DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything you recognize.
In the Greenwood Great
- sometimes known as Mirkwood -
In the Greenwood Great there is a house. It is not a great house carved out of light and living tree, such as one might see in Lorien across the borders, but it is a homely house, full of laughter and good will. Around it, families of Elves have built perhaps bigger, taller houses, in the Clearing, where the water is a playful stream and starlight shines upon the glade, but Mirael of the House of the Last Lady thinks their house is still the nicest of them all.
Mirael was but a child in the time of the Old King, when her father pledged his allegiance to Oropher and still a sapling when he died in battle. She had seen her mother wither away in sorrow and had followed the New King and his people as they migrated away from danger, a barefoot, dirty little thing, until a train of Elves, weary and lagging behind, beyond Thranduil's power, had stopped their flight and stood their ground. Sometimes, when the light of the moon and stars falls just so, in a silver flash, she sees her Lady's sword fighting back the shadow, and the blood, a riot of rubies in the sky. The Red Lady, as the Silvan folk called her, had saved them that day.
"I do not offer you shelter. But I offer you home. I keep these borders safe, under the Marchwarden of the King. It is not an easy life, but the woodlands provide. We will endure."
She had smiled sadly then, but the Red Lady did not have an aptitude for sadness. She dearly loved to laugh, often at the expense of others, and nothing dampened her spirits long enough to invite sorrow. Only when the steward of her House, master Glaewon, called her Torwen the Unbroken, in Sindarin, did her Lady narrow her great golden eyes and look at him in such a manner that made the master laugh a bellyful.
"Is our Lady crossed?" Mirael would ask.
"She is crossed with herself, child. Torwen has but one weakness."
Mirael found that hard to believe. The Red Lady had no weakness as she rode on a great big horse to battle border scum, dressed in Silvan garb, her long red hair a river of blood flowing behind her. Mirael loved nothing better than to brush the thick red strands over and over again, until her Lady begged her to stop.
"It will not look prettier than this, Mira-child, so let me be."
Oh, but it was beautiful. Mirael herself had auburn hair, the colour of the forests in autumn, but Torwen's fell down her back, a living red thing, curling at the ends. She despaired of it, wanting to keep it forever in braids, but master Glaewon was adamant about it. "Now, now, Torwen, with such clothes you wear, your hair is the only mark of you being a Lady."
Brown and green and black tunics with a man's cut about them was Torwen's daily uniform. Even so, Mirael would have never mistaken Torwen for a man. She was not tall of built – a thing she complained of on a regular basis – with small shoulders, yet strong hands, a straight posture and high breasts, swift and nimble and tireless.
Sometimes, when the Silvan folk reveled in the Clearing, Torwen would don gowns of dark silver with deep red sashes and long velvet robes that made her look fearsome. She had a commanding voice and a mocking hauteur that had first scared Mirael until Torwen had dissolved in a fit of giggles over her own folly.
"The King could not have made a better entrance, my dear," master Glaewon often remarked.
"Of course he could. It is one of the things Thranduil does best."
Torwen was the only Elf Mirael knew that spoke of their King so casually.
"I knew the King long ago, Mirael. So you can stop looking so shocked."
"Would he not then take offence at you speaking of him like that?"
"I'd wager he would. But what the King does not hear, well, little one, then that's that and I can have my merriment."
What Torwen did not suffer, however, were other people having their merriment at the King's expense. The loss, the shadow, the fear made grumblers of many.
"Your people chose to be soldiers and soldiers die", Torwen often scolded the riotous Silvan Elves. "One Elf cannot fight the shadow alone. We stand united under our King or we fall."
Peace was not easy to come by, not in Mirkwood, but with the borders vigilantly patrolled under the Marchwarden of the King and Torwen's steady golden gaze, Mirael and the people of the Clearing were enjoying a rather long spell of it. There were now two scores of houses in the Clearing, some high up in the trees, some down in the undergrowth of the forest, some like her Lady's own, build around a tall oak. The Fair Folk of the capital had moved some of their households in the Clearing, for the springs and the revels and the still clear blue skies and the Marchwarden now held the tallest house north of the border. He sprang from Lorien, they said, and his ilk was fair of face and hair, and his daughter, Lirael, was fairest of them all. She walked as if in a silver glow and her blue eyes shone with pure starlight.
