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Things are getting a little dramatic! I'm not 100% happy with how this chapter turned out, so I may go back in the future and change things a little. The reactions just don't feel authentic to me.

-XXX-

As if sensing my anger, the bees seem to avoid the house for the remainder of the day. I miss their company instantly, and find myself wandering out to their hives simply to hear their symphony of buzzing. I settle myself in the grass nearby, a book in hand (though I disregard reading quickly), watching as they come in and out, carrying pockets full of sweet pollen. They are so set in their task few wander over to visit me.

My mind refuses to rest. I am still disturbed by Thranduil's words, and not even the pleasures of nature, sunshine, or a sweet summer's breeze will lend me any rest.

He, whom I have trusted so deeply, has hurt me with words like knives. As if he had no notion as to what he was saying….Merely thinking of it, my chest aches. Thranduil has never hurt me like this. He is a gentle soul. And, with our friendship spanning nearly thirteen years, we've never truly fought over anything. We've never had anything to fight over.

Desperate to move on, I again take up my book, focusing so hard on the print that I eventually develop a headache and force myself to return indoors for a cup of water and a nap.

-XXX-

He shows up in my threshold less than two days later. I'm in the midst of hauling out several of my rugs for beating when I open the door to find him there, fist raised midair. My first reaction is to shut the door in his face, which I do not succeed in doing, so stunned that I cannot move fast enough. He backs me indoors quickly without a word, removing the folded rugs from my arms to set them on the table. Hands going to my forearms, he locks onto me, serious.

"Cala. I meant no disrespect to Lord Elrond nor yourself in what I said. You must know that I was speaking foolishly, without thinking. I know you to be just as…intelligent, just as able as any other elf." His grip tightens as I struggle to release myself from it. "I only meant that your ability to choose mortal death or elven life is…terrifying," he finishes slowly.

His speech does little to move me. "That is the problem, my lord," I reply, quiet. "You only see it as a mortal's death. Not a mortal life."

"How could I see it as anything else when it could be your death, Caladhiel?" he demands. Softening, he squeezes my arms gently, attempting to pull me closer. "Cala. You frightened me. That you have not yet made the choice –"

"I've never had a need to."

Thranduil tilts his head. "Never? When shall you have a cause?"

Uncomfortable, I turn away. He lets his arms fall to his sides. I move to the table, taking up my rugs again, refolding a few that were mussed. It is needless, though it serves my want for a briefly occupied mind.

"I do not know," I say finally. "I have not given it much thought."

"It is your life, Cala!" he cries.

"I know. It certainly is. I simply have not made up my mind yet." My back is to him, staring at the table.

"It is simple," he tells me, crossing to the other side of the table, leaning in. His hands go over mine. "You belong with us. You are one of our own. You are elven."

I retract my hands. "I do not always feel elven," I counter bitterly. "In fact, I rarely do. You endure the stares and whispers of those you ought to call family. The words of those who should be your friends. Then tell me that I am one of their own. They would not accept me. You can hardly accept me. How am I to live with that, my lord? The rest of my days, an outsider in two worlds?"

"Do not call me that," he snaps.

I stare. "What? My lord?"

"Yes. Do not…do not." He turns, facing the window now. I watch his back, his shoulder blades rising and falling in deep breaths. Frustration reverberates off of every string of muscle. "You are no outsider to me. Cala, the few who feel that way are fools. And their minds are changing. They must change."

"You cannot control people's thoughts," I say. "If anything, you have no control over that."

"They shall have to change," he says confidently. "And I seek to alter my thoughts as well. Cala…."

He's turned back from the window now, looking at me in a curious manner. I do not move as Thranduil approaches, rounding the table to stand before me, taking up my hands in his again. "Cala, be my own. Marry me."

I cannot speak. Stunned, I stare up at him, unable to speak or move or even wince as his grip upon my hands tighten nervously. He raises them up tentatively. Brushing a kiss across a few knuckles as he watches me struggle to find words.

"You are not serious," I finally whisper. "This is foolery. You are not serious."

"Entirely," he replies eagerly. "Cala, marry me. I shall say it one thousand times if it shall help you believe me. Marry me. Marry me, and stay with me for the rest of my days."

"I – I surely cannot," I gasp. "I am not fit to be anyone's queen."

"Yet I dearly wish for you to be mine." One hand rises to cup my face. "I do not know what I should do without you. I want you in all of my days…for the rest of time."

"You are not thinking straight, my prince." I begin to babble. "I am a beekeeper, a half-elven daughter, commonest below common, I am not any kind of elf you should wish to marry."

"They are trifling details."

"They are not what makes a queen."

"No," he agrees, to my surprise. "They are not. What makes a queen is compassion and love and level-headedness and her ability to see into the hearts of her people to help them as she must. And those are qualities you certainly possess."

"There will be talk, whispers," I say desperately. "And when there is talk, there is doubt. You are too good of a king to be doubted, Thranduil. I will not give them cause to."

"I don't care. In time they will see –"

"Time will do nothing! I will always be the half-blood. I'm not even noble."

"You have the blood of Lúthien in your veins," he says stubbornly. "That is noble blood."

I shake my head, still incredulously. "Thranduil, no one shall take you seriously!"

One thumb brushes across my cheek. "They need not. I am king. My birthright lends its authority to me." Sensing me shiver against him, he is given pause. "Cala. I adore you. Please, if you have any regard for me, any feeling remotely like mine…say yes."

I close my eyes. Leaning into his touch, it could be so easy to give him what he desires. I move closer. His breath tickles my cheek. I can tell by the way his breathing has slowed that he is nervous –anticipating my answer. But I cannot give it so freely.

