DISCLAIMER: if you recognise it, it's not mine
An unexpected courtship
She dreamt she was a child again, with her Lady Mother, visiting the wood's witch. An ancient thing the Silvan witch was, with skin as pale as moonlight and flowers growing in her deep brown hair. Her eyes were marble white, yet she spoke first upon their arrival:
"So you would bring blood and flame to the ruin of my house?" Her voice had been thunderous under the canopy of tall oaks and twisted birch. It had startled her Mother, who was still new to this woodland realm and its eery ways.
But her Mother was a Princess of Doriath and she soon composed herself: "I bring only good will and the fruits of our harvest, sister. I seek but wisdom in return, as is your custom." Her Mother's Silvan speech was flawless, as was everything about her.
"The fruits of your harvest indeed", the witch laughed not a laugh, but a sorrowful sort of cackle. "Have you ever seen, Lady, the mists above a lake deep in the forest green? Their dance is slow and steady in the dying night, but soon as the sun breaches the sky, first red, then golden upon the water, they scatter and vanish like vanquished wraiths. You are the mist, Lady, grey as a shadow in a world of bliss. But your child is the sun over these woods..."
"My son...," her Mother whispered with love and pride. A golden son she had brought forth into the world and, later on, a red daughter, but the bulk of her affections had always lain with the former rather than the latter.
"...is a walking shadow on this realm," the wood's witch hissed impatiently to the mounting horror in her Mother's starlit eyes. "It is this child you bring with you now who will have a son when her sun is set. And long shall be our night, before her son makes the sun rise again."
The wood's witch turned her blind eyes away from them then and would see them no longer. Her Mother, her light all but fading, left her offerings and nearly fled but the child would not forgive so easily. She wrenched her hand free of her Mother's grasp and grabbed a handful of flowers from the witch's hair. "Why did you frighten her so? She came here to honour you! Do not turn your back on us and hide behind your evil crafted words! Say you're sorry!"
She had been so small then, not nearly close enough to her prime, but the Silvan witch had spoken to her spirit when next she had said, in the Sindarin of her Mother's house: "She has no great love for you, the late red child of her womb, and yet you defend her, your world-weary mother. But you are one of us now, Torwen, Maiden of the Great Greenwood. Your old name from Doriath has no power here."
The witch looked at Torwen's beautiful, pale Mother and thanked her for the gifts. "They are well received, Lady. What wisdom I can give you is late in coming, but to Torwen I give the leaf blades," and the witch produced two leaves from her hair, "and the wind so she may ride upon it", and when she blew on the leaves they rose into the air. "Go with your Lady Mother now, child. The hour is late and your brother returns from his hunt."
Torwen never saw the Silvan witch again, but that night, long ago, when little Torwen had lain in her bed, the witch's voice had sung to her:
Blood is in your hair and fire in your eyes. I give you two swords for blood and for the fire, the wind to ride above it.
It was supposed to be an uneventful journey. The summons had arrived the week before, a royal sealed piece of parchment with Thranduil's very own bold silver script etched upon it, entreating Torwen of the Last House of Doriath to grace the court with her presence. Mirael had brought the letter herself, snatching it from the bewildered hands of the messenger and, taking two steps at a time, delivered it to Torwen.
"From the King," she'd said, breathlessly.
"The King is clearly mad! I do not know what manner of sickness has come upon him, but he is not well. What grace have I? My sole quality lies in my stellar ability of laughing at him without other people noticing. What kind of King would suffer that?" Torwen had ranted and raved the hundredth time she had read the letter, carefully tracing each silver loop.
Come to me now and end our suffering.
And she had gone to him, into his strong arms, into his powerful magic, even though Torwen had never known the kind of love Thranduil spoke of. The affection her ethereal mother had shared with her gentle father had been more of a falling out of love with the world around them and a falling in love with the idea of the two of them together. Her beautiful brother had basked in their adoration, leaving a young Torwen with an untapped pool of love she had no notion what to do with.
In her youth, Torwen had hopped that, should she be able to protect the happiness of her family, she would be loved in return, if only selfishly so. She had sheltered her mother from the Silvan ways she did not comprehend, her father from her mother's increasing weariness with the world, and her brother from the wolf of loneliness that howled within Torwen's own heart. And yet, each of them had left her, content in the knowledge that Torwen's strength would shield her from the sorrow they had succumbed to.
In their wake, now truly alone in a world under the shadow of evil, Torwen had fallen back on her old ways and fought. She had fought to save her world from shadow and death, her realm from the tendrils of the dying dark, and the pure silver gold light of Thranduil's reign of taint.
But Thranduil was her King, that was her duty. In Dagorlad, however, she had chosen his company to fight in. She had told herself it was only in return of the kindness he had done her in the Havens when he had acknowledged her decision to stay. But now, her heart whispered that she had long favoured Thranduil above all others.
