Keeper 8

Apologies for the delay! I was unexpectedly given a volunteer job that has kept me busy!

-XXX-

After our breakfast, I see the king more frequently, though rarely out of any effort of my own. I do make a point to come into the village more, and to come to the palace. It's odd to ask after the king, so more often than not I just wander the halls aimlessly, knowing that he will find me – people tended to tell him, I think, having been told to watch for me. If he is not busy, he will come and we will walk for a time. However, should he be terribly occupied I'll continue my exploration of the caverns, perhaps visiting Fortesbrawn. He'll put me to work in the infirmary – there is a never-ending flow of guardsmen coming in with injuries from the sparring rings or foolhardy behavior on their patrols.

"I do wish you had stayed on with me," Fortesbrawn sighs one afternoon as I wrap a bandage around one guard's cut palm. "I could use an apprentice, and you do have quite the touch. Skilled hands like yours do not often come 'round."

I smile, tightening the cotton. The guard winces. "You can keep wishing."

"Ah, you like your bees far too much. They cannot give you the satisfaction of helping others, can they?"

"No," I agree. "But they give me peace. They're very quiet you see. Well, as quiet as bees can be."

He is amused, but flicks my shoulder anyways. "Well, should you ever desire human company, remember that you may always come to me – I would not turn you away, and healing hands are always needed here."

"I shall keep it in mind."

-XXX-

It is one afternoon when I come to visit Kal and Beriana that I am cornered by my friend. We're in her kitchen. She scoops up Kal, taking us all outside, setting the baby in the garden, then pulling me aside.

"What is this I hear of you going to the palace so frequently? They say you've in several times a week, always seen walking with the king."

"Oh, that is not fair," I protest. "A good deal of the time I am in the infirmary."

"Is he ill, then?"

I scoff. "No, of course not. I go to help Fortesbrawn."

Beriana remains unconvinced. She sinks to the grass, folding her skirts beneath her with a sigh, shaking her head. I follow suit, skirts pooling around me.. For a time we watch Kalock happily pull up fistfuls of grass. I idly pick a few flowers and begin weaving a crown. Beriana watches me. Twisting and tucking stems, I create a thick chain of clover.

On my third row, I ask, "How did you hear of this? Who was telling you that I have been at the palace so often?"

"No one specific." She hesitates. "Truthfully, all of the villages have been speaking of it."

Instantly, my composure darkens. I let my hands fall to my lap.

"It is not your birthright that gives them interest," Beriana hastily assures. "Merely the fact that he chooses to spend so much time with anyone at all. He is not…the king does not have friends. Nor has he taken on any lovers – that we know of, but we all know that things of that nature are often more known than not with the state of palace gossip. It is curious to everyone that he is being so very…open with you."

"We have quite the history together; I was given his charge when he fell at Dasgorlad. Why should we not be friends?"

"No one is saying that you should not – there is simply talk. You know how it goes."

I do. The lives of the nobility seem to unnaturally preoccupy everyone. Any tidbit in the courting goings-on, the latest rifts, et cetera. It could sometimes be maddeningly trifle, occasionally amusing, generally a social norm everyone seemed to accept. But while most is scandalous, my interactions with Thranduil are plainly boring. I do not see why they should hold anyone's interest for long. I tell Beriana as much. She shrugs.

"It's odd that you should have a relationship with the king. You're a beekeeper. Not a nobody, but still not someone people would really picture as acting as his confidant."

The look I cast her is enough for her to send me one back.

"You know what I mean," she chastises. Stretching her hands out to her babe, she calls for Kalock to come to her. He toddles on wobbly legs, dropping to a crawl.

"Yes," I sigh. "I assure you, this attention is nothing I seek."

"Well, you are receiving," my friend warns, nuzzling her baby. "You watch next time you walk through market. You'll see."

I reach out for Kal. He eagerly takes my hand, babbling as he tugs on my wiggling fingers. "Cal! Cal!"

"That is your name, little acorn," I tell him, leaning. "Caladhiel is mine. Cal-la."

"Cal!" he squeals, pleased that he's heard a few familiar sounds, as though I am agreeing with him. I place my flower-crown on his head. It falls to his neck, as it had been made for his mother, who possessed a larger skull.

Beriana kisses his cheek. "Say 'mama?'"