"I need time," I whisper.

He recoils briefly, so that he might look at me fully, expression of pain flitting over his typically straight features. Gaze open, Thranduil peers at me, as if trying to read my thoughts. Finally, discerning nothing, he sighs.

"You…you do share my feelings, then?"

I must be honest. Hesitant, I say slowly, "I do not know. What I feel for you is steadfast and strong. I know that I care for you deeply – enough that I am cautious to give you what you desire. You are my friend. Of course I wish only for your happiness."

"I believe we can have it together. Cala…." He touches my cheek again. "I shall not push you. If you require time, take it."

Smiling gently, I mirror his hands and place one on his cheek. "Thank you. I know it is not easy, but it would be impossible for me to answer so soon."

"You surely must have long known my regard," he protests. "I did not hide them from you."

Snorting, I shake my head. "You did not make it particularly obvious, Thranduil. I had only the faintest of notions."

He gives me a look. "How often could I have required honey, Cala, that I came here once a week?"

I shrug. "How am I to know?"

At this he laughs. It please me to see him smile so. Tucking my head beneath his chin, I sigh contentedly. He wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my crown, inhaling deeply. We stand, perfectly silent, for some time.

"I shall be leaving for Rivendell at week's end," he murmurs into my hair. "I will not be gone longer then a month. Do you think then, possibly, that you might be able to give me some kind of answer?"

"I think so."

"Then that is all I can ask." Thranduil pulls back, looking at me as though trying to capture a picture in his mind's eye. "I will see you in a month. Keep me in your thoughts."

"You need never ask," I assure him.

He smiles again, then lowers his head to place a chaste kiss on my lips. I freeze, surprised. He coaxes me to respond, gently applying another to my mouth, encouraging. One hand twines back in my hair, seemingly unwilling to yet depart.

"See that I never do. Will you give me a lock for the journey? To remember you by?"

I take his knife from his belt and saw off a piece from the back of my neck, where it shall be hidden. The process is likely not nearly as fancy or precise as the ladies of courts when they are giving mementos to their lovers, but Thranduil takes a certain delight in my more common ways. He tucks the hair in a handkerchief, kisses me once more, then takes his leave.

There is still a sadness in him when he departs. I know that my refusal to give him a full answer leaves him in great despair – any man would much prefer a swift, certain answer. My reluctance must surely give him doubt in his heart. I only hope that, whatever my answer may be, that we shall now continue on as friends.

-XXX-

Thranduil left Caladhiel's cottage with a heavy heart. Once home , he enteres his apartmentsto find several maids bustling about his room, packing for his journey to Rivendell. Irritated that he cannot have a moment of privacy, he leaves with a swirl of his overcoat to find a bit of seclusion near the rivers that run through his caverns. He finds a quiet spot along the water's edge. The sound of flowing water calms him greatly, and he mediates.

When he wakes, it is evening. Though no light has changed within the depths of the caves, he can simply sense it in his bones. Thranduil stretches slowly. His joints ache unkindly, particularly those of his left sids. As he rubs them, he thinks of Cala. Part of him had hoped that she might come before he left. There is still time, but he's uncertain that she will. She may require the whole month. He will be on edge awaiting her answer, he knows. Hopefully, it will be worth the worry – provided she gives him the answer he so greatly longs for. He has waited nearly a year to gather up the nerve to ask her.

She does not come to him before he leaves. He did not expect her to. On the morning of his party's departure, he stands in the stables, staring out of the open door at the thick line of trees. Northeast; towards Cala. As he mounts his stag, his heart clenchs

"She did not come…."

They need time apart. He knows this. Regardless, he had hoped that she might come.

He rides Erphalagos to Rivendell. The stag handled the path through Moria quite well. Along with his party of guards and diplomats, he travels six days to reach the river-valley over which Elrond had built his domain. They are welcomed warmly. Elrond personally stand at the gate awaiting them, with his wife, the palely beautiful Celebrian.

"My friend, welcome!" The dark-haired elf smiles, arms open to accept the king. Surprised, Thranduil returns the embrace. "I trust you had a safe journey."

"The steep mounts of Moria were a little greater than I'd recalled, but it was an enjoyable trip, even so," Thranduil replied evenly. "We thank your for your hospitality, Lord Elrond. I am pleased to finally have a chance to visit your realm. Rivendell is as beautiful as was told."

Elrond thanks him, then leads the group to his hall, where dinner is awaiting them. He sits beside the king at the high table. To Thranduil's surprise they converse easily over a great number of topics. Celebrian sits on Elrond's right side, staying quite most of the evening, though he sees her lips upturn occasionally with amusement. He is surprised, though pleased. Elrond offers good company, hospitality, and good wine – though nothing nearly like what they produced in the Greenwood, still tasty. The month would not be so terrible, perhaps. Despite the fact that he would be without Cala's answer.

It niggled the back of his mind. Even when his head sunk into one of the feather pillows Elrond's maids had provided him with, his eyes closing, she sneaks into his thoughts mercilessly. He sighs into the cool silk, letting his mind slip to thoughts of the one who thoughtless torments him so, until he slid gracelessly into sleep.

-XXX-

Again, just a little of Thranduil's POV. We're in the early Third Age here, just a reminder!

And a quick warning, I may have difficulty posting over the next 3 weeks. Between vacation and a two-week gig, things may run a little late, but I'll update when I can.

As always, please leave some feedback! I try to answer every review, so if you have questions or critiques, don't hesitate!