"And why should I not?" Torwen scolded herself. Elven men were a handsome lot, but the tall King of Greenwood with his hair of sun and stars was truly beautiful. Maidens across the realm swooned at the mere mention of his name and not a few young lordlings as well. Thranduil was a skilled commander, a deadly warrior and a just, if only overly cautious King. What could such a great Elf Lord see in her?
Torwen the Unbroken, the defiant, the deceiver.
She had no aptitude for censoring her words, and she was far more reckless than she was wise. Despite her Mother's best efforts, her lady-ing ways lacked much to be desired and the only place where Torwen truly felt proficient was on a battlefield. But Thranduil was not speaking of battles and war when he called her to him. He spoke of them building a home, protecting the realm. Together. He spoke of need and love and Torwen wanted to hit something.
"We leave for the capital at dawn," she'd barked her orders at a ridiculously content Glaewon. "I will teach our King some reason!" Surely, whatever ailment had plagued him in the Clearing had been killed stone dead in his great big halls. Did he not have advisers? Did he never listen?
"Torwen…" master Glaewon came to her. "Child of wonder, look at me."
She was packing furiously, hurling things on top of each other, before she realized that perhaps it would not do to make an appearance clad in border rags, even if she was trying to make a point. She started unpacking, right around the time Glaewon ran short on patience.
"Torwen!"
"What!"
"Oh, Eru is mighty! I'd rather reason with a Dwarf!"
Torwen flung a sash at him, but it just fluttered in the air, landing forlornly at their feet. Glaewon snickered and took Torwen's hands in his, the little hands he had watched over since birth.
"Love is not a weakness, my child. You do not have to be ever strong. Ever mistrustful. Ever afraid that the love we carry for you might vanish into thin air. Tall are the walls you have built around your heart, Torwen the Unbroken. But I know my King. He will prevail. Fight if you must, but do not fight so hard."
"He says the same," Torwen grudgingly admitted.
"Then there must be some truth in our words. If hearts were as easily commanded as armies, perhaps it might have been our fair Lirael now receiving these summons. But they are not. It is you he wants. It is you the realm needs. Not a silent, pretty queen, but a Queen people would die for. A Queen worth fighting for."
"He does not know me."
"Then you do not know yourself."
He had left her then, to prepare for the journey ahead. A small company of Elves and Mirael travelled with her, for the Marchwarden, feeling cheated, but unwilling to incur the King's displeasure, had ordered that no future daughter of his House – and looking pointedly at Mirael, he'd scoffed – would go to the capital unattended.
"Rejoice, Mira-child. You're travelling in style!"
That had put Torwen in better spirits, as they set out on the Green Road to the Elvenking's Halls. This deep into the Greenwood, the forest still breathed a fresh air, but a shadow was creeping in at its edges. Astride her grey horse, Torwen rode ahead, her keen senses on high alert, as a peculiar restlessness gripped her heart tightly. They had taken the safer road, but Torwen was beginning to regret it. Something was amiss.
"Mirael!"
"Yes, Lady!" Mirael was rode her mare alongside her Lady.
"It occurred to me that we're doing this wrong. I remember my Lady Mother distinctly saying that a Lady of Doriath never arrives anywhere like a common Elf. So, take your company of Elves and ride ahead and let the Halls know Thranduil's would be Queen will grace them with her presence. I will not tarry long behind you."
"Milady, you cannot mean to…"
"I mean to take only a dozen of your men. Just to make sure the announcement of my betrothal will not summon ill guests. Now off you go. Do make sure to say nice things about me."
Torwen left Mirael's company with strict orders to make haste for the capital and, with her own men, took the longer road around the border. The further they strayed from the Green Road, the thicker the air grew and death and decay were brown and grey marks upon the Greenwood's once mighty brow. Even lessened and destroyed evil cast its dying breath upon the Woodland Realm.
With nightfall, the wraith like mists of the woods spread across the land and Torwen and company halted and camped under the trees. Torwen could not rest, but she dreamt. And feared.
Have you ever seen, Lady, the mists above a lake deep in the forest green?
It was the sound of broken wood and broken horns that woke Torwen from her stupor.
"Elves are in danger!"
They saddled up and rode hard beyond the tree line. "Fire, Lady, up ahead." But Torwen would not slow down. They sped through the oncoming wall of smoke and flame, their swords drawn like bolts of blue lighting in the night. Up ahead, trees had been uprooted and from behind their twisted branches, goblin mercenaries popped out, hissing and screeching. But the Elves on their steeds were border lords, christened in battle, with the Red Lady at the helm, and they left dark, murky blood and the corpses of the fallen in their wake.
"Halt!" Behind her, her dozen Elves lined up, bows ready. In front of her, the battled raged on. Retreating packs of orcs were not uncommon in these parts, but the filth carried beasts of war with them, made mad by the song of Elvish blades and the fire. Trapped in a ravine, the ambushed Elves were holding their own, but between the mindless giants, hurling around chains of heavy iron, and the goblins shooting poison arrows from the cover of the trees, they were at a disadvantage.
