A/N There is no excuse that can forgive this long a wait for an update. But know that this fic is not forgotten. Here is another chapter in honor of Midsummer's Eve, a day I hope everyone will enjoy to the fullest. Yours, DR.

Warning Naked elves, finally taking the step towards becoming an adult and the pain of being in love. No matter how sweet it may be.

.oOo.

Chapter 4

.oOo.

He winced against the morning light that shone through the window. Another day, another morning without his son. He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair as he tried to get his body to wake up properly.

"Good morning, Sire."

Thranduil spied the willowy form of Galion securing the curtains in place, before he opened the window and left it ajar as if on an afterthought, but Thranduil knew better. Galion, his long-time butler and most trusted servant of his household, had come to know him better than most. Something that could be both freeing and annoying at the same time. Thanduil found it harder and harder to hide his tiredness from his ever-watching eyes. Even worse, the elf would never comment on it, only provide these subtle remidies to try and help him through the day while Galion himself kept to the sidelines. There was still a barrier between them, yes, something that was not very likely to disappear considering how their positions in life were too different. They lived in different worlds, even if they were interlaced to an almost seamless perfection.

Once, Thranduil naively thought that it was possible to be royalty and still live a relatively normal life. That had been an illusion. For as a noble – a prince even – it was still a somewhat attainable goal. But as he grew older, accustomizing himself to his new life, Thranduil came to realize it was very unlikely to happen as King of Greenwood.

As a figure of absolute authority there came invisible walls that accompanied such power and high rank. Something Thranduil had never quite figured out how to rectify, for had he not from they day he was announced as his father's heir been trained to keep such a distance? To remain detached from the commoners so he might lead them without having to worry about impartiality?

His father primed and groomed him for the throne for years before his actual ascension. Yet, Thranduil now found that most of these lessons seemed more likely to work against him rather than help him. Especially now when he no longer had the daily comfort of Legolas keeping him company in this vast palace.

Thranduil slipped out of bed, allowing the sheets to fall away in a stream of white silk. A thin robe was donned next, a single layer of propriety kept with an elf that had seen all of him more times than Thranduil could count. It had been a hard change to accustom himself to. The constant assistance, as if he was incapable of caring for himself. To always have someone catering to his every need. He was not even allowed independence when doing something as simple dressing himself. Yet, it had to be done even if he thought it a waste of time when he could as easily do such tasks on his own...

Without having to ask Galion's hands were quick to make a loose but sufficient tie around his middle. Knowing well what his king thought of the idea, the encounter was made as brief as possible. The action had become almost unnoticeable, if not for the knowing years of such habits had ingrained in them both.

"The water has been prepared for your bath, Sire. Shall I put out clothes for you?"

Thranduil nodded, "The dark blue ones. Those with the silver veins."

"Of course, Sire." Galion opened the bathroom room doors, easing his king's way in by offering a steadying hand. The king looked half-asleep as it was and Galion would not have him slip and hurt himself climbing into the bath out of sheer carelessness. "Relax for a moment, Sire. I will return."

Thranduil exhaled once he was alone. Sinking deep into the waters, he groaned at the comfortable heat surrounding him. At least, a bit of peace was offered him this morning. Galion was helpful, more so than most of his servants. His strong work ethic was what had made Thranduil hire him in the first place. Though many turned displeased eyes at the king adopting a Silvan manservant as his personal butler.

The water sloshed around him as he lay langourously, wishing he had been able to sleep longer this morn. What with the continuous concerns of the kingdom Thranduil was run down with meetings, official paperwork and worries over this and that. But most of all, he found himself tiring faster now that even the nights offered him no rest.

Legolas... he thought, thinking of his only son who was probably up and drilling with the guard by now in the training baracks.

It sat ill with him, that his son should join the other's in their regime. Yes, Legolas trained with the head of arms on a regular basis. Sometimes Thranduil saw to it himself that Legolas was taught what was deemed necessary for a king's heir to know. The sword and bow, how to wield a dagger. Proper crafts of a warrior...

Yet, Thranduil had always known that by learning these skills it was inevitable Legolas would have to apply them in combat sooner or later. Now, it seemed, that time was nearing closer than ever.

