Since I'm leaving for vacation today, I'm updating a few days early – I likely won't have another chance to until next Saturday or Sunday. I'll be writing like mad – we've got a looooooong road trip – but I might not have wi-fi access.
The response to the last chapter was astounding and so lovely. Thank you all who reviewed, I'll be responding as soon as I can.
This particular chapter is a little shorter than usual – sorry, it fit with the pace!
-XXX-
Beriana visits a few days after Thranduil. She takes tea with me, as usual. I am quiet, letting her speak at great length on any matter her mind sets upon, too preoccupied with my own thoughts. Remarking on the oddity of my behavior, my friend asks if I am ill.
"No, no," I assure her. "I simply have something on my mind."
She asks what, but I find that I cannot tell her – I don't wish to. Not yet, at least. Not until I know for certain….
"You can't be keeping secrets. We're best friends," she reminds me.
"It's not a secret," I tell her. "It's more of a problem."
"Even more of a reason to tell me!" Beriana says, exasperated. "I swear, it is if you do not understand the contracts of friendship. What troubles you?"
I cannot say. At most, I tell her that it is nothing dangerous, merely a problem that requires great thought and that all will be well in a few weeks' time. Wary, she leaves discontent, making me promise that I will seek her help should I need it in any way.
It does not take me but a week to figure out my answer to Thranduil's proposal. The moment I do I run to my desk, snatching up parchment and pen, resolved to write him in Rivendell. But I pause before the ink hits the pages, before I can even write my first line. These are words to be said in person. It will not do to attempt to set my feelings upon parchment. I scarcely know where I might begin. With heaviness of heart, I return the pen and paper to their proper places, resolving to go about my day. In three weeks, when he returns to the Greenwood, he shall know. The moment he steps foot in our forest, I endeavor to tell him.
Three more weeks ahead of me, I throw myself into my work, though I avoid leaving my parcel like mad. I fear going into the village might somehow sway my mind, or that a trip to Esgaroth will cause me to second guess.
-XXX-
It is one of the rare days when I am in market that I hear the word. Bored of barley and desiring something with a little more substance, I go to the village seeking potatoes and fish, thinking to make a hearty dinner, hoping that leeks too might be in season. I strike out on the leeks, and the potatoes look like small, hard, brown stones. It is at a fishermen's stall, I hear a tidbit of gossip that sends me into a frantic rush home.
"Have you heard the latest from Rivendell?" the fisherman's wife asks another woman who has approached the stall. I am looking over a few trout, attempting to discern freshness. Her words give me pause. Thranduil is at Rivendell, due to be back in the Greenwood by the end of the week.
"Yes, my brother came home yesterday with word that the meetings had ended – the first half of their party returned yesterday. The king and his companions ought to be back by this afternoon. They took a little longer as one of the ambassadors was taken ill shortly before they left. But we ought to have Thranduil back soon."
"Goodness, thank Lúthien," the fisherman's wife sighs. "I feel unsettled when there is no king about. But Thranduil is not one to leave often, not as his father."
I whip 'round, startling the women. "He's to be here? Tonight?"
There is a beat as the women stare, the informant's mouth moving soundlessly.
"Uh – yes. They should be riding through the wood now," she says, nervous. "My brother says that court shall be resumed day after tomorrow -
"Thank you," I gasp, moving away quickly before she can finish.
"Home. I must get home. Then –"
I push through the crowded marketplace, desperate to gather my thoughts in a quiet place. Just as I am about to escape, Ulain and Beriana stop me towards the mouth of the market. They've got baby Kalock with them. His chubby arms strain for me as he cries, "Cal! Cal!"
Without invitation, Beriana hands him off to me. "Where are you going?"
She nods to my bare basket. "Nothing good here today?
"Awfully long journey to get not anything, Cala," Ulain remarks, wiggling his fingers before his son in a vain attempt to distract him from pulling at my hair. The babe takes one finger, tugging on both the hair and his father's limb with a happy squeal. I wince.
"I was distracted. Thranduil is coming. I –" Shaking my head, I seek the words. "I must go to him. I'm going to find him."
Taken aback, Ulain frowns. "He'll be here in no time, Cala, why not wait?"
"I must see him now. I have to tell him – I must tell him –"
Beriana and her husband exchange a glance. "Cala," she says gently. "It's already noon. Rain is coming, it's bound to be slippery, dangerous. Stay here. Ulain can get you inside the palace, I am sure you can see the king as soon as he's settled – he'll likely summon for you –"
"No," I say firmly. "Now. He has to know. I must go to him." With that I return Kalock to his mother, disentangling myself from his tiny hands.
