Hello, readers! I hope everyone has a lovely Thanksgiving holiday. Sometimes being close to family is great, and sometimes it's not so great—so I wanted to get a chapter up in case you need an escape from it all!
Thanks for reviewing, leelee202, dreamgoneby, and Angelicsailor—I love that you're enjoying my story. Writing this in an AU makes it really fun and gives me the power to decide what stays canon and what deviates. To anybody who happens to be following along, I've got this plotted through the end, but let me know where you think it's going or where you'd like it to go. I'm not averse to new ideas at all!
Thranduil took a long, luxuriant sip of Dorwinion wine. The day had gone remarkably well, even with all of its hiccups. The envoy from Lothlorien had been gracious, kind, and forbearing—even the Lady Galadriel, which wasn't always the case.
The Lorien contingent seemed especially pleased with the fare from the kitchens. Which, the King thought, makes sense, as trade in the Golden Wood isn't quite as prevalent as it is here—so close to Lake-town.
It was early evening, and a selection of elves from both kingdoms had gathered in the Great Hall to dine together. The air was filled with the pleasant sounds of clinking flatware and conversation, and the room glowed with polished glass, crystal, and candlelight. It was still bright enough outside for diners to spy the gorgeous fall colors the Mirkwood had to offer—indeed, this visit from the Lorien envoy marked the last harvest before winter truly claimed them all.
"What vintage is this, my Lord?" asked Galadriel prettily, interrupting his thoughts. Her shimmering silvery hair fell in cascades down her shoulders and back. The elleth sat absolutely straight—always. Her posture was pristine, with nary a fold of clothing out of place. She was perfect—she was intimidating.
He gave her a bland smile. "2920," he answered. "And how does it strike you?"
She tasted it again, thought, and then replied, "I like it exceedingly well. Though I confess I preferred 2921. This is sweeter."
Thranduil nodded surreptitiously at a server who set off instantly, ostensibly toward the cellars to fetch the wine for her.
Galadriel pretended not to notice and continued to nibble on the spread before them.
"There was less rain in 2920," he said noncommittally, and she nodded.
He looked down at his own plate—forest morels in butter, liver paste, dried apples, and clover sprouts—all artfully arranged. Amid the spectacle and glow of Mirkwood hospitality, he was surprised to find that his appetite had evaporated. He wanted only a slice of hearty baked bread. And then he wanted to soak in a hot bath and retire early.
A lesser Mirkwood courtier to the left of Galadriel piped up, probably hoping to engage the Lady of the Golden Wood. "How was the weather while your envoy traveled here to make merry with us?" she asked.
"Oh!" Galadriel nearly dropped the slice of peach she had been holding delicately between her thumb and forefinger. "That reminds me."
Inwardly, the Elvenking groaned. He knew that tone. That tone connoted a lecture. And it was probably meant for him.
"Thranduil," she said seriously. "Thranduil. You must do something about those forest pests. You know of what I speak."
He watched her from under striking black brows.
"They are entirely too thick on the ground," she went on insistently. "I thought you had seen to this problem last winter at my urging. My company spied two of them—two! while we navigated the Mirkwood to come to you. Luckily, the archers made a swift end of them, but really... You are in trade! What do you expect delegates to do?"
"It is being seen to," he assured her placidly.
"It had better be," she snapped. "Could you deign to face me if I came to you injured by one of those creatures?"
He stared straight back at her, his expression inscrutable. "No indeed, I could not."
"No indeed…" she repeated, and stuffed the slice of peach into her shapely mouth. Her intelligent eyes sparked dangerously, and framed with those finely shaped brows, she was formidable. Her husband had elected to stay in Lothlorien to manage affairs there, but Thranduil was sure there was more to that decision than anyone was admitting. He did not envy Celeborn.
Galadriel fell upon one of the seeded scones and looked very much as if she had more to say, but he forgot her when the far doors to the Great Hall opened and a few extra attendees filed in.
No one else seemed to notice, but Thranduil caught his breath at the sight of Filauria—the bard had come to serenade them after all! So she'd recovered, then… what the devil had been the matter with her in the first place?
