I wanted to take a moment to thank daughterofthechief and Raider-K (!) for reviewing my piece! I love it when people read my stories, and I'm thrilled to receive any comments, including critiques. This story is obviously for fans of LOTR, but it's also for me—giving me a chance to play with characters, dialogue, and a truly remarkable universe. Thanks for your patience and advice, Raider-K, as I experiment with the characters' POVs; it's pretty gratuitous and I'm constantly looking for the juiciest way to show what's happening. I checked you out and I've read many of your stories! I'm honored you would read mine!
One more note—I've been a little self-conscious about the length of the chapters. I know conventional chapters ought to be between 3,000 and 5,000 words long, and mine are short comparatively. But I find that in the iPhone FanFiction app, they still read quite well, so I'm going to keep them this way for now. Perhaps at some point I'll go in and rework them. In the mean time, I'm going to spill out the story. Here's Chapter 11: Enjoy!
Right away, I knew something was wrong. After only a few notes, I noticed the Elvenking raise his head sharply and stare at me out of my periphery.
There were a few gasps from courtiers as well.
Unnerved, I kept playing and when I had finished the introduction, I took a breath to sing.
As soon as he heard the opening few notes, Thranduil knew. The song was forever emblazoned on his soul. He knew he would never make it through the piece. He knew that the evening would most likely end in the fiery wreckage of his own untenable emotions.
He hadn't heard that song since—
The elleth's sweet voice began to fill the chamber, and those first few lyrics undid him.
Winding, weaving, is the way to your heart
Straying, striving, is the track
Though the waves of life wash us ever apart
This promise I hold pulls me back—
She was poised to continue, but Thranduil stood then with an alacrity that was savage. He realized his hands were balled into fists and forced himself to unclench them.
Vaguely, he registered a few courtiers and attendants inquiring of him what could be wrong, while others watched in shocked horror.
Ayduin was shaking his head in panic. He knew, at least. Oh, he knew very well.
The elleth had stopped and was looking up at him with uncertainty in her dark eyes.
"Don't," the King warned the bard with murder in his voice. "You must stop this at once. I command you to leave immediately."
Scandalized murmurs began to rise from all present.
Her mouth fell open in surprise, and suddenly, the rest of the audience chamber melted away and the two of them stood as if engulfed in a blurring mist. She lowered the instrument, sparing it a glance that was almost accusatory.
"Why?" she blurted suddenly, looking back at him. "What have I done?"
He gave her a hard look, then turned away from her, declining to answer.
"Come back!" she cried.
And several murmuring voices came through the misty veil that cradled them, and Thranduil came back to himself, stalking away. Out, and away from that place. Seeking refuge, safety.
Everyone was too stunned to stop the elleth as she pursued him out of the chamber and into his private hall, still carrying the borrowed lute.
He was angry.
His long, silken and velvet robes whipped out behind him as he walked the corridors, and he could feel his face flushing, feel the burn of the dragon's mark upon his cheek once more as if it had happened all over again.
This was painful—to feel. It seared him in places light hadn't been allowed to penetrate for years. He hadn't felt anything in so long. He hadn't allowed himself to. It put him in mind of those first agonizing pricks in the skin when an appendage has gone to sleep and then been harshly stimulated without warning.
Why now? And why tonight? What was she trying to do to him?
"Stop," she cried, still pursuing him, and he rounded on her. He hated the way the bard shrank back from him in fear, as though he were some wild animal.
"You shouldn't be here," he snarled derisively at her.
"I may be here if I wish," she shot back with feigned defiance. She glanced toward the door to the underground music library and he realized a bit guiltily that she was right. Filauria was indeed allowed access to this hallway.
He turned to go, disgusted with her, but she reached out impulsively with one hand to grip the sleeve of his trailing velvet robe. The sudden movement pulled it from his shoulder and the Elvenking stared down at it in disbelief.
She dared—dared. To touch him. Without permission.
Filauria realized what she had done—too late.
She removed her hand and pulled it back to herself as though from the heat of a burning flame. Then; "I don't understand!" she said with conviction. "Why do you treat me this way?"
His voice was low, dangerous. "Why do I—?"
"In the audience chamber," she interjected, her voice trembling. She let go of the lute, the end of which already rested on the floor, and it dropped harmlessly and lay still. "Why did you stop me?" she added. "I don't understand!"
The tension between them snapped crisply like a live, palpable thing.
He tore his gaze from hers. "That song is forbidden," he muttered.
Her incredulity manifested in a humorless, barking laugh. "Forbidden? A forbidden song? That's a bit dramatic for a monarch hundreds of years old with a well-respected kingdom, excellently appointed officials, citizens who look up to you, and a son who wishes desperately to please you."