"She is the type songs are made of. She is a walking song, Mira-child. Beautiful and true." And Torwen would sing under her breath, and Mirael would forget all grief, all sorrow, for her Lady had a magical, enchanting voice.
"You are Luthien come again."
"Nonsense, child!" Torwen would laugh. "Such songs as I sing are not for the Luthiens and Liraels of this Middle Earth."
Torwen made the blades sing.
"But we are at peace now. My Lady can sing songs of joy!"
If Mirael was especially good and did not get into arguments with the maids and stewards of other houses, Torwen would sing for her, love songs and happy songs and songs of the forest. And the people of the Clearing would gather around the little house around the tall oak and sing and dance the night away. It was always the happiest of times for Mirael. Torwen liked a merry tune and a stouter dance than the tree-folk and such fairy rings they burned into the ground that one could still see for days.
Among those who enjoyed the company of the Last House, the brothers Elwen and Eldir pleased Torwen to entertain. Elwen was a sweet thing, wise beyond her years, all high cheekbones and creamy skin and with a passable skill with the harp, but "…withering in the shadow her luminous cousin casts, the poor thing" Torwen would sometimes say. Eldir was a fine youth with large, soulful eyes that made Mirael blush. But he was shy and in constant awe and fear of mighty Torwen.
"I don't know about you, but I like him. He keeps a respectful distance, which pleases me to no end, as he is quite taller than I."
Her Lady would tease Mirael mercilessly about the boy's infatuation with her, but Mirael would not relent. "He is the one who must come forth. Sighs and long stares across the canopy will not draw me closer." And Torwen would laugh and laugh and laugh all through dinner and breakfast the next day.
And so, their lives carried on in the Clearing, with nothing but Torwen's bloody swords or empty quiver to darken their days. Until, one day, a day no different than the rest, Elwen came gliding down the tree marble stairs to rest under the oak, where Mirael was washing her Lady's linen in the spring.
"Good day, my little friend."
"M'lady!" Mirael stood up, smiling brightly. There was a curious look in Elwen's eyes and a tilt to her lips that Mirael had not seen before. "Should I call for refreshments…"
"No, no, none of that. I am sure you are quite busy with preparations for the upcoming feast."
"The feast is still some time away and master Glaewon says that he never knows what Lady Torwen plans to do, so we should wait for her return. I know your uncle, the Marchwarden, said that all should be in readiness, but…"
"Well, I suspect my uncle would want everything in readiness, so he may have time to make any necessary adjustments."
"Adjustments? What for?"
"Oh, for a royal feast of course."
"His lordship plans on visiting the capital?"
Elwen had a pleasant laugh, like the tinkling of bells.
"No, Mira-child, but the capital plans on visiting us."
Mirael dropped the linen in the cool water and it would have floated down the spring had she not had the senses to snatch it up quickly.
"The King…"
"Lord Thranduil would honour my uncle's table with his presence. Nothing more. "
"It is a long way just to honour somebody's table." Mirael wrinkled her pert little nose in disbelief.
Elwen smiled that secret smile again. "Rumour has it our King is scouting the realm for a Queen."
"Ohhh…"
"He must marry, you see. The time is right. We are at peace. Guarded and watchful, but peace nonetheless. Thranduil must have an heir. It is unusual for one so old to have gone so long without a wife."
"Perhaps he has lacked the affection."
Elwen rose from under the oak. "Affection he has had aplenty. Thranduil is fair beyond measure. He is a good and brave King. But I fear it is love he waits for."
"Fear? Why should one fear love, milady Elwen?"
"Because when one loves as fiercely as Thranduil King does, one might have to wait a rather long wait."
Mirael bowed and said: "I do not understand your meaning, milady."
"I know. My cousin, Lirael, does not understand it either, though serene as she is, her heart beats faster these days. Torwen might know. You could ask her, when she returns."
Elwen took Mirael's hand and kissed her brow.
"Yes, I do believe the answer lies with Torwen."
"The King? In the Clearing?" Torwen gulped down the watered wine and dove into her salad. "What for?"
"Business with the Marchwarden, I presume. Nothing to do with us."
Master Glaewon was picking at his mushrooms again.
"Mira?"
Mirael had been avoiding her Lady's eyes since Torwen arrived from her patrol. The talk with Elwen under the oak had left her wandering, wanting desperately to ask Torwen about their King, but dreading the pale gold stare.