"Who among you here is the best shot?" Torwen demanded.
The voice that answered was young and feeble, but there was a hint of steel underneath it.
"You ride with me. The rest of you clear a path for us in the fray. We're going for those monsters."
The archer mounted Torwen's grey, the string of his bow strumming in Torwen's ears.
"I want your thickest shafts right in the big one's flank."
"The one with the chains?"
"The very one."
"That will not kill it, milady."
"Don't worry. I will."
The mists cleared in Torwen's mind, as they always did in battle. The light of Elves and deeper shadows of the enemy blurred and dimmed, until all she could see was her mark.
"On my mark…"
The path was unfurling in front of her.
"Wait…"
The grey was the wind to carry her above the carnage.
"Wait…"
The path was cleared and Torwen flew.
"Now!"
A volley of arrows hailed Torwen's descent into battle.
At breakneck speed, Torwen's sword was a flash, nothing more, weaving in and around the battlefield, hacking, slashing, killing her way to the mark. The chains whirled above her head, as Torwen maneuvered the horse with nearly impossible turns. At her back, the young archer's arrows were hitting home, until the giant's flanks were a pincushion of Elvish shafts, but the tight dance they were doing around the beast was making it difficult for Torwen to take advantage of her charge's marksmanship.
"Take the reigns!"
"What?!"
"Hold on!"
Torwen pulled the reigns and as the horse reared, and the giant turned to crush them, she grabbed one of the shafts in its side and hoisted herself up. She grappled for another and another till the din of the battle below was nothing more than whistle of winds. Giant and Elf twirled gracelessly together, but with a final push, Torwen firmly planted her feet upon its greasy shoulders and drove her blade into its skull. Giving it a twist and gaining momentum, Torwen crashed the chain wielding monster into its equally monstrous kin, as a horde of orcs descended upon her.
With a mighty heave, she wrenched her sword free and would have dove at her assailants with a roar, had they not been whisked away by giant antlers and decapitated with a single flick of Thranduil's blade.
Dawn spilled red and gold upon the battlefield and with it the clear sounds of an Elf horn. All around her, the King's company was driving back the enemy as the King himself was a whirlwind of silver, raining death upon those who would come against him.
Not one to be undone, Torwen released her other sword and followed those who'd try to make a run for the woods. Their heads fell like dark hail upon the blood drenched ground. Within moments, victory was theirs. Still on her grey horse, the archer, a blonde, pale youth, trotted to her side.
"Lady…"
"TORWEN!"
The thunder of Thranduil's voice shook the clearing. He was circling around, a storm in his eyes, as he scouted the field for her. A nightmare she'd seemed to him, riding the foul beast, and when the two monsters clashed, he'd lost sight of her red hair and thought he'd almost lost his minds. Torwen was in the Clearing, or on the Green Road on her way to the capital, not in the middle of this accursed battle. But then, he saw her again, clear as the new day, facing a score of orcs and that was the precise moment all reason left him. He charged into the fray without thinking and no kill had ever felt as good.
When he saw her slowly advancing towards him, Thranduil felt something very dangerous arrest his heart. Her red hair was singed and her blades were drawn and bloody. He searched her eyes, battle pale and cold, and wished the world away so that he could take her and keep her and never let her go.
Torwen sheathed her swords and came closer, seemingly entranced by his mount. His battle elk was a thing of beauty, true, but surely it didn't warrant such attention. Carefully ducking out of reach of the massive antlers, Torwen came to his side and before Thranduil could utter a word, either in reprimand or in gladness, he wasn't quite sure, she laid her head against his thigh and tiredly whispered: "Let's go home."
"A patrol chanced upon the retreating host, remnants most likely from the great battle, half starved and mad with deprivation. We would have had them too if those great beasts hadn't fallen upon us," the captain of the ambushed elf company was reporting to his King. Thranduil would have carved his heart out, such was the anger festering inside him at the thought of Torwen in danger, of the sheer luck that he had been so near, out on a hunting party. But, beside him, Torwen was enjoying a late supper of lembas and ginger marmalade, so he schooled his features into everything that was gracious, patient and forgiving.
"Spawn of Gundabad, most likely," Torwen remarked. "And evil does not travel alone. These borders of ours must be strengthened. I fear the shadow has moved on from the south."
"As the King commands."
Torwen smiled at the bristling captain and smeared more marmalade on her lembas bread. "I'm sure he will. In fact, I'm going to leave you, so that he can do just that. I have my own men to tend to and there is an Elfling among them who is quite past his bedtime. If you'll excuse me, my lords."
As soon as Torwen took her lembas out the tent, Thranduil loosened the reigns on his anger and thundered away at his captain: "Twelve Elves and my betrothed saved your life and the lives of your men tonight! Twelve Elves and one of them no better than a suckling babe!"
"My King, I did not know…"
"You did not know!" Thranduil hissed. "If it moves, lives and breathes on my lands, you know of it! And you tell me! Now be gone! Look to your men. And make sure you thank Lady Torwen for her assistance. It is on her account I feel inclined to show you mercy today. But there will be other tomorrows which may not bide favourably for you."
