Summary: A wager being idly struck between two young elven lords in Doriath, the wheels of romance are set in motion. Here presented is the courtship of Celeborn of Doriath and the Lady Galadriel as it was never meant to be told. Expect intrigue, lies, infatuation and possibly a disguise. Barely canonical and many O/Cs.
Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the collective works of J.R.R. Tolkien. The author gains nothing but pleasure from it's creation and distribution. All recognizable characters, settings and events belong to the original author.
Chapter Three: Thorns
Here was a thing. Histories. How could so many words be spilled on what amounted to so little? Thranduil suspected that all history was a great deal of hot air and historians, were enormous bellows on legs. He worried for Celeborn's safety. All those weighty books could fall on him and heead injuries were serious; one such event had landed him in this wager.
Personal safety. This drove him to carry four leather-bound blocks of paper and air, through the back corridors of Menegroth. No one asked. No passing courtier or warrior did more than cast him an odd look and kiss their own palms to conceal their mirth. Such dismissal of a public service!
So much for the legendary gossip engine of the Wood Elves.
To find a forgotten corner in the palace of Elu Thingol was a remarkable thing. To find three whole rooms on whose threshold the dust was uncleared in half a century was nothing short of miraculous.
"There ought to be songs," grumbled Thranduil. Puffing his cheeks he blew to clear his hair from his eyes and only thickened the straw curtain over half his face.
After so many weeks he didn't pause any more to check if he was discovered. Leaning into the rough wood he opened the door and hopped over the threshold without leaving footprints in the dust. All around him were piles of books and crates of scrolls. More works than one could ever read in an immortal lifetime. Oh, Celeborn had undoubtedly read them all- even twice - but Thranduil had always been suspicious of him.
Early in the game he'd realized that cunning over effort would have to win the bet. He'd prowled the corridors and back passages for weeks to find a suitable hiding spot. When the game was over he vowed to return the books and would do so with pride. He relishing in advance the look of disbelief on his friends face as he brought in stack after stack. Celebron could use them to prop up his jaw.
He would have been less of a fool had he looked over his shoulder.
"You disturbed the dust!" cried Thranduil, whirling his arms to balance on a swaying pile of books. He'd jumped there like a cat caught from behind when a figure stepped through the door.
Deep red skirts cut irreperable swirls across the floor. Beneath them, slippered feet trampled all over his secrecy and the eyes that gaped at him, well above the offending skirts and slippers, demanded all the answers.
"I was told the King held goblins in his cellars," said the woman blocking his only escape.
Thranduil forced his breathing to slow. He contemplated knocking her down and running. But only after pretending he wasn't there and hoping she went away proved futile.
"Goblins, my lady, are kept by no one."
The lady in red appraised the pillar of books. "Then much of what I've heard must be untrue. Next you'll tell me that the elves of Doriath are not all mad from isolation and too much wine."
Thranduil smiled, he revelled in games of wit. His honour needed a better champion than the one who was cowering atop this stack of histories like an astonished squirrel.
"I cannot speak for wood elves, lady." He stepped down from his perch and extended a hand from which she withdrew.
"Do you speak for goblins?" Her tongue had barbs worse than any brier. "Are you their king?"
Raising his arms in surrender Thranduil noticed that in his panic he'd dropped the four books he'd been carrying. Stooping he gathered them one by one and placed them on the shortest stack.
"No, fair lady, I am merely a mad-man."
"So much I have guessed."
Indignation straightened his spine and he spun around to bring the full force of his height against this unwarranted attack. Unfortunately, she met him eye to eye. Were all Noldorim so tall? She could only have been one of the kingdom's recent visitors. Although it was a bustling realm, the population of Menegroth was not so large that Thranduil did know everyone at least by sight. And while a well-dressed person glaring at him was not an uncommon experience for the lordling, this particular lady's face was unknown to him.
Her thin lips were smiling but their warmth was not in her grey eyes. She crossed her arms in front of her stomach and Thranduil noticed that her hands were gripping her sides.=
"Do I frighten you?" He asked softly, ducking his chin, shedding the playful airs which he wore so often he forgot he could remove them.
Her reaction was just the opposite. Stretching, tilting her head, muscles tightening in her cheeks she pressed her lips together. Fists, balled at her sides and ready to fly. She carried no weapons but Thranduil had seen worse damage wrought by nails, teeth and determination.
She spat words at him in a tongue he did not understand. They rolled low and heavy like thunder, crackling against his ears. And then she switched, her lips curling away from her teeth.
"You are no more frightening than a rabbits brood. If such is your esteemed hospitality then I'll have no more of it. Threaten me again and my wrath will be swift and unimaginable." Her carmine train swatted his legs as she departed like a tide rushing from a shore and he remained sputtering and blinking in her wake.
"There are darker things than goblins in these halls," remarked Thranduil as he shut the door, brushing the remaining dust from the sill with his foot. He hoped the change would go unremarked. He at the thought of finding a new location to hide the books and then moving them all without being seen.
With extra flourish he brushed himself off and then, tilting backwards from the hips he looked to either end of the corridor. It was a tad theatrical but, thought Thranduil as he skipped around a column and strolled out into a sun-bathed garden, where would intrigue and cunning be without their companion, drama?
Over a low hedge he spied a group of courtly types prattling nonsense in the shade of drooping bowers. Their laughter, like the jingling of bells reached his ear and he swallowed a greeting before it burst from his lips. Gossip was the stock and trade of such ensembles. He was to have none of it.
Turning down another path he pursued what he bitterly termed the scholar's road. Reaching into his sleeve he extracted a delicate folio from a hidden pocket. Thumbing the creamy pages he found his last place. In his distaste for the labourious works of history he'd picked this off Celeborn's shelf judging it by its size to be an easy read. What he'd found in those leaves was poetry of the sweetest and most delicate composition. All attempts to put it aside proved futile for wrapped in the finery and frippery of Lord Thranduil was the starved heart of a romantic.
Sinking into the soft embrace of verse he found a quiet place in the roots of a great oak disappeared from the world, putting aside all thoughts of viperous ladies, red-clad and otherwise.
End of Chapter Three
Note: I've been to outer space and back and finally the urge to take up this narrative returns! Are you as excited as I feel? I've been making friends and rediscovering the fanfic community. Like a nervous bunny rabbit it will take me some time.