It takes some convincing, but Kalock eventually graces us with a few cries of "Ma!" So far he's adept at single syllables. It is quite endearing.

I leave them after another hour, heading for home. When I get there, I am met with a surprise.

-XXX-

A mighty stag stands in my pasture when I arrive. It stops me short at my gate. Uneasy, I enter my parcel, peering around with concern as I stride past my cottage to the back garden. A shifting from the orchard catches my eye. Thranduil stands at the base of one of the rounded trees, peering up at the green fruit. I approach him.

"You have quite the habit of turning up in unexpected places," I tell him when I reach the tree. "What brings you here?"

"I was in the area. I thought to come see you." His heavy brows rise. "You seem to often go out of your way to visit me. It only felt fair."

"Now I feel embarrassed. To have a king in my humble abode."

He knows that I am teasing, still, I am given a heavy look. With a smile, I join him beneath the tree.

"If it is an imposition –"

"No," I assure him. "My lord. Come inside? It is quite the walk from the palace, I know –"

"I did not walk," he drawls, gesturing to the stag, which has neared to sniff one of the green apples. Delicately, the creature plucks the unripen fruit from the branch, biting into it with an ear-splitting crunch.

"I can see. Leave those be," I warn the stag. "Fill you belly on grass, but leave my plants alone."

"Erphalagos, do behave," he says sternly, backing me up. For a moment, I am reminded of parents, teaming up together to scold an unruly child. Suppressing a smile I watch as he locks onto the liquid black eyes of Erphalagos to impart the seriousness of the message.

I lead him inside, offering ale or tea. He accepts tea, sitting at my table to watch me fill the kettle and fetch teacups. After having seen him in the kitchens of the palace, eating porridge from heavy clay bowls at a scrubbed wooden table, I feel less silly about serving him from simply teacups. I set out a plate of fresh honeycakes, sticky with an amber gaze. He's eyeing the colorful plates of glass hanging in my leaded windows.

"Pretty," he remarks. "They resemble gems."

"Beriana made them. They were a birthday gift. She's skilled in creating such trinkets. Some of the ladies of your court favor her beads and pendants to jewels – they are far more inexpensive and just as lovely."

"Indeed." He glances at me. "I would not have imagined you to be fond of frilliness."

I purse my lips, amused. "I may often prefer breeches, my lord, but I am not above appreciation of arts. "

He laughs. "I will not make that mistake again. I know you can be…more feminine."

My brow rises as I set a mug in front of him. "Thank goodness for that."

"Oh, do not be offended," Thranduil says lightly. "I mean nothing by it."

"I know." I fill our mugs, moving to the cupboard for tea.

"Really," he insists. "You are unlike anyone I have known. I've told you before, Cala."

Leaning out of the cupboard, I give him a look. "You clearly do not know many interesting people. "

"Oh, I know a very great number of interesting people," the king assures me. "And you count among one of the most interesting."

"So, what brings you here, my lord?" I ask when I return to the table. "To my humble cottage at the edge of your woods?"

He stirs a hearty teaspoon of honey in his amber tea. "I found myself desiring fresh air. On a whim."

"A whim?"

"Hm," he murmurs in confirmation, reaching for a honeycake. "Friends do visit one another, do they not?"

Surprised, I fold my hands. "Oh. Well, yes. I suppose so. Is that what's happening?"

"Why ever not?"

"Indeed." I bite into a honeycake, savoring the sticky sweetness. "How are you, my lord?"

He muses. "As well as a king can be."

I grin. "So, passable."

"As ever. How fare your bees?" he asks.

"They are well. Happy that the flowers bloom so freely, and that the sun is often out to warm their backs." As I speak, one settles on my wrist, turning slowly, tasting me. I hesitate as I stroke the velvet back. "Have you been hearing any…talk?"

Thranduil frowns. "I hear much in courts by way of talk. Anything specific you are thinking of?"

"Beriana told me that people have noticed that we've been spending time together. They've been talking."

He does not blink. What of it?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Not particularly," he says, setting his mug down lightly. "People talk. Often about me. If I let it trouble me, I'd barely have time to do anything over the course of the day."

He has a fair point. I nod, sipping. "That's probably for the best…."

"Are you troubled by their words?"

"No," I assure him. "More surprised, than anything, that anyone noticed."

Thranduil smiles. "If it has to do with the king, they notice. Pay them no mind, Cala. Their focus only indicates a lack of interest within their own lives."