The captain made a hasty exit and still Thranduil could not find peace. This was Dagorlad all over again, the impossible reconciliation between the horrible realization that his best warrior was Torwen and his need to keep her safe. In his head he knew and trusted Torwen's battle prowess, but in his heart, the love he had for her was a vicious animal clawing at his tattered logic. He couldn't fathom a world without Torwen, without her resolute nature, her loyalty, the bright light of her spirit. He'd known it since the Havens. Torwen belonged. He couldn't let her go.
"Where is she?" Thranduil demanded of the skulking guard posted at the entrance to his tent.
"Heading for the stables, my King."
Thranduil followed.
She was talking to his elk.
"These are my apples, because I'm hungry. These are your apples, because I gave them to you. It's only fair. Now, don't you moo at me or you'll be having no apples!"
He came upon her from behind and enveloped her in a tight, cloaked embrace. Her head fit right under his chin.
"Are we making friends, beloved?"
Torwen shivered slightly in his arms.
"How is it that you ride an elk in battle and I must contend with a mere horse?"
"But you do wonders with a horse. Or so I'm told."
"Well, yes, naturally. But still…"
"He is yours for the asking, my love," Thranduil smiled in her hair.
"I don't think he likes me, though."
Thranduil stilled at the sadness creeping into her voice. He had an inkling she was no longer talking about the elk.
"I like you. Is that not enough?"
"For the realm? Hardly."
Thranduil turned her into his arms and lifted her face to his. "I will tell you a secret, my precious Torwen. As a King who has learnt from Kings." Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair and cupped her delicate ears. "Men do not need to like you to follow you. But they need to follow you for you to be King. Your men followed you into the unknown tonight, without question or hesitation or pause. In a way, for them, you were their King."
He kissed her, softly touching their lips together. His great, big love, so strong and true.
"I have sent riders ahead," Thranduil said when he felt Torwen finally resting her head against his chest, " to let the realm know I bring with me a victorious Queen."
"Very accurate, that," Torwen said sleepily, her entire frame slowly relaxing as Thranduil spun his soothing magic around her.
"This victory comes at a cost, though. A terrible cost, in truth."
"Hmmm…"
"You will be a lonely Queen for a little while, as I make preparations for the day of our betrothal. I would have nothing spoil it. No border wars, no rampaging Torwens riding giant trolls. Just you and me and the beginning of our happiness together."
In his arms, Torwen nodded, slipping quietly into a land of peaceful, happy dreams.
"They do not like us," Mirael whispered while her Lady was dinning in the Elvenking's Halls.
"They do not know us," Torwen replied, sipping on a rather tasteless broth.
"We are not welcome here." There was a strange air of finality in Mirael's words that did not sit well with Torwen.
She put the spoon down and looked at Mirael. The young one looked proper and nice in her fine gown, her hair braided in a fanciful new style that Torwen found becoming. But her grave brown eyes shone with laughter and mischief no more. Torwen understood how one as tiny as Mirael might feel in these great underground Halls, especially when they were sat at a table alone for the second night in a row. In the Clearing, meals had been happy times, to jest and rejoice and catch up with the comings and goings of her small household under the oak.
As soon as they had passed the Elven Kingdom's Gates, Thranduil had been assaulted by his kingly duties and Torwen had scarcely seen him since. He wanted everything to be ready for the feast of their betrothal, but if that meant he'd work himself into obscurity, Torwen would have welcomed a few rampant surprises instead.
Looking at the broth she had been brought, nourishing, but bland, and at Mirael's increasing skittishness, and at the lonely halls around her, Torwen marched into action. "You are right, they do not like us. Let's go."
Torwen picked up her plate, and rose with a screech of her chair. "Mira-child, if you'd be so kind. To the kitchens."
Mirael led the way, sprinting past the dazzled guards, down the steps, Torwen following carefully behind, in her long flowing robe, desperately trying not to trip. "This wardrobe is a menace! Who put all these stairs here? I don't recall having gone up this way earlier. And why are there so few lights? It is murkier here than my soup. You there!" Torwen addressed a solemn guard, "Fetch me a torch. I shall break my neck down these steps."
"He cannot answer, milady. He is carved of stone." Torwen stopped to peer intently and true enough, the guard was not just still as a statue, he was a statue. "Extraordinary. Most lifelike," she marveled.
"Would milady want me to hold her plate?" Torwen was engrossed in feeling the details of the statue, the contours of the helmet, the scales of its armour. She gave it then a good knock and when she was satisfied that it would not knock back, she moved on. "No, no, I'm fine. How far are these kitchens of mine though? No wonder the food's cold. It'd probably be warmer if they shipped it from Valinor."
"Not long now, milady."
The royal kitchens were a far brighter and warmer affair than the rest of the Halls. There was the usual clinging and clanging of pots and pans, but there were also voices and snippets of song coming from within.