"It is the hope of the…the realm…that our King should marry."
Torwen uncharacteristically chocked on her wine. "Thranduil? Marry? By the next Feast? Unfathomable!"
"Why so?" Mirael asked, hoping to divine an answer to Elwen's riddle. "Lady Lirael's beauty is worthy of a King's attention."
"Lirael walks with the stars in the sky, child, but if we are to wait for Thranduil to marry, we might have to wait a rather long wait."
Mirael started. "Why?"
"The man takes weeks to decide which sash best compliments which tunic. He accessorizes his crown with the seasons. If he has made his mind to choose a Queen, then a Queen we shall have. Roughly around the dawn of the Fourth Age. He is cautious to a fault, our King is."
"That is true, though we do live in cautious times," master Glaewon said. "But Lirael and her beauty are treacherous. She is too fair."
"Well, she can't help it. She's part Noldorin! So are you. So am I for that matter, though highly diluted, to hear my father tell of it."
"Well, I don't look it! But Lirael… Can you imagine, a Noldorin Queen of Lorien descent, ruling from a Sindarin court over a population of Silvan Elves? She would have to be a very beautiful thing indeed for Thranduil to behold."
Mirael chimed in softly. "She's already half in love with him."
"Well, she'd be half a fool not to be in love with him. Thranduil is fair to look upon. Even if he does accessorize his crown with…flowers."
"It was berries and leaves, Torwen. It is a Silvan custom."
"Regardless. The King will come. All shall marvel and despair at his perfection. If he leaves engaged, that is up to him and not us."
Later, Mirael could not recall from whence she had dredged the courage to ask: "Will my Lady be half in love with him as well? When he comes?"
Torwen rose gracefully from hear seat at the head of the table and smiled her unbroken smile. "It is one's duty to love one's king. Though I rather wished I could hate him. Alas, I cannot. He has kept his promise. I could ask for nothing more."
"I could ask for him not to notice us. Or, my precious Torwen, promise or no promise, you will have to account for all your trifling with war at the borders."
Torwen laughed heartily at good master Glaewon.
"Be at ease, my lord. A few skirmishes here and there do not amount to much of a war. Plus, as long as Lirael stands up, our King will have no reason to look down."
It amused Torwen that the Marchwarden tried so hard at being inconspicuous about his royal visitors and yet failed so badly. His kitchens' were under constant strain since his lordship changed his mind on the contents of his tables with every turn of the sun. It was the ever patient Lirael who had eased his poor nerves by taking a surprisingly strong hold of the whole affair. Which was all well and good, as Torwen highly doubted that an eclectic display of mushrooms and mushrooms and some more mushrooms, however delicious and rare, would satisfy Thranduil's kingly appetites.
What was more, the King had a devout craving for lettuce and was a religious eater of roots. Throw in an apple or two, and he'd munch contentedly for the rest of the meal. She'd seen him dine on the battlefield enough times to know his habits.
"None of which matters now, fool", Torwen chided herself. She had not seen Thranduil since he'd last set his capital and she'd permanently relocated to the borderlands. He had seemed to her then larger than life, broader in the shoulders and leaner in the face. But then again, he'd been only a Prince in Dagorlad and now he was a King. He carried the weight of their dangerous world well, and he had kept his promise, so Torwen had made a decision. She had not the temperament to deal with a court of Elves, but orcs and other foul beasts she'd keep away from Thranduil's magnificence. She had packed her household and her people and together with an adventurous master Glaewon, marched the other way, far away from Thranduil's alluring light. Torwen had rather hoped he wouldn't bother to follow up on his orders from long ago and was content to have slipped unnoticed, for word of Thranduil's punishment had not yet reached them. And now he was coming here.
"He comes and he goes as he pleases. He is King," Torwen muttered angrily – angry with herself for giving this such unwarranted thought.
"With whom are you speaking, Torwen?"
"My lowly self, Marchwarden. How can one be of service?" The Marchwarden looked troubled, the composed, confident mien he had been working on for days having crumbled under some sort of anxiousness.
"I did send Elwen and Eldir with the company to gather aromatic herbs for the dinner tonight. I did. They have just returned and Elwen is utterly inconsolable."
Elwen was nothing but good nature and bright summer laughs. "How so?"