"You're right. I'm sorry to bring it up…."

He waves a hand. "It is nothing. We are friends."

"We are," I agree. I note that a few bees have landed on his corn-silk locks. I suppress a smile. "I would say my bees are quite fond of you too."

The king smiles. "I am glad to have their approval."

-XXX-

From this, he visits several more times. I'll return from the market to find him in the garden, or look out the window to see Erphalagos sniffing at my bees. Always Thranduil comes inside, accepts a cup of tea and a conversation. It's very sporadic. I delicately choose not to mention how much his visits surprise me for fear of offending him. Eventually, as months pass, the visits do not cease and I grow used to his presence in my cottage.

I still go to the palace fairly regularly to see Fortesbrawn. He is always happy to have an extra set of hands in the infirmary. More often than not I come to simply say hello, and three hours later find myself bandaging someone's head. But I do not mind. As Fortesbrawn says, I've got healing hands – I may as well put them to use.

"You would do so well, Caladhiel," he pleads when he asks, for the umpteenth time, that I come to work for him. "Think of all those you could help."

"I do," I assure him. "But I'm afraid I do not have the passion for it, as you do, my friend. My hands would grow unsteady. No, it is best I take this up only on occasion. Besides, by bees would miss me. "

I also frequent the kitchens. Marnilieh always has something for me – sweet rolls, porridge, tea. I will sit on a stool as she bustles around the kitchen, snapping at aides as they chop carrots and measure flour. She's very interested in honey, and often asks about the different types, recommendations for what goes best with wine, cakes, tea, and so on.

"That healer could learn a thing or two from you, Caladhiel," she tells me one day over a pot of stew. "They underestimate the power of your honey, up there." She gestures upward, indicating those upstairs.

I smile half-heartedly. She's right – healers often ignore the benefits of the sticky stuff. Cooks and commoners were most aware of what honey can do. Nobles tend to desire the fuss of a healer, crushed herbs and powders, rather than common cures.

The year passes swiftly – from spring to summer to autumn. With the descent of chill, I find it more and more difficult to pull myself out of bed to deliver honey to the kitchens early in the morning. One morning, I wake to find frost on the windows. My legs are numb with cold, as my hearth's fire has died down in the middle of the night to mere embers, mocking me as they flicker orange-to-black. On top of this, my throat is sore and I'm sneezing terrible. Despite this, I dress slowly and sluggishly make my way to Thranduil's kitchens, grunting a hello to Marnilieh as I set down my basket. She looks up from the cakes she is icing, lips pursed.

"Did you wake on the wrong side of the bed this morning, nín mell?" an amused voice from the corner inquires. I turn on my heels to find Thranduil seated in the nook where we often took breakfast.

"I did not think you would be here today," I murmur accepting the cup of tea one of Marnilieh's aides passes me.

He pats the bench beside him. "You do not look fully awake, Cala."

"That's because I'm not."

My tone causes him to recoil comically. "My, my. Someone not sleeping well?"

I sip my tea, closing my eyes. "Mmmh. I'm going back to my bed as soon as possible."

"Pity. I was going to ask if you wanted to join me for a ride this morning."

I groan. "Thranduil. I cannot. I'm tired, and sick –"

He holds up a hand. "Have you seen Fortesbrawn?"

"I am a healer myself, you know."

"I am well aware," he agrees. "I also know those who have healing powers more often than not tend to disregard their own health."

"It is merely a cold," I assure him. "Nothing more. I appreciate your concern, in any case."

He muses for a moment. "If you cannot ride with me, then let me escort your home. You are weary. I can save you the walk."

Reluctant, I agree. We head for the stables, where Thranduil orders two horse saddled. I am given a cream-colored gelding, the king a grey stallion. He leads the way until we're out of sight, then we share the path, riding along in comfortable silence. The sun is only just rising, casting a orange-gold hue along the horizon, blending into the blue-black of the early morning sky. All is quiet within the forest.

"Are you sure you are not too ill?" he asks after I interrupt the silence with a series of violent hacks.

I straighten in the saddle. "I'm fine. I just need some rest and tea."

The look he casts me is wary, but Thranduil lets it pass.

"How are you?" I ask abruptly. It's a question I never stop asking, primarily because he never gives me a straight answer.