His councillors had been most shocked when he ordered his Captain of the Guard to prepare for receiving his son into their midst. The announcement was certain to turn a few heads. For all native to Greenwood knew of Thranduil's overprotective nature and it certainly was no secret as he made sure everyone inside his borders knew what would happen should a single strand on his son's head be injured in some way or another. His constant guarding of his only offspring was a sure giveaway of his zealous, territorial nature. After all, he had already lost a wife and his parents. Only the Valar had spared him the rest of his kin, but Thranduil never was too sure of Eru's will and would not put it past either of them to try and snatch every last precious piece from him. Shattering him to pieces.

But with the recent developments Greenwood have suffered through Thranduil quickly found that he could no longer deny that which he should have admitted long ago.

Legolas must grow up.

It was an unsettling topic and one he had thus far avoided with suprising persistence. Legolas was well over four centuries, a time where most have served their kingdom for years already. Yet, his son have never set his foot out on a patrol other than short hunting trips out in their forest. Legolas knows little of the dangers that lurk on the edge of the wood and Thranduil had fought long and hard to keep them from him. But now, it has become impossible to hide the truth any longer.

Reports from his guard spoke of a growing unease in the forest, specifically to the south of the woodland realm. Though Greenwood the Great had had its share of evil over the years, as Arda was in no way vanquished of dark servants, it had never posed enough of a threat to cause Thranduil immediate concern. Yet, now...

Thranduil's connection with the wood and growing things told him little, but he was not blind. He could see the worry in the eyes of his subjects. For in that he was lucky. Silvan elves were much more attuned to their plight than he was and on some level Thranduil envied them for it. For if he knew what plagued the wood, he would know how to better fight it. Now, he could only wait. Continue listen to second hand tidings and receive increasing reports of new casualties. Victims of the dark that threatens his realm.

I must be prepared...

A lump sank in his stomach at the thought. The slightest insinuation that Legolas might leave through his emerald gate and never come back made Thranduil's stomach roil. Yet, so many other sons of the wood had already fallen. To war, to death. So much sorrow...

The inhabitants of Greenwood were still too scarred from the last alliance to survive another wave. If war loomed on the horizon, could their brittle nation stand against the tide? Could they survive another strike while they were still at their weakest? What else could he do but send out his men, his warriors to protect his borders?

The door clicked open and Thranduil opened his eyes to see Galion carrying in various supplies. He set them down with a smile on his lips, one so well practiced that Thranduil could no longer tell if it was true or false.

"You may wash me now," Thranduil said, voice soft yet controlled as he rose from his reclined position, resignation growing inside him. He might seem calm on the outside but he felt far from it.

Legolas is gone to train with the rest of their troops. His kingdom is slowly coming apart at the seams. Yet, its king must remain stable. A ruler must remain firm and detached, be able to see beyond emotion and worldly pains. His mind must remain clear to make the right decisions needed of him. For the best of the Kingdom. He must concentrate on what is best for his wood – his subjects.

Otherwise, all will crumble.

Thanduil donned his cold mask once more, the action much easier now after millennia of practice. Yet, somewhere inside, he wished it were not so. That some part of him would remain untouched by the layer of ice he forced upon himself so ruthlessly. That the elf he once was would be remembered as a part of him and not just as a passing shadow before elf became king.

He swallowed all the bitterness in one big gulp. Pushing the emotions down before they even managed to touch the surface. But despite his strict control, he could not stop one, selfish thought from prickling his consciousness as he locked the gates.

I never wished to be king.

.oOo.

Faelwen could not tear her eyes of the redheaded maid, following the sweeping motions the lithe figure made as she rolled a dough out on the counter. She should not be surprised to see her. Many elves were hired and many more had resigned throughout the years. Yet, something about this elleth seemed... off. Like she did not fit in an environment such as this.

Lona sent her a gaze and Faelwen instantly lowered her own back to her task.

Lona, too, has been acting different ever since their new aid started. Suspicious seemed too strong a word for the change that had taken over her. She was more guarded – more cautious – than usual.