"Stand aside, Mirael."
Torwen straightened to her full height, gathered her robe around her and stepped in, holding the plate as an offering.
"Greetings, my fair folk. Dinner was lovely this evening. Any chance of dessert?"
It was increasingly hard for Torwen to keep a straight face at the shock and confusion her words were met with. Kitchen maids and off duty guards paused in their toils and a young elven-maiden kept pouring wine in an overflowing goblet at the sight of the Red Lady standing in their midst.
"Careful. That's going to stain," Torwen pointed at the rivulet of wine streaming down the table.
As if by magic, the Elves regrouped, the men standing at attention, the women bowing deeply, all of them pink faced and ashamed.
"Well, this is going marvelously," Torwen muttered under her breath. She was just about to dismiss them when something red and shiny caught her eye. "Ah. Apples!" And a basketful of them too, big, fat, juicy apples reddening near the fire. "Don't mind if I do." Torwen dropped the plate and picked an apple, taking a bite out of it with a satisfying crunch. All eyes in the room followed her closely. Around a mouthful of apple, Torwen entreated "Please, sit." The Elves stared back at her in bewilderment.
"Sit!"
As one, the Elves sat.
"Now, Mirael, bring that chair closer. I would have the names of those who have prepared such glorious food this evening."
Three apples and a pie later, Torwen was acquainted with all her kitchen staff, half the chamber maids, most of the stable guards and the first watch at the Gates as they rotated down for the night. More and more Elves came pouring down into the vast kitchens, to see their King's betrothed diving into her second pie of the evening and filling cups and goblets with wine and cider. She conversed freely with them, remembering names and faces and deeds with such ease that it astounded them. Hers was a fierce kind of beauty, not at all what they had imagined their Queen would be like. The fires cast a web of flame into her red hair, as the Lady moved around the place, toasting with one, jesting with another, learning of her people's happiness and sorrow. Her eyes were a brown so light, it appeared pale golden and her gaze was steadfast and true. She had a hearty laugh and the Elves felt merry around her.
"Now, you know these Halls better than I do," she said in her clear, strong voice that made her heard over the racket of Elves, "but, I swear, I crossed three kingdoms and a courtyard to get here. If I had descended lower, I would've surely ended it up in hobbit hole, on the other side of Middle-earth." The Elves laughed all around her. "There must be a lesser, warmer, hall where I might have my meals. Preferably closer to the kitchens. Truthfully, I would much rather dine here, but I'm afraid that might insult your delicate sensibilities." There was a chorus of noos and Elvish huffs and puffs, until the Captain of the First Watch said: "Her Ladyship is to be Queen. Her Ladyship cannot eat in the shadows of the kitchen."
"So I'm to eat in the shadows of the Hall? That would displease me." Torwen paused dramatically. "Deeply."
"Perhaps the Small Council Room?" a brown-haired maid pipped in. Torwen cheered her on: "There's a good girl. Small! I like the sound of that." There was some debate among the Elves – quite small, most unfitting, such dust – until the Captain proposed that her Ladyship see it with her own eyes and judge.
At Torwen's enthusiastic consent, lamps were produced and half the royal household led the Lady to the old part of the Halls, where King Oropher had held his court long ago. The Small Council Room was a favourite haunt of his, but it had not been used in quite some time, as the Halls had been expanded. "Oropher King moved to the upper halls long before the war. This is more of a…cupboard now," the Captain explained sheepishly, as he looked around at the many things that had been stored there over the years.
"A rather large cupboard," Torwen whispered in awe. The room was kingly, that much had to be said. Pillars hewn of living stone supported a starlit ceiling high above the blue patterned floors. "Are those gems? In the ceiling?"
"Aye. Our Old King was fond of…"
"Pretty shinning things?"
The Captain's face reddened perceptibly. There was silver twine wrapped around the pillars that cast a warm light when the braziers were lit.
"If my Lady wishes, I could have the hearth cleaned and a table brought here."
Other Elves were milling around the place, talking about replacing curtains and polishing the floors and maybe some flowers? Plans of dusting and airing were put forth and the kitchen maids were thinking of pulling out the old silverware for a change.
All of a sudden, Torwen felt a good sort of magic taking over the place. Not the great sort of magic, but the ordinary kind, that spoke of warmth and home and safety.
"Your Lady not only wishes it, she commands it. Make sure everything else is packed and stowed away. Carefully."
Behind her, Mirael was pulling on one of her long sleeves. "Yes, child."
"Milady, should not the King be told?"
Torwen's soaring spirits took a bit of a plunge.
"Ah, yes. Thranduil. Indeed." It occurred to Torwen that perhaps the King might not warm up to the changes she was instilling in a house that was not yet her own.
The Captain, catching the increasingly panicked look in her eyes, added softly. "I'm sure the King would not object to any of your wishes."
"I would not want to impose upon his sorrow, should this room bring forth bad memories of his Father's passing."
"There are no shadows of King Oropher here. Your light is too strong."