"She has lost a treasured keepsake. A bracelet, you may have seen it. Her mother wore it. She says there was something lurking in the bushes and the bracelet got caught on a twig as she retreated. Eldir says he might have killed it but the bracelet was not found."
"What manner of thing did Eldir slay?"
"A critter of sorts. And now, of all days! I would ask you, Torwen, take my men. They will show you the way. I'm afraid Eldir I cannot spare, not tonight, though he has gotten it into his head that he should go back. Find the bracelet if you can, Torwen. Make sure the critters shan't disturb us again."
It was a feral smile that graced Torwen's lips.
"As you command."
Thranduil King was already at his second helping of salad and the Marchwarden had not yet finished his tale of how he built his rather extravagant house after having defeated a host of enemies that grew larger with every mushroom he ate. And Thranduil had never seen so many mushrooms at a dinner table in all the long years of his immortal life.
The weather had kept for his visit, so Thranduil had insisted on dining on the terrace, which offered a nice view of the Clearing and its people. The Marchwarden had not been thrilled, but Lirael had smiled approvingly. She had a fetching smile, honest and warm, and her beauty shone brighter for it.
The Clearing was also not without its soft kind of beauty. These were gentle folk, but with a heart of steel underneath their bright smiles and merry disposition. Truly, Thranduil marveled at their resilience. The borderlands were dark, perilous realms, but here, his people had built a strong, enduring home. The air was full of clean Elven magic.
"Pray, tell me, young Eldir, what is the name of the pretty little thing that has captured your heart and your attention for the night?"
Eldir paled and his uncle sputtered, but Lirael answered smoothly: "She is Mirael, of the House under the Tree. And Eldir hopes to make us happy with news of their union soon enough, isn't that right, cousin?"
"Ah, a wedding! A joyous event! We have been rather shy of these of late, but young Eldir seems off to a good start. We hope to have more of such events and soon, my King, do you not agree?" Lord Calaron did not do subtlety very well, but seeing as he was the most enthusiastic in his retinue, Thranduil merely arched a perfectly condescending eyebrow and returned his attention to Eldir.
"So you wish to marry the maiden Mirael?" The poor boy had been shooting her looks all throughout dinner, but the little sprite had not seemed impressed. She had gazed in open admiration at Thranduil for a while, until she had furrowed her brows and turned her nose skywards in a gesture so childish and sincere she had made Thranduil smile. "What does she say of it?"
"Nothing," Elwen replied. "My brother has not asked her yet."
"Is there an impediment?"
Lirael snorted and her father sputtered some more. Thranduil reached behind the Marchwarden's back with his long arm and gave him a hearty pat between his shoulder blades. "Must be the mushrooms, Marchwarden, do be careful."
Down below, Mirael was laughing, her tiny face alight with merriment.
In the distance, a horn rang, signaling the return of a border patrol. Thranduil watched carefully as Mirael sprang to her feet, ran across the bridge and stood there waiting.
"The patrols…" the Marchwarden began.
"They are returning rather early," Elwen also rose, excusing herself and fleeing down the steps.
"Problems, Marchwarden?" Thranduil enquired. There was a restlessness growing inside himself. There was magic here, strong Elven magic that could not come from the Marchwarden. That much had been clear to the King for a long time. The heart of the Clearing was not inside the white halls of the Marchwarden's tree house, but it dwelt in the small house under the oak, with banners as red as blood, a colour which put Thranduil's heart on a watchful guard.
"I should not think so."
"Hm. Most intriguing." For a moment, the Marchwarden looked more convinced than he had looked for most part of Thranduil's visit there.
In the Clearing below, Elves were peeping from windows and doors and Mirael had vanished in the darkness beyond. But as the company drew near, Thranduil could hear a woman's singing, a melancholy melody, but strong enough to reach them in the Clearing.
Lark, oh, skylark,
what has come over you?
Singing on the plains,
alone in the cornfield,
without your companion?
It's come over me
since last year,
when I made my nest
in a furrow made by the plough.
The plough didn't know,
it tore up my nest,
my chicks were all dead.
So I set out
to fly in the wind,
so I can hit the ground
and die sooner myself.
