Lovely responses, thank you all so much! I hope everyone is had a wonderful Father's Day!
In an attempt to get through this a little faster (I've got two stories I'm posting on at once, plus another in the works that will hopefully be unveiled after the conclusion of this), I'm making an effort to post every 5 days rather than every week. It's not a huge difference, but it may very well change to every 3 or 4. We've still got a long way to go with 25 planned chapters so far!
-XXX-
When Arhiel is taken ill by a fever, I go to visit Fortesbrawn in the palace for advice. Elves do not often get sick, so it troubles me greatly, enough that I would turn to the highest authority I know on the matter. I do not typically go past the tall gates of the Greenwood fortress if I can help it. He's out, at the moment, however, when I arrive. In my wait, I make my way to one of the gardens. Despite the damp and dark, some small pockets of lights allowed by holes in the cavern's ceiling create lovely chambers for gardens. They are not nearly as fine as I hear Rivendell's to be, but nevertheless lovely.
It is in one of these courtyards that I find myself sitting, waiting for Fortesbrawn. I lay back on one of the stone benches to stare up at the slip of sky above. It's grey, cloudy, threatening of rain. I should wonder what to think of living in a place where no rain ever hits the ground.
A sound breaks my concentration. I half-rise from the bench, turning to the entryway of the courtyard.
A figure moves forth from the pillars that line the door. Someone so still and so tall, I'd mistaken their shadow for that of one of the pillars. When they better approach the light I can see it to be Thranduil. Rising swiftly, I do my very best to straighten myself. I've worn a descent gown today, knowing that I would be seen by those of a higher rank. It's an old dress, still, one I've had for well over two centuries. The tawny silk rustles when I stand and bow. It has wide sleeves that bell out at the wrists, the collar and bodice decorated with gold and ivory ribbons, embroidery in a delicate scrolling pattern with small amber beads scattered about. Utterly useless if one should wish to accomplish any sort of descent work.
"My lord Thranduil."
"You need not do that every time we encounter one another," he says softly on his approach. "There was a time when you simply called me by my name."
"That was long ago, my lord. I do not wish to be forward." I avert my gaze to my hands, folded neatly at my waist.
"You are not forward if your king commands it."
This brings a slight tug about my lips as I resist the urge to smile. "And does he command it? For that is the only way I shall cease…sire."
A sigh. Thranduil moves past me, looking upwards at the grey piece of sky overhead. The white light cast down upon him makes him look ethereal. More than noble – magic. When he looks back at me, a strange curiosity in his gaze, I forget myself and stare back, my own eyes stupidly wide. When my senses return to me, I shake slightly.
"What brings you within my walls?" he asks lowly. "I know you do not often come here…."
"I do not often have business here," I say respectfully. "Meaning no offense, but this underground labyrinth does not exactly make me feel…at-ease. I prefer the wood by far to caverns and dampness."
"It is not so damp and dark," Thranduil says mildly. "But that does not answer my question."
"A friend is ill. I came seeking your healer's advice."
He frowns. "Fortesbrawn will help you, but surely you can heal well enough. You were very talented in the medicinal arts, if I remember."
"Battle wounds and blood, yes," I agree. "But this is an illness I know nothing of. I was hoping Fortesbrawn might come and see her."
"He should not be so busy that it would be any inconvenience." Thranduil pauses. After a time, he asks, "And how do you fare, Beekeeper?"
There is a distance between us. I can feel it in his words. No longer am I "Cala." He does not move to take up my hands. Familiarity has gone with the years and left us confused. I feel, truly, that I do not know him. He is Thranduil the King, now. No longer the prince I knew. I find that this thought bothers me – but what am I to expect after a decade of distance?
"I am well," I answer softly. "My bees thrive and my parcel is orderly."
"Your family?"
"Aside from those friends that I call such, all are in the Undying Lands."
He tilts his head at me. "You are half-elven, are you not?"
It is a strange shift in subject. "Yes, my lord. Straight from my father's side, though above that my mother was of Men. A daughter of Dale."
"And do you hope to see the Undying Lands someday?"
A deeply personal question, it takes me sometime to muster up the words. I cross to sit again on the bench, smoothing out my skirt as I settle, considering. "I – have not yet made that decision, my lord."
His lips press together. "What shall persuade you to make it, Caladhiel?"
"I know not what. Time, I suppose, that is the best answer I can give you."