Concernedly, he took her in from head to toe. She was wearing his favourite gown. She didn't look ill. Not a bit. On the contrary…
"Did you hear me?" Galadriel demanded. "I am told just now that two elflings were murdered by the horrid things earlier this year? Is this true?"
"Must we discuss it now?" he asked, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt. In truth, he was just as eager to have the matter sorted as anyone else, but one could not train up one's entire patrol in a few months or even a few years. This would be a tedious and all-consuming task. He needed to be sure they had the reserves, the population, the funding… and this was absolutely none of Galadriel's business. Let her see to her own forest, he thought bitterly, and leave mine to me.
Filauria had begun to play her lute quietly. It underscored the hall's conversation perfectly, fading into place as naturally as if the music had been there from the beginning. He tried not to stare at her as she played. What had happened earlier to keep her from attendance at court?
When the evening was nearly over, Ayduin gave a stirring speech welcoming the Lothlorien elves to Mirkwood and inviting them to sample the trade goods that had been made available to them for the occasion. Mention was made of extending the visit if the Lady Galadriel was amenable, to which she smiled very kindly but shook her beautiful head. Then there were a few poetic words about the coming on of winter and the harsh snows.
The bard stood as the councillor was speaking and took her place just off his shoulder.
"Now," Ayduin said mellifluously, "You will hear an original song by the royal bard of Mirkwood herself, Filauria Ilitris. It has been penned specifically for the occasion, and is meant to honor the Lady Galadriel and her husband Lord Celeborn. On behalf of my King and his subjects, I wish you all joy this season."
And Filauria sang. She sang like a nightingale. She sang as though she would bring the stars down around them all. She sang as if the fall leaves chasing each other about in the courtyards outside had come into the hall, turned into elves, and sat down at the table with the rest of them, whispering of the cold season to come, and of warm hearthfires, and piping cups of cider, and creamy chestnuts.
For a moment, Thranduil forgot where he was.
There were many things I wanted to do that evening. Singing for the assembly was not one of them.
I would not have minded staying in my quarters until the whole Lorien contingent had left. I thought it might be pleasant to run away into the forest and offer myself up to the spiders as their dinner. I even entertained the idea of giving in to my growing nausea and being heartily sick, and then seeing where that left me.
But I did none of these things.
The Prince had been right. I was an elleth grown, a courtier, and a well-trained performer hand-picked by the King himself.
So I took myself to the Great Hall turned out as finely as I could be under the circumstances and focused only on my music.
I was instantly aware of Yrathea and Dalyon as soon as I entered the room, but I swept past them and pretended I hadn't noticed.
After Ayduin had spoken his introduction, I gave myself over to the performance, allowing complete immersion in the lyrics. It wasn't something I did often. In general, I had been taught to keep my focus on my 'other,' on my audience. As a result, most of my performances were largely presentational, broad, and appealing. Seldom did I allow myself to turn inward and experience the emotion of the song for myself—but I knew the effect it could have. I had seen other elves perform in this way—one risked being thought of as selfish, or luxuriant, or worse, rude… But if it was handled correctly, it would be private, truthful, and fascinating, turning the audience into voyeurs.
I passed it off as an artistic choice, but I knew the real reason I chose to handle the libretto this way. It was because I was afraid.
During the last verse, I opened my awareness to the hall around me and found a sea of still faces, listening and absorbing.
My gaze darted unbidden over to where I knew my sister and her husband sat. They were staring at me, and my voice threatened to falter.
Where was the Prince? There.
My eyes found his and held there. Just as he had said, I kept my eyes on him and the hastily unraveling threads of confidence somehow stayed intact. I continued to deliver, following my song to its end.
The song was about the pain of unrequited love, and compared the falling of autumn leaves to the days and years that pass without return or acknowledgement of long-held affections.
It was so universal, so real. And Filauria filled it with such emotion that the lyrics and melody resonated with everyone.
Thranduil listened appreciatively, allowing himself the luxury of getting swept away in the music. Then he noticed she'd fixed her eyes on something.
No. Someone.
The bard was staring at Legolas, at his son. They'd locked eyes.
What's this? He wondered carefully. Is this new? Or have I simply failed to notice? And then, perhaps most importantly, he thought, Is it real?
He didn't understand.
She had worn his favourite dress.