His brows rise. "Well," he answers slowly.

"Good."

More silence. Then –

"Do you experience any…stiffness, on these cold mornings? In your arm or your leg?"

The king pauses, a little taken aback. I watch his injured hand tighten. "A little, yes," he admits, eyes focused straight ahead. "But not terribly."

"Good," I repeat. "I worry, sometimes. It is not an injury we have much experience with. Can you…see?"

He tilts his head towards me, injured eye flashing. "For the most part," he says softly. "It comes and goes in strength. Fortesbrawn tells me that in a few years it may be restored altogether. It's the worst of my scars, however, the others..." He sighs. "The illusion is easier to maintain. No one would guess what is beneath."

I reach out suddenly to grasp his hand. "Do they heal, Thranduil?"

For a moment, the magic flickers, revealing the twisted, ruined flesh of his left side. I do not recoil. He watches me eye his injuries, then allows the mirage to slide back into place.

"No," he answers quietly. "They don't heal."

I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Sometimes, I wish it had killed me," he says suddenly. "I wish the dragon had seen fit to end me, rather than enduring this suffering."

"Do not say that. We would be utterly lost without you." I pause. "It pains you?"

His hands tighten. "Not always. But sometimes, yes."

We are quiet. The clearing my cottage sits in is just ahead. We near the fence, pulling up on our horse's reigns. Thranduil dismounts first, crossing to lift me off of the gelding. When I slide off of the saddle, we're left standing quite close, my back pressed against the horse's side, hands resting on the king's shoulders. In the early morning light, the green stones in his circlet sparkle.

"I am sorry," I say softly.

To my surprise, he allows me a small smile. "There is nothing to apologize for, Cala."

"I still have sympathy for you. I do not wish for you to be in pain, Thranduil."

He tilts his head. "Fortesbrawn helps me control it. Do not fret."

I nod, sagging slightly. He shifts me within his arms. "Come, you're tired. Let me help you inside."

We go inside. The king not only escorts me in, but he also helps me out of my cloak, sets the kettle on, and helps me into bed. Once my head is against the pillow, a sleepy feeling rises within me. My eyes feel heavy.

"Thank you," I say sleepily, attempting to sit up when Thranduil approaches with a steaming mug of tea. "Really, you did not have to –"

"It is what friends do, Cala."

I reach for his hands. Squeezing them, I sigh. "I am glad to have you as a friend, my lord."

"None of that," he chides.

I smile. "Pardon me. M'tired."

"I can tell," he agrees. "Sleep. I will see you within the week, I am sure."

With that, he leaves, slipping out quietly. When I can not longer hear hooves along the path, I roll into my pillow, falling into a deep slumber, hoping that tea, time, and sleep might ride me of this cold.

-XXX-

Riding alone through the wood, Thranduil is left to ponder. While, as king, he spends much of his time thinking, the fresh air and gentle wind breezing between the trees inspired him more than the darkness of his caverns.

They had not spoken of his burns in over a decade. In fact, he'd not spoken of them with anyone save for Fortesbrawn. No one, except for those who had been with him when he was burned (which was a small number, as most, Valar bless, had died in the battle) and his healers knew. Fortesbrawn had kept a good eye on them, tracking his improved eyesight, patterns of pain, and so on.

It was odd, to be with someone who knew what he was going through. Who had seen his face, who could look upon him without flinching or fear.

When his advisors attempted to persuade him into marriage, presenting him with ladies and the daughter's of well-regarded dukes, the first thing on his mind is how a young lady might react should he ever show her his true face. If he was to marry, it would be to someone with whom he could relax. Someone who could look past his mask without disgust.

There was no one, among the nobles, if he were honest. And, if he was even more honest, he'd admit that there was no one who had held his eye like Cala had. Not since before the war.

Had he not gone to battle, he might have eventually brushed her aside, moved on to someone more suitable for a prince. But the war came, his father died, and Cala was still there, even after ten years apart.

As he rode, he thought over all of this. Ultimately, he concluded that he was uncertain as to how to proceed, only that he wished to continue seeing Cala, regardless of what might happen.

-XXX-

Okay, quick note on elves getting sick. The research I've done suggests that they cannot unless they begin to fade from a lack of will to live, however, I'm tweaking that a tiny bit. Everything living thing can get sick, why not elves?

Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, keep 'em coming!