"It is an honest one, at the very least." He sits beside me. While I have seen him many times in regale attire, it has always been at a distance. To see him up-close in his burgundy robes with a tall crown is new, intimidating.
"How are you, my king?" I ask after a brief silence.
"A king is always well."
"Unless he is not," I say seriously. "Do you usually take to scaring maidens while you wander about the palace, or is this a new hobby?"
This brings me a slight smile. "Forgive me. I was surprised to find you here and you were to find me. I was sure you were a dream."
I snort. "Hardly."
"It is a true wonder to see you in something other than trousers or blood-stained robes."
I nudge him, then stop when I remember that he is my king. Thranduil elbows me back. Relaxing a little more, I return the gesture for a final time. He allows himself the barest hint of a smile.
"How are you, truly?"
One hand moves up to the left side of his face. For a brief flash, I can see marred flesh, an eye with a near-white iris and faded pupil, bare muscle and bone. Then, it's gone. I blink, uncertain if it is a thrown glamor or my own imagination.
"I am alive," he answers. "And I am king. I believe there is not much else to say in regards to the matter."
-XXX-
He escorts her to the infirmary after another few minutes. In silence, they walk the dim halls of Greenwood, both bowing their heads to those that pass. By and by, Caladhiel would remark on the beauty of this-or-that object, trying to make up for, he believes, previously claiming to dislike his home. He takes it in good humor, nodding solemnly and declaring all things to be quite fine.
They reach Fortesbrawn's office to find the healer back again. Surprised, he rose to greet them both heartily, declaring himself overjoyed to see Cala. After an embrace, she turns to her business, and Thranduil quietly departs, leaving them to their business.
Silent, he walks through Greenwood's halls, pondering the interaction, among other things. When he realizes the time, the king retires to his office, intent on writing letters to various nobles, survey the grain haul from the previous, and review the latest reports from the patrol. Though the remainder of his day continues without any deviation, he is left musing long into the night.
For a mere shade of a second he'd lost his glamor. It had not been any failure in strength nor lack of concentration or anything of that nature. It had simply slipped before Cala's eyes, removed like a veil in the breeze. Not only had he felt the failure, but he had seen her expression at it – shock, then pity, mixed with a hint of terror and admiration.
Bitterly, Thranduil sat before his mantel, gazing into the flame long into the night. Of all persons, he ought to be at least a little contented that it was she who had seen his failing. After all, it was Cala who had seen him at the very darkest moments, the times when he was not certain he was an elf anymore. She had watched him wither in agony, curled in pain, weep freely for the loss of his father…still he would have preferred that she, nor anyone, see beyond his glamor. It was his second skin now. To be without was to be naked.
Weary of thinking, he eventually rises from his chair to go to bed. Is a lonely place, the royal apartments. No one, save for a handful of servants, are allowed in. He thinks, as he dons a nightshirt, that he might one day care to have a family there – a wife waiting for him in bed, a child bounding in at dawn to wake them up.
"But not so soon," the king tells himself wearily as he slips between the sheets. There is still much to be done before he could consider that avenue. Royal marriages are quite some work, he recalls. "All of the diplomacy…."
With that he thinks on it no more, and retires.
-XXX-
Following the war, Esgaroth had thrived relatively well. I ventured out more often to sell my wares, to mingle among the Men. Rylittle still comes to take orders, but I occasionally seek to simply disappear among those I do not know, to walk silently in a crowd without anyone calling out to me – not that it was a frequent hazard – and lose myself.
I come with a few deliveries, a heavy basket of jars, wax, and candles. The houses I stop by after a wary navigation of the series of canals are all grateful. I am invited in twice, and end up sitting a spell at each household. At one point, a buyer's child scrambles onto my lap in an attempt to evade the teasing of siblings. The girl's mother is horrified, scared, I am certain, that the aloof she-elf would toss the child to the floor. But instead I bounce the girl on my knee, whispering my confidence in her ability to overcome her brother's wooden swords. The child giggles, turning into me to speak. We have quite the conversation between the two of us, and I even manage to get a word or two to her mother over her head.
After making my deliveries, I wander about the market place. There is not much to buy that I could not get in the villages of Greenwood, and many items have a lesser craftsmanship, but I still manage to find a few things. Fish, fresh from the lake, along with a new basket, finely spun silk thread from Rivendell, and an interesting cheese from Bree. I'd not gotten new goats since I returned from the war, so I've relied on Esgaroth and Greenwood to supply me. Though, the freshness left much to be desired….