Torwen smiled warmly at the veteran Captain. "Still. Our King has ever accused me of disobedience. I shall prove him wrong - I will ask for his permission. Tonight, even. You can imagine his surprise. If you cannot, do not fret - I shall tell you all about it, continuously, over the next few days. I fear you will grow quite weary with me, Captain, and then I shall be sent back to those dreary Halls, enjoying lukewarm soup in utter solitude."
With that thought in mind, Torwen turned towards the exit. And paused.
"Captain."
"Yes, my Lady."
"Make sure everyone retires for the night. I would not have them be derelict in their duties on my account."
"As you command."
"Oh, and one more thing."
The Captain straightened and listened intently. Torwen's voice was everything sweet and innocent.
"You wouldn't happen to know…That is to say…Where exactly am I?"
Three maids escorted Torwen on her journey around the Halls. Since they were so much alike in figure and name, Torwen privately referred to them as the Head Maid, the Tall Maid and the Small Maid. Mirael would have probably been better able to distinguish them, but the little one had her eyes darting all over the place, trying to remember their way back around the labyrinthic steps of the Halls.
"And this will be our Queen's private chambers", the Head Maid opened heavily gilded doors with a flourish. The room was warm ambers and white sheets and Torwen hated it immediately. There was a narrow bed for her to rest in contemplation, a single silver cup and a single silver pitcher on a round table and several other amenities Torwen was certain she had no use for.
"Exquisite. Where does the King rest?"
Caught up in the excitement of a royal tour around the Halls, the three maids thought nothing of Torwen's odd request and nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to present the Royal Bower. Torwen followed solemnly, but Mirael was not fooled. "What if the King is in there?"
"The King," Torwen replied, "is deep at work, untangling matters of the realm. We shan't be disturbing him."
Thranduil's private chambers were practically bare in comparison with hers. But Thranduil's spirit dwelt in them nevertheless. From the silver coverlet to the gilded curtains and the neatly stacked wardrobe that occupied a separate space of its own with rows and rows of caftans, tunics, trousers, shirts, robes of gold, robes of silver, hunting boots, riding boots, velvet soft looking boots, summer crown, autumn crown, oddly shaped crown that Torwen had a hard time imagining how it would fit on Thranduil's head, small rings, big rings, bejeweled rings and sashes in all the colours of the forest, everything was touched by his mark. The air smelled like him too, a woodsy fresh scent, with a hint of mint.
Mirael and the maids had respectfully stayed behind as Torwen inspected the room, perhaps only now realizing how inappropriate all this must have looked to the casual passerby. But Torwen was undisturbed. She ran her fingers through his clothes, peered at his jewelry, moved a cup a bit to the left, pushed a chair to the right and even mussed up the bed linen, small things that were guaranteed to irritate him to no end.
Satisfied with her perusal and her improvements to the room, Torwen ushered her company out and dismissed them for the evening. "I thank you for your patience. I will go and see the King now, for I'm quite confident I finally know where I am. Have some tea sent to his study. It's going to be a long night."
The maids and Mirael bowed and Torwen went on her way, striding purposefully up the winding steps, where in the centre of his Halls, the Elven King of Greenwood was hard at work.
Thranduil despised paperwork, but did not trust anyone else to handle it. The many treaties and agreements with neighbouring Elves, Men and – Thranduil frowned – Dwarves littered the desk concealed in the shadow of his great throne. Such was his distaste for the task that he uncharacteristically let the accursed letters and official documents pile up around him until he could suffer it no more and sacrificed hours of his precious rest and contemplation to reviewing, signing and settling the affairs of his Kingdom.
His agony was doubled now, because this tedious work was keeping him away from Torwen, his mighty Torwen, who had looked so lost upon her arrival. What few, precious moments he had spared for her had not been enough to assuage his fear that Torwen was beginning to feel overwhelmed and ill at ease in his home that he would share with her. The dreaded thought spurred him into renewing his efforts of putting everything in order before returning to Torwen's side.
He was thus deep in concentration, investigating the list of contents of his cellars, when he suddenly felt Torwen's small hands settling on his shoulders and an airy kiss gracing the crown of his head. "My King works so hard. Rests so little." Torwen brushed her fingers passed him as she sat down across from him. She wore a triumphant smile on her face, her eyes glittering like gold in the sunlight. In the half darkness of the room, Torwen's hair was a living, breathing thing, thick and red, slithering freely past her waist. Seated, Torwen's forelocks spilled on his desk like a river of blood.
"I thought you had retired for the night, my love." How easily the endearment came off his lips. It warmed cold, dark places in Thranduil's heart to have her so close, where the light of her being vanquished all shadows.
Torwen wrinkled her nose and picked up an official looking document from the pile closest to her. She frowned at it.
"I did retire for the night. I retired here."
Torwen had a stern look about her, when mirth and mischief did not light up her face. It did not please Thranduil to know that it was grief over the loss of her family and the hardships of war that had etched such a seal in her pretty face. As it were, he could almost see the writing on the parchment withering under her uncompromising gaze.