"Cal!" the babe fusses, reaching again for me. I kiss his cheeks, then turn to his father, handing him my basket.
"What can be so pressing?" he asks me, trying to catch my hands before I slip away. "Cala, if you will just but wait –"
"I've waited over a month now – and Thranduil even longer. I must go."
"This is madness!" Ulain calls after me as I turn to run out of the village into the Greenwood. Overhead, thick, iron-colored clouds roll in, ominous.
When the drizzling begins, I simply turn up the hood of my cloak, thankful that I'd thought to wear it today. But soon, the rain speeds up to a full downpour, heavy. It is nearly an hour into my journey and I am soaked to the bone. Not only that, but the thickness of rain makes it difficult to see ahead. Trees heavily shadowed, branches glistening in the rain, the forest appears more menacing in the storm. I surge on, but my hope is dwindling. In this downpour, I have a slim chance of finding the royal party. I make to turn back, only to find that the path is lost to me. Thunder crashes ahead, with the responding lightening casting everything in a awe-inspiring bright, brilliant white light.
I spin hopelessly, realizing that I've no idea which direction my home, the palace, or even the nearest boarder might be. I am quite certain I am lost.
-XXX-
The moment he rides past the first trees marking his wood, Thranduil feels himself slid into a state of relative ease. He is home. Home, among his elves and his trees. The closer and closer they get, the more the king relaxes. He's been looking forward to this for month; not that Rivendell was not lovely, but the Greenwood brings him a peace like no other place.
Cala is awaiting him, as well. Cala and her answer.
His eyes close at the thought. When she asked for time he had hesitated in giving it to her. But forcing would have likely resulted in an uncertain answer, or perhaps even the one he least desired. Hopefully a month would be enough to make her see….
All business about Rivendell had gone well. Elrond has proved to be, as ever, an excellent host. The elves of Greenwood received the finest accommodations. He'd enjoyed the beautifully manicured grounds and airy palace. The library was especially impressive. Their ties strengthened, Thranduil felt well enough about all matters of trade and diplomacy, even felt a sort of friendship kindled between him and Lord Elrond. He'd always had a great respect for the elf, despite his unusual bloodlines.
When they arrive at the palace stables, his manservant and several other aids are at the ready. Dismounting, he removes his cloak with a sweeping gesture, his circlet a moment later. Sighing, he hands them off to his manservant, turning to one of the lords nearby who informs him of the safe arrival of the earlier delegation. Another advisor steps up with news. After the second, Thranduil waves them off.
"I am weary. Tomorrow," he commands before turning to gesture for one of the pages. "Send a messenger to the Honeywell cottage at the Northeastern edge of the forest. I want the lady of the house summoned, here as soon as possible. Have them bring her a horse."
"My lord." The guardsman Ulain appears seemingly out of nowhere, bowing deeply. Thranduil remembers this man; he's married to Cala's dearest friend. A good guard and noble husband, if he recalls. The guardsman's expression is serious.
Thranduil regards him. "Speak, Ulain."
"Caladhiel left the village hours ago. She went seeking you. Someone mentioned you were traveling through the wood and she went forth to meet you."
The king frowns. "In this weather? She would surely not be so foolish?"
"She was desperate, my lord," the guardsman answers hesitantly. "We tried to keep her back, but she was insistent. Nothing would persuade her out of it."
"Well, where is she now?"
"We – we do not know," he confesses. "She has not yet returned. If she did not find you –"
His gut wrenches unpleasantly at the realization. Thranduil turns to the door, gazing out at the rain. It's coming down in icy sheets now, impossibly heavy. A torrent dense enough to give way to mudslides, flooding in lowlands… he shudders at the thought.
"And Caladhiel is out there."
Chilled, he knows what it is he must do. "Saddle a new horse," he orders one of the stable hands, turning to his manservant to say, "Pack me a new bag, one of oilskin. I'll need a fresh cloak and lantern. And three men to ride with me."
"I shall go," Ulain volunteers, solemn. "I will go down to the guard's quarters and rouse a few more men to accompany us."
"We leave within the quarter hour," Thranduil informs the room. "I intend to find her before nightfall. Meelth, come," he calls to his manservant. "Help me remove this armor. I shall need to ride light."