With nothing left to purchase, I aimlessly walk along the canals, listening to the gossip. Things had truly changed for the better since the fall of Sauron. It was as if a new light were spread among the lives of Men. In the years since the war, each visit to Esgaroth was a touch more cheery. The heaviness of previous times were gone.
Among them, I still felt like an outsider, yet, remarkably less so. Whispers of "half-blood" do not follow me here. Here I am "Erlea," which only a few find to be "off" – not many recognize it as something other than an elfin name. For the most part, the people of Esgaroth see me as nothing more than an elf. They do not realize that half of the blood in my veins is just as theirs – mortal. Human. I do not know what they would think of me, should they know. Would I be revered? Mistrusted? Loathed?
I do not really care to know.
"Mornin', Miss Erlea!" A voice breaks my concentration. The name my mother had preferred, my mortal name, gives me a start. I look up from the murky waters of the canal to see Rylittle nervously approaching. "What brings you to our lake?"
"A bit of shopping," I say quickly. "And a few deliveries. Personal ones. They needed specific honeys…."
He waves a hand. "No trouble, miss." A grin. "Your honey sells faster than a Rohan's rider over the horizon, a few jars here and there won't get me outta business."
I relax. He peers at me, still, then asks. "I do not often see you about town. Was there something specific you was looking for outside of your deliveries?"
"No," I assure him. "I simply like coming here sometimes."
"Funny," he says. "Most of your kind avoid us like a plague. Make their trades and get out."
A cold feeling sinks into the pit of my stomach, but I manage evenly. "They do not appreciate then, what Esgaroth has to offer."
"Eh. Maybe. I think they're more opposed to rubbin' shoulders with us folk more than anything." Rylittle shrugs. "Begging your pardon."
"No offense taken. I know how…I know how we can seem, sometimes. Distant. Aloof."
"Yes," he agrees. "But beautifully so. Can I help you with anything, Erlea?"
"No, I think I shall return home. Will I see you in the fortnight?"
"As ever," he assures me. I bow my head, then step away, gathering my purchases.
I pick my way down the canal, not looking back. On the way home, I cannot stop thinking on the conversation, my own discomfort, and the child. The girl did not seem to note nor care that I was not like her. That's why I like children, I think. They are untainted of bitterness and bias.
-XXX-
Early in his years, Thranduil had developed a habit of rising before dawn. He would meditate, dress carefully, and take a turn about the grounds. After a good hour or two was spent in contemplation, he would make his way to the kitchens. The kitchen's primary staff rose up earlier than he did. The head cook, a sour old elf by the name of Marnilieh, ruled her kitchen kingdom with as much dignity and grace as his father. She consent to have him take his breakfast at her scrubbed table as she set about her tasks for the day – chopping carrots or pounding out stiff dough for bread. At her table, he learned much in his formative years, mostly through observation. Past that he simply came to enjoy the routine. As king, Marnilieh treated him no different than when he were a boy, a mere princeling. Should he snatch at a morsel from her cutting board he would still receive a swift poke or slap. The others might gasp at her action, but Thranduil usually simply laughed or sulked, depending on the tastiness of the food in question.
There was something about the consistent nature of the kitchens – staff came and went, yes, but the place never truly saw change. Marnilieh was a great believer in tradition. If something worked well, it work well; what was the use in changing it? He found that it was a philosophy that he could scarcely disagree with.
Much of his education came from the example of those who were not his tutors and not his father. Marnilieh was perhaps his best teacher in how one might run a kingdom. He watched her lord over her assistance in a firm, yet compassionate kind of way. Unyielding in her nature, she knew just when to give an inch. And she did not much care for outsiders.
It was perhaps three weeks after he encountered the beekeeper in his gardens when she again stumbled into his routine. He is a little early getting to the kitchens – restless of mind, he couldn't focus enough to justify extending his walk, so he'd given it up for breakfast instead. When he arrives he finds not merely Marnilieh at the stove, but Caladhiel beside her, writing quite seriously on a scrap of paper. She holds a basket filled with several heavy clay jars of what is undoubtedly her fine honey. At his entry, both women look up. Marnilieh, unimpressed by his appearance, wave for him to sit while Caladhiel scrambles to bow sloppily.
After their business is finished the cook instructs Cala to place the basket on the table – "You'll stretch your arms out, silly girl!" – then turns back to her pot. It was porridge, unless he was mistaken.