"Pray tell, what is this I'm looking at?"
"A trade agreement. Well a solicitation of sorts." Thranduil moved to take it from her, but Torwen snatched it from his reach.
"And you must answer this?"
"This and many more of its ilk," Thranduil ruefully admitted.
"I see. I shall assist you then."
Torwen took a blank piece of parchment and a spare quill and set to work, before Thranduil could protest. "Torwen, I appreciate the intent, but this is laborious work. How will you know what to say? Beloved mine, leave it…"
Torwen threw him a condescending look and waved the quill around, pointing at various piles. "Nonsense. You have done most of the work for me already. This small hill here is a resolute no, that one right there is a maybe and the handful of papers on your left would please Your Grace to answer favourably. I shall weather down the little mountain of no, with all that is polite and gracious, while you continue what you've started. It's all very simple, really. I trust that if I apply myself to it, I shall be extremely proficient by the end of the night, so that, on the morrow, we may break our fast together. I hate eating alone."
Torwen had already started composing a reply, carefully rounding the letters, so that her writing would match Thranduil's flowing script. Thranduil merely looked at her for a few moments, taking in her focused face and the endearing picture she made, sitting there, ordering him around. Missing his company so much that she'd sit and write boring stately letters she had very little patience for. He found himself wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and indulge in the constant, insatiable craving he had for her, her indomitable spirit and quick wit. But Torwen was a creature of the forest, beautiful and wild. She would fight, wound him and flee should he make the mistake of approaching her too suddenly. Thranduil would bide his time, basking in her closeness, reveling in her trust, until she was as trapped in the snares of his love as completely as he was enchanted by her. He was patient. He could wait.
They'd worked in companionable silence for a while, Torwen engrossed in her letter writing and pretending not to feel Thranduil's intense gaze boring into her skull, silently willing her not to start a diplomatic war. He was a bit high strung, her King was, and not one to easily release the reigns of power. But Torwen paid his anxiety no mind, and when the first batch of replies was finished, she casually draped the parchments on his side of the desk, for Thranduil to inspect and sign.
She busied herself with the tea Mirael had brought earlier, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched Thranduil carefully read every word, his fair face unguarded in his amazement. He had expected her to fail.
Thranduil signed his fancy signature on the rest of the letters, without checking them and Torwen thought she couldn't breathe past the warm feeling in her chest at seeing how pleased Thranduil looked with her work. When she had first found him in the shadows of his throne, he had looked a little weary, his face gaunt and his hair in disarray as if he had been pulling at it. He had endeared himself to her quite thoroughly, and now Torwen was struggling not to reach out to him, smooth his frown and comb his hair with her fingers.
Do not be afraid to love him, master Glaewon had said before she left the Clearing. But how did one love a King? Torwen was not austere by nature. She longed to offer comfort and did not know how to go about it. Thranduil may have looked now boyishly charming, but he was so much older than she was. Torwen was unsure how he'd react were she to touch the way she felt she should. Elf Lords were not an overly physical bunch. She'd felt him stiffen and flinch when she'd gone to him earlier this evening, as if her touch had startled him, the ever unflappable Thranduil King.
Torwen narrowed her golden eyes in aggravation. When had the mighty Torwen become so skittish around Thranduil? She, who had deceived him, mocked him, done battle with him and generally ordered him around without remorse? She remembered her Mother's deferential attitude towards her Father, the crisp affection between them, the contemplative way they had loved each other and everything else. If that was love, Torwen wanted nothing of it. Love did not build walls around one's heart. Love was the force that destroyed them.
She knew Thranduil too had been alone for many an age. He liked doing things his way: writing his own letters, regularly inspecting his own cellars, picking his own berries for his crown, most likely, with a critic's eye for fashion. But he was learning to let someone in, even if it was just for the little things, like having her help with the paperwork. The thought gave Torwen hope and with that renewed vigour, she attacked the remaining stack of letters.
She was halfway through the first of the them when, trying to find the right phrase, she glanced up and was arrested by an unusual sight of Thranduil. He was looking over a list of sorts and he was so deep in his scrutiny, he had his lips pursed and he was biting the inside of his left cheek. Torwen nearly broke the quill in half with the effort not to laugh. He was even making small, displeased tsking sounds, the dear Elf! Torwen leaned back in her chair and watched fascinated as he was worrying his lips, tapping his fingers and furrowing his brows in a scowl. More biting his cheeks, even a grunt of dissatisfaction. Torwen rose, but he didn't seem to notice. She grabbed the pitcher from a table nearby and filled him a cup of wine. His hand was halfway extended already as she came closer, but Torwen dangled the cup out of reach so that for a few silly moments Thranduil was simply grasping at air.
When he finally turned to look at the elusive cup, Thranduil was met with Torwen's glowing face, her eyes laughing and the corner of her lips tilted in a satisfied smirk. She raised a finger and poked him in the cheek. "Stop doing that. You'll bite a hole through it."