The elleth seemed normal enough, if a bit shy and indecisive once introduced. But most of the elves that began their work here were that way in the beginning. It was a stressful environment, working in the palace kitchens. Yet, most grew accustomed to the flurry of routines and soon adopted the pace and habits of the rest of the staff. Tauriel, however, seemed to have a harder time adjusting.

"Oh, you do it this way," Tanna explained helpfully, as Tauriel once again, cut the pieces wrong, leaving more left-over dough than Lona would ever permit them doing. Tauriel smiled embarrassedly and thanked Tanna, copying her motions.

Faelwen shook her head.

What would drive an elleth, who looked to have absolutely no experience with cooking, to join the kitchen staff? Faelwen stared at her own, worn fingers. Her hands were littered with old cuts and burns, many faded but plenty of them new enough to stand out angrily against her skin. Faelwen was young, had started her kitchen aid career far younger than most in her profession. She had spent years perfecting herself to reach this level, yet in the end she always seemed to lack experience. Just that little spice that made average transcend into the circle of special. If Faelwen, who had helped her mother in the kitchen for as long as she could remember, had a hard time learning the ways of the palace kitchen then how would Tauriel manage?

She glanced at Lona's hovering form were she stood over the stove, managing the great pots that held that morning's oatmeal. Food to feed a kingdom, she often said. Even if it was only the palace inhabitants who partook in the humble meal. It was Lona's pride and joy, something that she took great care making. It was said that elves who lived in the palace could tell when Lona had been the one cooking the porridge, and after seeing Lona work first hand on it Faelwen could attest to the Head Cook's perfectionist ways.

Which made Faelwen wonder why Lona would accept such an inferior and unexperienced addition to their ranks?

A loud hiss filled the air and Lona was on her feet faster than a cat seeing a mouse. A ruckus filled the air as an oven pan dropped to the floor. Sending small loaves and rolls to the floor with it. Lona was quickly by Tauriel's side, snagging her by her wrist and covering the angrily reddening appendage with a cool cloth.

"No worries. It is just a burn," Lona said, calmly pressing the cooling cloth against the reddening area of her hand.

Tauriel turned wide green eyes at her, the orbs glistening with what could only be beginnings of tears.

Perhaps I was a bit too early in allowing her to tend to the ovens? Lona thought as she tried her best to seem unfrightening. Tauriel looked shocked to find her there, but her friendliness must not have been convincing enough for soon the tears slipped forth one at a time.

"I... I am sorry..." Tauriel choked out, her face pale with realization. Her free hand tightening into a fist.

"It was a mistake, we all make them." Lona turned her head towards Tanna, silently asking her to take out the other pan of freshly baked rolls. "It is nothing. We always make more than enough as it is."

"But I am so clumsy!" Tauriel continued, utterly disgusted with her own lacking abilities. "I cannot even do such a simple task as handling a breadpan."

Lona led the elleth over to the small table, seating her on a stool as she started to tend the injury. The burn was not large, but probably still hurt quite a bit. Lona herself always thought the initial wave of pain to be the easy part, it was the lingering pulsating sting afterwards that hurt the most. Tauriel was lucky it was not worse. More than a few of her aids still had nasty scars from burns.

"You must have slipped with the ovencloth."

"A beginner's mistake," huffed Tauriel, self-critically, watching the older elleth dab at the burn with careful fingers.

"You are a beginner." Lona's eyes glittered. She could not find it in her to scold Tauriel, despite her initial opposition to taking the elleth under her wing. They did, after all, not very often hire mid-year. Yet, Lona had not been able to refuse her. Tauriel's letter of recommendation and her incentive for working in the capital held her placent, despite her reservations...

Lona scanned the elleth's face.

Tauriel did have the northern features. Iconic green eyes, a straight backed nose and the accentuated, dark lips. The tall, willowy build also accomodated her heritage. But her features held none of the sharpness most of the northern tribes had.

It did bother Lona, hiring someone from the same tribe as Rhiwsûl. They were harsher than most and though not all were as extreme in opinion as Rhiwsûl, they did show more reluctance to join when the wood gathered under the Crown.