Twenty minutes later, he and a party of seven ride out for Caladhiel. They head west, the direction Ulain speculates upon. Thranduil is thankful for the guardsman's calm presence. He is an excellent second-in-command, thoughtful and quick-witted. When they return, Thranduil plans on heavily recommending a promotion to the chief guardsman.
They ride for nearly an hour with no sign of her. Then, at a fork in the path, one of the men spot something – a stray blue thread, hung on a waist-high branch.
"She was wearing a cloak of this color," Ulain says over the echo of rain. In the dense downpour, they can scarcely see one another, let alone hear.
"This was her, then."
The horses follow close together, slowly picking their way through the brush. Another thread is found, giving the king hope that they are on the right path. She must be near. "Oh, please Lúthien…."
Shortly after they reach the head of a deep ridge, outcropped with boulders and fallen trees, and, at its muddy bottom, a figure wrapped in blue, huddled against one damp trunk. With a cry, Thranduil dismounts, racing down the steep incline, stumbling every few feet until he reaches her. Ulain and another follow, the others staying up top. Stopping above her, the king reaches out, turning the blue figure so that she faces him.
A peaked and pale face is revealed past the hood of the muddied cloak. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. The king gently shakes her, beckoning her to wake with frantic whispers. Above, Ulain notes the flop-ish way in which the maiden's right arm falls to her side. Broken, likely.
When she does not wake, Thranduil presses his ear to her nose, hand to her wrist, searching for breath and pulse. To his relief, both are present.
He lifts her, carrying them both up the ridge with Ulain and the others guardsmen warily at his side. There is a small cheer about the group when they surface.
Mounting first, he has Cala lifted up to him, tucking her safely against his chest, wrapped in a new cloak. Before they ride he presses a kiss against her cold forehead, thanking all gods that be that she lived.
A little into their ride back to the palace, she stirs. A hand shifts against his chest. Peering down, he sees that she wakes, blinking slowly up at him. Drawing his horse to a halt, the king folds the maiden further into him.
"You foolish, foolish twit," he murmurs.
"Thranduil…" she manages hoarsely. "I was looking for you…"
"Do not speak. We'll be back shortly."
"My arm," she complains when he shifts her closer still. He never wishes to let her go.
"Broken," he tells her shortly. "Be still."
"You're impossibly domineering…that will be difficult in the marriage…."
His heart jumps into his chest at this, but he sternly looks down at her. "I'll have none of that teasing, Caladhiel."
She smiles sleepily. "No teasing. I came to tell you…."
"Sleep."
She obeys, likely out of a sheer weariness more than a desire to follow his orders. They ride on, reaching the palace just after nightfall. They are met by Fortesbrawn, who clucks over his silly former assistant. In her sleep, Cala whimpers when jostled from the horse. Thranduil grips her tightly against him. His expression is enough to send all in his path fleeing. They're familiar with that determined pull about his lip and foreboding cast in his crystalline eyes. The typically restrained king is feeling so many clashing emotions that his internal storm starting to seep at the cracks. He recognizes this, and attempts to reign himself in. Any further loss of control may very well result in the loss of his carefully composed illusion. In fact, he does break briefly when Cala starts to wake.
She is brought to the quarters nearest Thranduil's, where her arm is seen to by the healer. She wakes when it is set, screaming in pain. Beside the bed, the king sits in torment, his hands clasped too-too tightly - veins popping, skin pale. At the sound of her pained cries, the illusion flickers. Fortesbrawn looks up in horror to see the marred face of the Elfking grimacing. The healer watches his king stroke the injured young elf's dark gold locks that lay upon the pillow with one ruined hand. Soon after, she falls back asleep, whimpering, holding the new cast to her chest. The king does not leave her side all night, recalling a time not so long ago when she slept in the chair beside his bed for nights on end. Hopefully, Cala would wake with fewer physical reminders of this evening than he had. They'd been lucky - of all the things she could've met with in the forest, a hillside and the resulting broken arm were hardly anything. Fortesbrawn leaves them be somewhere around dawn, slipping out quietly. The silent king says nothing, eyes glued to the sleeping elf on the bed.
-XXX-
I probably should've played out the will-she/won't-she aspect a little more, but we've got a lot of story to get through people!
Does anyone have any ideas for a cover? I'm a little stuck. i've considered doing something honeycomb-bee related. Thoughts?
Reviews would be grand, as always. I truly appreciate them, and I'd love to get your reaction on this particular chapter.