On a large grey horse, a hooded rider entered the Clearing. It had Mirael perched in the front and a crown of twigs and wild roses hanging from the saddle. It crossed the bridge at a trot and Elwen stepped down to meet them. Mirael hopped off and took hold of the reins as the rider bowed to whisper to Elwen and hand her a glittering jewel. Thranduil could now see that there was a red piece of cloth wrapped around the rider's thigh and Elwen touched it gently. The rider laughed, a rich, throaty sound, and dismounted, a bit wobbly on the right foot.
"The jewel I give to you, Elwen fair, and my thanks to Eldir. He did a stellar job slaying that animal. Pity it had cousins. As for my little Mira, behold, a crown. It's the latest fashion. I made it myself, while I waited for this unfortunate bleeding to stop. You can go ahead and wear it as you like, but, I beg you, stop looking so smitten. As for me, a beggar I come at my own door. Feed me, for God's sake, pour me a drop of wine and send me to my rest. I have had enough for one day."
Her voice had not changed over the years. It still held the same cool control, even as she jested and mocked, that kept the storm at bay. Torwen hurt.
"Marchwarden…"
"…yes, my King…"
"Pour me a glass of wine. I feel a thirst coming."
Dawn broke with remarkable bravery for Torwen's foul mood. It had been a shallow cut, but a scratch was all it took to let the poison unbalance even the most resilient of Elves. Unfortunately for Torwen, the antidote Elwen made sure to prepare for all was strong enough to knock out a raging bull. In consequence, the wound had healed beautifully, but Torwen's head was a symphony of orc battle drums. She had ordered a clear broth from the kitchen and now she was sitting forlornly in the solar looking at her pitiful reflection in the yellow liquid.
"My lady Torwen!"
"Eldir, not so loud, if you please. It is rather early in the morning."
"It is almost noon, milady."
Torwen shot him an aggravated look, but Eldir, dressed radiantly in gold cloth, smiled his way through it. The Elf bowed.
"My Lady Torwen, I humbly request an audience with your serenity."
"My serenity is indisposed. Can it wait?" That should send him running, Torwen thought, but Eldir simply smiled again, an obnoxiously toothy grin.
"I'm afraid it cannot. You see, I have come here to marry."
That stunned Torwen into perfect clarity. She rose swiftly, almost knocking down the tableware. "You cannot, I'm not dressed for the occasion! Mira," Torwen shouted, "my silver tunic! No! The green robe with that nice iridescent pattern! Wait! What am I doing?"
"Getting dressed?" Eldir supplied helpfully.
"Child, will you have my Mira?" Torwen asked earnestly.
Eldir nodded with much enthusiasm.
"Mira," Torwen turned to a bewildered Mirael, who was clutching her Lady's favourite silver robe with the dark red lining, "this man would have you as his wife. What say you?"
Mirael was mute. Torwen would have none of it, though.
"Mirael, I have my heart set on celebrating a union at the upcoming feast. Blame it on the Marchwarden, he put the idea in my head. We are low on mushrooms, true, but I have a barrel of fine vintage wine that I've been saving for a special occasion. I'd rather not wait a lifetime to sample it, so be quick. Aye or nay?"
"Why must this be a competition?" Mirael asked meaningfully.
"It's not a competition if I win. It's called a victory. Petty and small, but a victory nonetheless. I crave it."
"We have the King's blessing, if that's what fashes you", Eldir added, his smile undimmed.
"See, you have the King's…What?!"
"He's the one who encouraged me to come and ask you. He said my lady Torwen would not object to our union. He seemed quite certain. Most definitely¸ he said. He insisted I do it today, even."
"Most extraordinary!" Master Glaewon walked into the solar. "How easily our King sees into the hearts of his people." His face was serious, but his eyes were full of mirth. "Mirael, do not keep the realm waiting. Will you marry Eldir of the Clearing?"
Mirael burst out laughing, but there was a tender feeling in her dark eyes. "Aye, I'll marry him! One can hardly displease a King."
Eldir bowed and blushed and would have disposed with propriety altogether had Torwen not erupted: "That still counts as my victory! He will be married before the King!"
Across the Clearing, high up, in the Marchwarden's house, Thranduil, Elven King of Mirkwood, sitting on the terrace, his keen senses on high alert, conceded Torwen her precious victory.