Yet, Tauriel's motives had been much like her own once upon a time...

How could Lona refuse a soul wishing to flee the bonds of kin? For had she not done the same, so long ago? And what would happen to Tauriel if she was sent back home? Leaving was usually the easy part, to return defeated was often worse than the initial defection...

All day, Lona had ruminated what her own fate would have been had she returned to her mother's kin that fateful year. Without doubt, her life would have turned out much differently. More likely than not, she would have been settled and married before her first millennia, perhaps even raised a couple of elflings by now. Yet, Lona knew that even if she had not met Thranduil, life in the tribe was never a life meant for her.

Lona applied the salve used for these occations in silence. The burn would heal quickly and soon be just a memory. "There, finished."

"Thank you, Lady Lona."

"Take care next time. Not all injuries are as easily healed."

"I am glad that it was nothing more serious," Tanna said, stopping beside the redhead. Tauriel looked surprised at her approach, but did not deny her the small talk.

"Aye, though I have my suspicions it shall not be the last," Tauriel said with a growing grin, finally releasing the tension.

Both elleth laughed, returning to their tasks. Lona too rejoined her pots, but not before sparing a glance at the youngest of the lot. Faelwen stood stiffly at her counter. Her eyes following the pair fixatedly. A hard glint to her gaze. Lona's face fell slightly. She had a feeling there was more to be had out of this, and Lona was not entirely sure whether it was to be good or bad for any of them.

.oOo.

Legolas had never felt truly different before.

Not before now, that is.

He sat waiting on one of the logs at the training area, watching the groups of elves surrounding the small glen. Most wore gear already, many checked their swords or quivers. Some were even drawn into good natured discussion, yet somehow Legolas had been excluded from it all.

Not on purpose, surely... But Legolas could not deny that he felt a bit forgotten, considering the circumstances.

He shifted on the log, wishing he had his cousin with him. At least then he would have had someone to talk too. These elves all seemed afraid to approach him. As if a wall stood between them, impenetrable. At the palace, most elves knew him by face. It was not uncommon for elves to greet him in the halls and Galion was always watching his steps. Therefor it was not surprising that Legolas found his sudden isolation perplexing.

A small part of Legolas wished to blame his father. For he knew the king's reputation of overprotective father was partly to blame. But even as the thought entered his mind, he immediately felt guilty for thinking it.

His father was a proud ellon. A strong King in his own right, but he was also a parent. Something Legolas had unwittingly exploited as much as he could. As he had deemed his right, ever since he was a small elfling sniffling from the cold, harsh comments some of the more stern nobles threw his way. Yet, recently, the more the realm tugged at the king the less Legolas saw of his father. It soon evolved to a degree where even Legolas could no longer deny the change that had taken over the palace. Thus, when his father finally confronted him about his long postponed guard training, Legolas had been unable to refuse. He did not want to.

He loved his father too much to tell him no.

To some extent Legolas felt excited over this new turn in his life. For had Legolas not always wished to become a warrior? Had he not proclaimed out loud as an elfing-turned-adult that he would become the strongest elf in the realm? To protect his father and his happiness?

Had Legolas not dreamed of seeing real life outside the stone walls of the palace?

Somehow, the idylic vision of his new, adventurous life paled once Legolas saw the worn barracks and the crowds of elves that awaited their training. Legolas had not seen the outside of the capital before this, but ever so slowly he could understand the severity of this lifestyle. Of putting your life at risk for the bigger cause. Because Legolas could feel the tension that flowed through their elven veins... The adrenaline that was simmering just beneath the surface of their skin, ready to lash out and bubble to life at the tiniest hints of danger-

He flinched when a hand set on his shoulder.

"Legolas, right?" Legolas looked up into a smiling face. "Is this seat taken?"

The prince stared uncomprehending for a moment. He was the only one seated in the circle of logs, despite there being more than enough space for twenty elves along the roughly organized wooden construction...

The ellon chuckled, disregarding his slightly gaping mouth and surprised face alltogether as he sat himself beside Legolas on the log.