And then Thranduil saw red, as Torwen leaned it and placed a succession of three rapid kisses on his left cheek, the laugh bubbling out of her like a spring of sweet water. He caught hold of her, almost without thinking, and bent her over his lap, the cup, his letter and his work entirely forgotten. She was warm and vibrant in his arms, shaking with unrestrained laughter, a wondrously beautiful creature, gone all soft and yielding in his strong embrace.
"You should've seen the look on your face," Torwen chuckled, between deep restoring breaths.
"So, you're laughing at your King?" Thranduil feigned sobriety.
"When he's so serious…" She reached up and brushed her knuckles down his cheek, then up the side of his face to the tip of his left ear, where she lingered, before crooking her arm around his neck and drawing him in for her kiss.
Torwen opened her soul along with her lips and Thranduil was lost in her heat. Her kiss was long and thorough, her tongue searching and sweet. The world around them was silent but for the two of them sighing against each other's lips as they finally drew apart and the sound of Torwen's heavy silk gown scratching against his own as she ducked her head and nuzzled the bit of skin Thranduil always left uncovered at the base of his throat. She placed a kiss in the groove there and Thranduil whispered her name: "Torwen, my Torwen, you are sweet agony." He could feel her smiling against his skin. "And you were born to torment me with your flawlessness, my King."
She didn't feel very tormented as her lips traced a path to his other ear, breathing in his scent and taking a small bite out of his earlobe in a gesture so fleeting, he thought he might have imagined it. Viciously, he grabbed a handful of her hair, wounding it around his fist and using it to still her long enough for him to brand his own fiery kiss upon her lips, her eyes, the soft skin of her stubborn jaw. She kissed the tip of his nose in retaliation. That made him smile and then laugh and then look at her precious face and laugh a bit more.
"There, see? That wasn't so very hard, was it?"
Thranduil rested his forehead against hers and shook his head in resignation.
"What am I going to do with you, Torwen?"
"Marry me, love me, by all means, give me glorious children, so that I may despair at their beauty. Don't leave me alone. Something of that sort."
Thranduil snapped back at that and saw Torwen's eyes glazed over with a sheen of unshed tears.
"Such little faith you have in me?"
Torwen shifted in his embrace and Thranduil could sense something hardening in her again.
"I come to you with nothing, Thranduil, my King, but with blood and flame. You've seen it for yourself. It is my only gift. There is no starlight in me, no poetry, no verse but the song of my blades and fire of my temper. I fear… I fear for you. I feel for you. It is vexing, very vexing."
Thranduil kissed her hair gently and said:
"You come to me selflessly, my love. You are the only gift my heart desires. I wish you would not worry so. I wish you would take from me whatever it is that you need, for I would deny you nothing." Just as she had done before, Thranduil kissed her delicate pointy ear, whispering softly: "Nothing at all." Torwen giggled girlishly and her big golden eyes Thranduil had once thought so pale shone like molten gold. "You would not say that if you but knew what I wanted."
Thranduil groaned against her fragrant cheek, the love he felt for her flooding the dams in his heart.
"You horrible, lustful creature. Tell me all about it. I want to know…" he nipped at the tender flesh of her neck, "…everything…"
To hear her gasp like that, Thranduil would gladly give up ages of his immortal life.
"What? And think me less spiritual?" There was a catch to her voice, a breathlessness that stirred a deep yearning within Thranduil he was having a hard time to control. He nuzzled the side of her neck, feeling the thickness of her hair against his face and prayed he would survive his passion for her.
"We are both being a great deal less spiritual tonight, beautiful one," Thranduil sighed.
"Ah, then allow me to distract you with more worldly matters. For example, I have had the great pleasure tonight of rearranging your dinning halls."
Faced with such excitement, Thranduil managed a crooked smile and a resigned "Thank you."
"Your gratitude is misplaced, I assure you. I was practically forced into it by your well intended staff. You shall see. Oh, and I might have taken certain other liberties as well while you were otherwise preoccupied. By the by, I might mention that there is a particular sash in your possession that does not compliment your colouring at all and being the gracious being that I am, I mean to relieve you of it."
His Torwen was perched on his lap, gloriously mussed, her face flushed from his kisses, more intoxicating than any wine he owned and she thought herself gracious.
"Whatever would I do without you?"
"Dress poorly and eat cold food. Honestly, I'm beginning to see why you want to marry me so ardently."
Thranduil laughed and kissed her soundly. "Up," he then said, "all this talk has made me hungry. I would see these improvements you have bestowed upon my halls."
Torwen jumped to the occasion and gladdened his heart with the warmest smile yet. "Wonderful. You shall lead the way. I'm hopelessly lost around here."
A/N: Aargh, this is turning into a hopeless sequence of headcannons. I meant for there to be a narrative thread running through this chapter, but I fear it has run away from me. I posted it as such and hope you might still find it enjoyable. So, happy reading and don't forget to review!