Act quickly," he added, before diving down and trapping her with his body. His hands grabbed her wrists and pulled them above her head. "If you get here, your chances diminish."
But Charlotte couldn't hear him anymore. Her blood was throbbing. His weight pressed against her. Her lungs heaved, and she couldn't breathe. Blood poured from his neck as he talked, dripping onto her tunic. She would drown in it.
"So, move your arms like this…"
The words came at her from underwater, tumbling out between his long pointed teeth. She couldn't breathe.
Suddenly, the weight was gone, and she was staring up at Thranduil, feeling the burn of air in her lungs. It was so painfully similar. She was gasping.
"Mount up," he ordered the watching elves. "We leave in ten minutes."
The crowd dispersed, save for Amroth and Ellavorn. Thranduil gently pulled her to her feet, grasped her chin until her panicked eyes locked on his. "You're safe. He's dead. We're at Beorn's." His low voice hummed over her frazzled nerves.
She couldn't stand it. Couldn't bear feeling so weak. Especially in front of him. Not after earlier.
She tore herself free. Turned to Amroth to give him the dagger.
"Keep it," he said. His eyes were wide with concern. "I'll send the sheath over with Meluieth. She'll show you how to hide it in your boot, so you're never without a weapon again."
Her throat tightened. "Thank you." Her hand shook around the hilt as she rushed away. It was a miracle she didn't drop it in the grass. Thranduil's gaze burned between her shoulder blades.
She found Meluieth and Berior quickly, and after tucking the dagger safely inside her pack, she pulled herself onto the elk and stared resolutely ahead, wringing the reins and Legolas's stars. Meluieth didn't attempt conversation, and Lothuial and Eithoril had sandwiched themselves around Legolas further ahead.
There was a tap on her leg, and then Beorn was standing beside her. He was tall enough that they met nearly eye-to-eye with her on Berior's back.
"Noticed you didn't get a chance to eat breakfast." He passed her a small sack and rubbed his beard. "If you get sick of them, it wouldn't be so terrible having some company here."
She smiled, though it was still shaky. It was the most backward compliment she could've received from the reclusive skin-changer. Thranduil rode past her without a glance, his back rigid, and she fought to keep her gaze on Beorn.
"I might just take you up on that," she said. She had enjoyed her limited time with Beorn. He was a quiet, respectful companion, and she didn't mind his outward grumpiness. "Write to me?" she grinned, remembering Celebrían extracting the same promise.
"Hmph, like I would know all your ornamental letters." Something in his expression told her that he did, in fact, know how to write in Elvish.
"Well, I don't know them either. So write to me Common Tongue—" he grunted, and she added, "very well, send me drawings then."
He quirked his lips in amusement. "I'll consider it. I don't know if I have the ink."
She rolled her eyes but gave him a soft smile. "Thank you for everything."
He nodded once, glanced at the elk before he said, "Watch this one."
"Berior?"
"I am able to speak the languages of almost all animals," he said. There was no pride in his voice; to him, it was an irrefutable fact. "Your elk doesn't know his own language or won't speak it. I suspect the former. I've mentioned things in front of him, things that should've gotten a response and didn't."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not," his grin looked feral. Amroth and Thranduil were leading the party north, and the lines of horses ambled forward. Beorn lightly tapped Berior's flank. "Stay safe. Remember what I said."
Charlotte was swept up in the tide of elves, and she glanced over her shoulder to wave goodbye, but Beorn was gone. When she'd opened the sack, she found two loaves of his sweet bread, some nuts, small wedges of cheese, and a single apple. She shared them with Meluieth and gave Berior the apple during the first rest.
Over the next four days, they traveled from dawn until just after sunset. Scouts rode ahead and behind to watch for any further orc parties, but the elves passed safely through the fields between the Anduin and the Greenwood, and Charlotte thought they owed a large part of their safety to the enormous black bear that shadowed them.
She avoided Thranduil, and their interactions reduced to cursory greetings whenever they were brought together by their mutual connection to Legolas, who came to frolic with Berior and her in the evenings. During the day, the Elvenking spent much of the ride chatting with Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, occasionally even talking with Lothuial, who stayed glued to Legolas's side.
By the end of the first day, Amroth dropped back to ride with her, and he continued helping her with Sindarin. She was still avoiding Lady Galadriel and considered herself lucky that she'd escaped really speaking with the elleth for most of the trip. She did not need anyone rifling through her already scattered thoughts.
"Your Sindarin is coming along well," Amroth said by the third day of their journey. "When you get to Emyn Duir, you'll need to find an instructor for Tengwar. They are the letters to write with."
"Maybe Meluieth would be willing to teach me," she shook her head even as she said it. "I'll find someone. Maybe she'll have a suggestion. I know she's learning to be a healer, so I doubt she'll have time to babysit me through Tengwar."
"Thranduil would be willing to find you an instructor," Amroth shrugged.
Charlotte didn't bother mentioning that she hadn't spoken to Thranduil since they fought at Beorn's. Angry or not, she wasn't going to badmouth him to Amroth. She'd keep her opinions about his haughty Royal Highness to herself.
"It's not too late, you know."
She raised a brow at him.
"I can see you've given it a great amount of thought," he chuckled, though there was a self-deprecating edge. She realized he was referring to his offer to join his people in Lórinand.
"I think we both know that I'm already locked in this path," she said. "I've made a promise to at least try to help."
"Just," he hesitated, eying the elves around him, "be careful. Something is creeping into this forest from the south. Someone. Things are changing again. I haven't seen that many orcs banded together in over a century. Something is happening in Middle Earth, and we're blind to it. Stay close to Ellavorn, if you're able."
Charlotte merely nodded, wondering for the thousandth time what she had gotten herself into. She reminded herself that she only had to do her best to help Thranduil's people, and then she could focus on tracking down a pathway home.
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AN: Thank you all for your wonderful comments! It's been an absolutely joy reading your thoughts and responses and I'm thrilled that you're enjoying Charlotte's story. I hope you like this newest chapter. I really hesitated on showing signs of PTSD with her, but Charlotte hasn't seen any live violence in her life, let alone been a victim/active participant of violence, and she's already holding back on a mountain of grief. Things are starting to become emotionally overwhelming for her.
Szynka2496: I have searched valiantly for a "face claim" for Charlotte and found a "close but not quite" example. I will attempt to put a link on my profile, since FFnet doesn't allow links in stories. If I had a shred of visual artistic ability I would draw her for you, but alas, I can only paint with words. I could be persuaded to attempt a nice stick figure drawing? ;)