He was tall, far taller than Legolas, but his form held a subtle animalistic grace to it added by a strong yet limber build. Despite the arrangement of bow and quiver strapped securely to his back Legolas could see the ivory white twin handles of short swords sticking out beside the quiver. A clever hiding place if he ever saw one.

"Cat got your tongue?" the ellon asked, dark eyes staring at the younger elf beside him.

"No.." Legolas said, all of a sudden feeling foolish. He buried his fingers in the fabric of his green leggings covering his knees, "I simply did not expect company."

"Ah," the ellon gave the crowd a quick, cursory glance. A lazy grin forming on his face. "They just don't know what to do with you. After all, it is not every day a Prince is in their midst."

Legolas cocked his head and the ellon smiled in humble understanding. "These are common elves, my Prince. Farmers, carpenters, merchants... Most have hardly touched a sword, even less wielded one. It is not in their nature and not many Silvans choose that path out of free will. Bow and arrow we know, yes, but the cold bite of steel is still very unfamiliar to us. Only those that were in the war wield swords and of those there are few here.

The prince nodded. His father had dispatched most of his guards, that he knew. Veterans were often used as captains, most of whom were stationed along their borders. His cousin Beinion was one of them, though he had yet to gain significantly much experience in battle, young as he was at the time of the last war. Yet, Legolas did not expect to find himself placed amongst beginners. Though, from the way they handled their weapons of choice, Legolas thought they must have some experience in the field.

"I am Dolthond, though many call me Dol," the ellon said, turning his eyes back at the youth beside him.

"Legolas," he answered in kind, grinning. "Though, you knew that already."

"Many of us do. But you will find that many know you from name alone and not by face." He raised an eyebrow at the prince. "Although I must say I am happily surprised. I did not find the protected and pampered little elfling I originally expected."

"Dol!" The elf looked up, face wiped blank in an second from its previous warm and open expression, meeting eyes with one important looking elf Legolas was sure had to be of senior superiority. "Gather your group. The princeling's yours."

Legolas stiffened at the words. Suddenly the looming form of Dolthond blocked out the sun as he stood to attention. "Aye, Captain!"

The giant elf stretched out a hand towards him, which Legolas grasped gingerly.

"Welcome to Fearie land, 'Las." The prince blinked at the unexpected slip of a nickname, but decided against pointing it out. Dolthond seemed too concentrated on the streaming masses of elves around them to bother listening to his complaints anyway, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Where the wood grows wilder and our aims surer. Just be sure to keep yourself in one piece until the end, alright? You never know what will come flying at you.."

Legolas gulped, his hand grasping the hilt of his dagger where it sat at his belt.

He was a prince, one trained by the King himself. But as tall Silvans poured in around him, he found it hard to act like the hero he always envisioned himself as in his play-pretend battles inside the palace hallways. None of the other's wore proud smiles, none grinned at the possibility of bravery and earned glory. Instead, it was as if a heavy grey veil had swept over them, weiging them down more than the packs loaded onto their backs.

The Head Captain of the Barracks was shouting at the head of the group. Their feet assembling into what Legolas could only figure was a loosely constructed line. Their group falling behind many others in order. It was only then Legolas noted the strange edge to the language, and the fact that Dolthond was busily interpreting and communicating the Head Captain's booming orders to the others in their group with his own flowing voice, a familiar lilt of Silvan Legolas so often heard in the kitchens. Many of the squadmembers were listening to him avidly and not paying any attention the barked orders shouted at the far front.

Was it always like this?

When Dolthond noticed his gaze, he clamped a hand on Legolas' shoulder, keeping the blond headed prince in place with an older brother-like air over him. The bellowing was over and most stood at ease in their positions, awaiting their next move. "Don't worry, my Prince. We will take good care of you."

The teasing did not soothe the fluttering of his nervous stomach. But Legolas guessed that was how all new things were supposed to feel.

Well... At least, he knew he had someone to talk to. For the moment, that was enough.

.oOo.

Her feet moved soundlessly over the stone walkway, not even an echo from her soft slippers. She didn't expect one, for proper conduct demand she move silently. The vast Royal Quarters was not to be disturbed, after all. It was something a servant learnt early on, if you were lucky – or unlucky enough, depending on how you saw it – to find yourself assigned to the area.