Unlike Torwen, Thranduil had woken up in a terribly good mood. Favourable prospects always motivated Thranduil. With Torwen finally accounted for and at his mercy, the borders safe and the Marchwarden's wine fairly palatable, Thranduil was anticipating a marvelous conclusion to his visit. Naturally, Lord Calaron had been highly suspicious of this Red Torwen, but Lirael, bless her, had sung her praises to the high heavens. It did not matter. Thranduil had little love for courtiers and even less patience, a fact Calaron was well aware of. He shut up right after breakfast.
Thranduil had allowed Torwen's little sprite what happiness was in his power to give, but once the little house under the oak tree had settled down, he had donned his light armour, called for his horse, rode it across the same bridge Torwen had come in last night and in his best battlefield voice, ordered "Torwen! To me!"
It did not take long for the grey horse and its rider to follow.
"My King."
"I would look upon this beast that broke your skin. I will not have more of its ilk in my lands."
"Follow me, my King."
Thranduil followed.
"You may speak to me, Torwen. The bad sentiments between us are long behind us now."
Thranduil was met with the same stony silence that had graced the best part of their journey back to the Clearing.
"You may also thank me. I saved your life. I have the wound to prove it."
That riled her up. "Wounds you would not have incurred…" Torwen hissed, " …had you but listened. You never listen!"
"And you never obey. What an unfortunate pair we make."
"I had the damn thing in my line of shot."
"Hardly. You're terrible with a bow."
"That is not the point! You are my King! You do not get to risk your life uselessly, when I had everything under control!"
They'd been having the same argument since Torwen had viciously stripped him of his pierced armour and poured liberal amounts of healing salve between threats, curses and some of the most foul insults ever to come out of the mouths of Elves. That had been hours ago.
Now, they came upon a stream and Thranduil led his horse to the water.
"The Clearing is not far ahead."
"We stop here. This bandage of yours is beginning to seep."
Thranduil dismounted and sat on a rock nearby. The armour had not been salvageable, so that was gone, but Thranduil took off his ruined tunic and his soiled undershirt. He poked at the wound in his shoulder and found the pain to be manageable. It had not been the tragedy Torwen made it out to be. Thranduil lamented though the loss of his silver undershirt. It had been one of his favourites. He regretted having chosen it for his ride in the morning, but he had been overcome by a desire to impress. He hadn't thought of battling giant spiders when he'd picked it out and now it was too late.
The tunic he might be yet able to repair, so with that encouraging thought in mind, he unraveled the bandage and called: "Torwen, come here."
When there was no movement behind him, Thranduil looked over his bare shoulder. Torwen's eyes had grown huge on her face. Her chest was rising and falling in an erratic cadence and had Thranduil been a lesser Elf, he might have feared for his life. Or his honour. He was preparing to tease her about in when Torwen cocked her head to the side and narrowed her gold eyes. "Isn't it some kind of treason to witness the King in such state of undress?"
Thranduil thought about it for a moment. "I do not think so. Though I'm rather curious as to what sort of explanation you'll come up with when you return your King to the Clearing half naked and bloody."
"Then put that thing on!" Torwen jabbed a finger in the direction of his dark tunic.
"Anon. I need you here first."
Torwen marched angrily in front of Thranduil and clenched her fists to her sides. Even seated, Thranduil seemed to tower over her, the ends of his silver and gold hair tinted black and red by blood and dirt.
Thranduil looked her once over. Gone was the deceiver with the hacked up hair and pale gold eyes. Gone was also the Lady at the Havens, watching her family depart for lands of bliss she had forsaken. In Silvan garb, swords and daggers and a gilded quiver of arrows sparkling in the Sun, Torwen looked strong and capable in her own true right. Her hair had grown long, but it still had the same unusual thickness and colouring. The Red Lady indeed. Thranduil was tempted to pull on one of her heavy forelocks, just to test its weight and texture.
"Well?"
"Unclench your fists for starters and fetch me some water from the stream."
Torwen huffed but did as she was bidden.
"Try not to spill it, please."
In the cup of her hands, Torwen returned with cool spring water. Thranduil took her small hands into his and closed his eyes, murmuring a prayer. Torwen's hands were soft, softer than he'd thought anything about her was, and the water kept within had made them cold. Thranduil's vigorous magic seeped into her, a heat wave that made Torwen dizzy.