"If you want any, fetch yourself a bowl," she tells the king over her shoulder. "And grab the lady one too. I can imagine that you're hungry, likely didn't have much time to eat for rising so early."
"Oh, I had a few berries on my walk," Caladhiel answers absentmindedly, but Marnilieh ignores her, as she ignores everyone who walks through her doors claiming to not be hungry.
Thranduil brings the bowls. He can feel the beekeeper watching him as he nears, offering the dishes to Marnilieh. He does not return the gaze.
"Go on, sit," the cook orders Cala when the bowls are filled. "Put some of your own honey on that. There's cloves and cinnamon on the table, along with some blackberries, just how I know you like it. " She says this last part to Thranduil, who does indeed enjoy fruit in his porridge. "Don't indulge on the treacle too much."
Cala, who appears caught between terror and fascination, simply watches as the king prepares his breakfast. Marnilieh goes about bustling through her morning to-do list, leaving the pair in the corner to speak. After several moments, Thranduil entreats the beekeeper to eat.
"It's far better warm," he says around a mouthful.
She begins to stir at the bowl, but doesn't eat. "I did not think you would be the sort to take your breakfast in the kitchens. Nor befriend the cook."
"Ah, I did not befriend her," Thranduil answers. "I came under her mentorship when I was but a boy. She is more of a teacher than anything."
"That is still very curious that a king ought to be the pupil of a cook. Tell me, can you make a descent pie?"
He considers. "I think I might, given time. I've seen it done often enough."
"Then your education was not in cooking?"
"No." He stretches, peering at her with a slight twist to his lips. "It was more in the nature of life and the fine art of leading others."
"And who would know better than a cook?" She says this with a smile, but he knows her not to be mocking. Thranduil decides to change the subject. She begins topping her breakfast with a thick layer of amber honey from one of her own jars.
Transfixed by the tranquil flow of the heavy syrup, he asks, "Do you often bring us honey?"
Surprised, Cala glances up. "Every fortnight or so. You use quite a bit, you know. The palace is likely my best client."
"Hm. That is good to know."
She gives him a long look. "You'd have to import if you give up me, my lord. The next nearest keeper worth their weight is beeswax is quite a ways off, I assure you. "
He laughs. "I believe you. It is merely a useful thing to know. Should you hit harder times…I am sure that we could always buy more from you."
"You purchase enough of my goods as it is, my lord," she replies cheerfully. "Nearly all the candles you have come from my wax, which I sell to the candle-maker. And all the nobles buy my honey, as they inquire what it is that make the sweet breads taste so much like apples or cherry or strawberry. You keep me in business well enough. But I do thank you. That is generous."
He feels a little foolish for his offer. Nevertheless, he goes on. "How fares your friend?"
"She is well. Fortesbrawn was a great deal of help."
"I am glad to hear that. Are you not hungry?" He nods to her porridge.
"Oh, well, I am fine," she says, taking a hasty spoonful. "Just a little – it's disconcerting. Seeing you. My lord."
Her awkwardness is endearing. He leans back, regarding her with great humor. Now she is the one feeling foolish.
"How so?"
"It has just been so long," she says. "I feel a familiarity towards you, yet I dare not act on it – you're my king now."
"That is no so different from being your prince."
"It is," she insists after another bite. She must like the porridge, a good third of the bowl has already disappeared. He smiles down into his own breakfast. "Just…it is. I do not know how to treat you."
Quietly, Thranduil answers. "You have seen me at my highest and lowest moments. Despite the distance of years, I do regard you as someone near to me."
Cala blinks in surprise. "I…am honored, my lord. Thranduil," she amends.
He suddenly feels quite guilty for making her feel so very uncomfortable. It is difficult, sometimes, to step back from his typical seriousness, to walk away from being a king to instead simply be an elf. He loses himself. Trying to soften, he speaks with a greater lightness.
"I should like to see you more," he says, turning back to his breakfast. "I am ashamed that I did not reach out to after the war –"
"You are busy," she insists. "You had much on your plate at the time. I am a mere beekeeper, I cannot imagine your responsibility, and there was no offense. Besides, I barely made the effort, knowing you to be so occupied. We're friends, I think. And friends ought not be so offended."
Thranduil manages to suppress a smile. "Yes. Yes, I believe we are."
-XXX-
More of Thranduil's perspective. It's not going to ever be as long or as frequent as Cala's, unfortunately. But you'll get plenty of snippets here and there.
Reviews are, as always, much appreciated.