She eyed the tray were the teapot rested buried beneath isolating layers of cloth and fabric. Anything to keep the flavoured water hot enough to please.

It was an oddity. Something that didn't happen very often and had only occurred twice before this. And for all her reasoning, Lona could not figure out the reason behind the lady's request. Not this time. Before, she might have had an inkling about what might have spurred such a decision on her part. But now...

Lona pursed her lips.

She shouldn't let it get to her. She shouldn't let the scheming elleth think she had anything over her. But didn't she? For Lona to be scurrying up through the various layers of the palace at her beck and call certainly attested to something, did it not?

She straightened and exhaled a long breath, steadying herself. This was work. Nothing more.

Lona pushed the door open smoothly, immediately hit by the rush of sound; carefully controlled laughing, a flute singing in the air and that continuous ticking noise that accompanied the lady's habit of rapping her nails over the laquered table surface when being kept waiting.

"Ah, there you are." The voice echoed over the din and instantly all other movement stopped in the room. The handfull of handmaidens present in the room stared at her, their eyes scrutinizing from under perfectly curled lashes, hands quickly clasped in their laps like proper ladies. So fake, so... trained into nobility.

Lona managed a curtsy with tray and all, it might not be elegant nor as graceful as the one's she'd seen given at court but it was respectful. In the end, that was all that was needed. A line to mark them as different. Superior.

"My Lady." She straightened. "I come with tea, as requested."

"Oh, good." The king's honerable sister gestured gracefully towards the table and Lona strode over with practiced steps. Immediately, she set to work on preparing the cups. "Rush in the kitchens? I do hope I did not drag you away from something.. important."

Lona bit her lip in response. "Of course not, my Lady. I'm afraid it was all somewhat.. short notice. The servant girl you sent down became a bit lost along the way. Easily happened, of course. The palace being as large as it is."

She did not bother pointing out that the girl had been in tears by the time she reached the kitchens. The girl was barely able to string enough words together between sobs to pass on the Lady's request for, to quote her lady's words, 'proper' tea. Lady Lanthiriel was not known for being harsh as much as she was infamous for being a strict mistress, something the servants serving the royal family knew well. But to claim the tea had been done wrongly simply because the girl had mixed up a single step in preparing it... As she glanced around the room Lona saw the stiff-backed servants that still stood ready by the walls. Three in total, all blonde and perfectly Sindar. Alas, from the hint of fear in their eyes Lona guessed not even their Sindar heritage spared them the bite of their Lady's sharp tongue this day.

"You are as humble as usual, I see." Lanthiriel watched her as Lona's hands worked the small utensils used to prepare tea. "I never have found it very pleasing trait in an elleth. Too little self-assertiveness is bad character, I say. In a place like this never speaking your mind is like asking to be eaten alive."

"You are entitled to your own opinion, of course, my Lady. As are we all." Lona finished pouring the fragrant, gold liquid. Politely presenting a cup first to the King's sister, then to her handmaidens. Each move in proper order of importance, of course. It would not do to offend them, for although they may be handmaidens, many had contacts beyond their names and friends in high places that would think nothing of endangering a silvan maid's position.

Lanthiriel's lips curled into a subtle smile.

The last handmaiden and thus the lowest ranking one mostly due to her short time of service, a pretty little thing that could only be another maiden from the King's distant kin in Lórien, gave her a cold look when Lona handed her a cup. Dainty fingers picked up the porcelain by the ear, making a show of taking a sip like a queen would. It was all hot air, in Lona's opinion. Many of the noble ladies that lived in palace had high hopes, but few if any would ever get the station they so desperately aimed for. Especially since less and less noblemen remained unmarried these days.

Lona gave a sideway glance at Lady Lanthiriel and indeed, the tell-tale tightening of her lips was all there was to say that she had noticed the subtle snub.

Lona was no fool, nor was she narrow enough to think the King's sister was unaware of what exactly what these handmaidens truly were after. For it was rare for Lona to meet one who do not hold some kind of impure motif for their servitude. Whether it was self gain or only the perks being one of Lady Lanthiriel's nearest confindants, Lona did not care to speculate. It was none of her business really, to stick her nose into the royal family's choice of company.