Thranduil opened his clear blue eyes, raised her hands to his lips and drank the sparkling liquid. Torwen watched fascinated as his bruised and cut shoulder shivered and shimmered and the flesh turned pale and perfect once more. There was a speckling of freckles where the spider had caught him, but nothing to indicate there having ever been a wound.
Torwen raised her hand to touch it, but she wouldn't dare. It still shimmered slightly in the light of the sun. Thranduil wrapped his fingers around hers and pressed her palm to his skin. It was warm and Thranduil's immortal spirit thrummed steadily under her touch.
"It is the gift of my Father and my Father's Father and so forth, down from the Kings of Doriath. I do not gamble with my life, Torwen. Nor with that of my people."
"Forgive me, my King." Torwen bowed her head humbly. "For everything."
Thranduil tightened his hold on her hand and spoke:
"I have forgiven you long ago. Your life is precious to me, Torwen. You are precious to me, Torwen the Unbroken."
Thranduil had never seen fear in Torwen's eyes but he fancied he was witnessing it now. He did not release her hand and with his other he cupped her startled face.
"Now you fear me? When I would give you my heart? It is you who will not listen and I who would not obey. Had I done so, I would have pledged you my life, my realm and all the love I have within me to give on that damn battlefield, so many years ago. My heart spoke true then, but I would not heed it. Now you must listen to it. Hear it beat. It calls for you. It always has. It is your magic that brought me here. Your magic that built this place where I might find peace and you again."
"Peace? We almost died today and for what? A whim. This is folly, my King. This is not love. There is no magic in me. You…you cannot…"
"Love is madness, Torwen, my precious one. You might find this swift, but I have had years to think on it. I have been patient. I have waited. For you to stop pushing those who love you away."
Torwen ripped her hand away and pushed back.
"Your words are poison."
"Yes, they are, sweet and lethal. Rage away, Torwen. Let the storm free if you must. We are not Men. Our hearts are not confused. If it is a fight you wish, I would give it to you gladly."
"You are out of your mind. What are you doing?" Thranduil had risen and the look in his eyes turned cold.
"You have had your victories, I would have mine." He was upon her with a sword in a flash of silver and gold. Torwen parried on instinct, but the blows Thranduil rained on her were relentless. There was a pain blossoming in Torwen's chest and tears had sprung to her eyes.
"What is this pain? Why are you doing this?"
"This…" Thranduil viciously hammered her down, "…is hatred, Torwen. Anger. Disappointment. You want it? For I will not have it!"
Torwen's sword plopped in the shallow water with a silver wail and Torwen herself fell to her knees, whipping furiously at her tears. "Why does this hurt so much?" she sobbed.
"Because my love is real and you know it. Come to me now, Torwen, end our suffering. We have both waited so long."
Torwen flew into Thranduil's open arms and cried miserably into his chest. He held her tight, burying his head into her thick red hair. "Torwen, my unbroken one, you have bewitched me, body and soul. I am yours for all the ages of this world."
Torwen looked up at him, her fingers tangled in his hair. In the light of the setting sun, it shone with pure fire. She rose, then, to meet his lips and whisper softly: "Take this pain away from me now. If this is your hate, I do not want it." Thranduil smiled, kissing her firmly on her brow before sweeping in for a hungry, soul searing kiss. "My Torwen". he said, tasting the salt of her tears on her lips, the secret fragrance behind her delicate, pointy ears, the soft skin of her neck, her warm, sweet mouth again, "my Red Queen."
Our love is a boiling ocean, a forest on fire, stars colliding over the seas.
Our love is sharp and sweet, silver music and blades at play, red as blood, golden as the sun. Our love shall endure
The dimming of the world, the twilight of the gods
the fall of the moon and the eruption of the sun.
Our love is beyond wrath,
Beyond ruin,
Eternal and forever bright.
…
A/N: The song Torwen sings upon entering the Clearing is a Romanian folk song. You can find it in its original version if you type in Maria Lataretu – Lie Ciorcarlie into YouTube. That's the song that was playing in my head when I wrote this. I'd also like to thank all the nice people who added this story to their favourites or simply followed it, TheGirlFromTheStars, FantasyLover2004, darkbutterbiscuit, Ibelieveinhappyendings, and all my silent readers. Don't forget to drop a line in a Review. I'd like to read your thoughts in the upcoming year. That being said…
HAPPY NEW YEAR!