The last part of her impassioned speech took him by surprise, but he masked it with more anger; a trusted tactic of his that always delivered results.
"You know nothing," he spat at her, leaning close to bare his teeth.
Mine. Wounded. Don't touch, was the feral echo in his blood.
When the elleth's eyes widened in fear as he loomed over her, he thought of how tall he must seem, how frightening. The forest crown with its sharp points, his swirling robes, his broad shoulders and gleaming silvery blond locks—all served to intimidate. Elves he could intimidate were easier to control.
She gave an involuntary squeak and shrank from him.
He drew back but kept his icy blue gaze fixed on her. "Yes," he said nastily. "A forbidden song. What exactly is your game, elleth? I do not allow it played in my court! My councillors know this—many courtiers as well!"
"Well, I didn't know it!" she cried in righteous anger. "You cannot punish me for something I was unaware of!"
Thranduil gave a cruel laugh. "I may punish whomever I wish," he said. "Ignorance is always punishable. Do you not see what you've done? You, a royal bard, have not bothered to observe the King's own preferences with respect to your very profession. You may not have known—but that is irrelevant. You should have. You should have known."
He drew a breath, readied his weapon, and struck terribly true. His words were clipped, vicious. "Your self-importance is unattractive," he said. "Your talent is mediocre. Your ignorance—deplorable. I am your King, and you have made it abundantly, embarrassingly clear tonight that you know nothing about me."
She took a breath that was a heartbroken sob, then cried, "I'm trying!" in such plaintive tones that it stunned him. Her large brown eyes had filled with glittering tears.
Crying? he thought in grotesque fascination. The display of emotion horrified him a little. Was that still done? Could anyone still have the emotional reserves to actually weep? He certainly did not. And regardless of his burning intent to hurt her, he didn't think he could endure watching her cry. She really was a pretty little thing.
There was a moment of silence while her exclamation hung in the air between them.
Filauria squared her shoulders and lifted her head to look him in the eye. Fire. There was fire in her visage. When she blinked, some of the unshed tears spilled over and wet her cheeks.
His conscience smote him. Perhaps he'd gone too far. Perhaps.
Then she did something that surprised him. Furrowing her brow as though listening to some silent directive, she took half a step back from the Elvenking, and then slowly knelt before him.
From under cold black brows, he followed her as she dropped to her knees.
With her attention fixed on the stone floor, the elleth blinked away her remaining tears and did her best to regulate her breathing. The lyricism of the gesture, her flushed chest, the perfect cut of her gown—it all took his breath away.
"My King," she said in a strange, quavering voice. "I humbly—" and here, she raised her bright eyes to his. "Beg—your forgiveness. I didn't know my selection would upset you. I found the song Heart's Path when I was working in the music library, discarded and trod upon. I was enchanted by it."
The youth elleth lifted a hand to wipe at her still damp cheeks, swallowed, and continued.
"It was so beautiful, and I learned it quickly. I wanted to share it. With you."
He stared at her, dumbfounded. Would this elleth ever do anything conventional? So far, he had no idea what to expect from her. He doubted he ever would.
"If I exhibit self-importance, I will school myself," she added. "If my talent does not impress, I shall strive to work harder. And if I am ignorant, I implore you to teach me. I am yours to command."
Filauria bowed her head to him.
It had indeed upset him. How could she see that, as carefully as he'd hidden it?
A moment or two passed. The corridor was silent, and so far, no one in the audience chamber had moved to seek out either of them.
"It was my wife's favorite," he said quietly. The King wasn't sure why he divulged this information to her in particular, and so personally, but it seemed correct somehow. "I can't… stand to hear it," he finished lamely. He hoped she didn't hear the note of agony pervading his voice.
She looked up at him then. He expected a pitying glance, but she regarded him impassively—listening, he realized. He respected her for that.
"Then I am truly sorry," she replied. "And you shall never hear it from me again."
Slowly, the Elvenking extended a hand to her.
She simply regarded it for a moment without moving, then seemed to decide something and reached to take it. He helped the young elleth to her feet, and as their hands touched, a flame kindled deep within his chest. He nearly gasped in surprise but managed to keep silent.
She was tiny, her fingers soft and warm. She bit her lip, reddening it as she stood—too close to him, almost—and he reminded himself to release her.
After a moment, he pulled the sleeve of his robe back into place, and she looked politely away.
"You have my pardon," he told her huskily. "And my apology. I admit that I overreacted; it was wrong."
Without thinking, he tipped her chin upward with two long fingers and met her gaze. "I will make it right," he promised.
A pretty blush suffused her cheeks, and he pulled away from her, wondering if he had erred. But she drew herself up and made him a deep curtsy, picked up her fallen instrument, then turned and left him alone in the hallway.
He watched her retreat.