But in the case of the young handmaiden, she was probably hoping for a chance to prove herself as someone worthy. For who, if not the King's sister, were better to judge her character and put in a good word for her? After all, Lanthiriel was the only female in the royal family at this time. So to get close to a position in court usually meant earning the favor of one powerful enough help them attain one.

Delicate porcelain clicked against the table. Lady Lanthiriel watched the silvan maid amused as if she could see the course of Lona's thoughts just by studying her.

"You have grown, Lady Lona." The handmaidens all stiffened in their seats, but Lona remained unaffected. Hands clasped before her, she awaited the words she knew were coming. "For more than three hundred years you've kept to the shadows. Little Legolas no longer comes to me singing your praises but I do not need my nephew's input to know that you have not been idle."

"My lady-" Lona starts to say but Lanthiriel's raised hand stops her.

"There is nothing to discuss on the matter." Lanthiriel took the moment of pause to play with her silver spoon, watching as the metal surface distorted those prominent Silvan features, sharp compared to her own more soft ones. "It is only I that feel it my duty to warn you, Lady Lona."

Lanthiriel weaved her fingers together in all sofistication, but a hint of sly satisfaction showed on her face as she watched the sudden nervous tightening to Lona's shoulders.

"Know that I too have eyes and ears in the palace." Lanthiriel allowed her cold gaze to roam up and down Lona's figure; over her plain green dress, the still white but worn apron. Her eyes finally stopped at the top of her head, taking in the braiding. Nothing had changed, yet Lanthiriel knew that was what bothered her the most. For although Lona stood fast like a tree through the ages, she knew her brother had not. He is not the young elf he once was, nor the naïve King who follows his late father's words to the letter anymore. No. He is tired and worn down by the years of unrest, and where cracks may form life can take root and sprout again unhindered.

Her servant's whispers of how the King made the effort of going down to the servant's quarters, the very place Thranduil had avoided like a plague for centuries made something unsettling niggle at her.

Lona's mouth opened, then closed. Her lips unable to form any words at the stern gaze Lady Lanthiriel leveled her with. One that commanded her obedience, as was her right. Lona gripped her hands just a little tighter trying to stop the trembling that had taken over them.

"Do not make foolish mistakes, Lady Lona." She lingered on her title longer than necessary, just to rub in the difference between their levels in society even further. "You will do well to remember your place."

Lona closed the door softly behind her. Her body feeling like lead as she forced herself to make her way back, down the hall and towards the stairs. As if by magic her feet rooted in place just past a familiar pair of doors. The tall, engraved surfaces lavish in decorations, made for the royalty he was. Yet, as she turned to place her palm against its exquisite surface it was cold. Nothing but an empty, heart-rendering cold that seemed to mirror their reality more now than ever.

How could something so understandable be so painful? Or was it because she understood the reason it could never be that it hurt so much? For if not for the separation, the clear divide set up between them, would they even be so attracted to each other?

Was she so desperate to grasp that missing piece that would finally allow her peace, love and understanding that Lona was willing to offer up all she was for a love that could never be? She closed her eyes. All she ever wished for was a soothed soul so that she may finally move on. But how could she when the key to it was held by an elf cold and hard, so very different from the one that had once sparked these feelings in her in the first place?

Her eyes burned as she stared at the door. At the presence she could feel behind the four inches of stone set between them. She recalled his face. The same cold walls erected around it that had been there for the past millennia, acting as a buffert between him and the forrest. Between him and the people that need him the most.

Her heart aches.

Fingertips dragged over stone before dislodging, her steps staggering as she made haste to put as much space between them as possible. To stop the burning, the shredding of the weak defences she had made against reality, the world that could never accept them.

Bursting out on the East Balcony she let her tears free, drawing a shuddering breath. The damp outside air seemed to answer her sadness as the skies emptied itself in a drizzle. Hands grip stone, tight enough to force the blood from her now pale, cold fingers but not strong enough to numb the pain. The emotions flooding her insides.

It aches.

Because I need you.

# To be continued...