Shoutout to daughterofthechief! Thanks so much for your kind review and for reading! This little fanfic is creeping along slowly, but I return to it when I have time and when I need an escape. Readers, your comments literally encourage me to keep going! Enjoy!

The throne room was unusually busy that day.

Thranduil kept his jaw set and his body still, but underneath the crown, underneath all of the regalia, his neck and shoulders ached. With his eyes carefully trained on some undistinguished empty space, he thought again of her. Some years ago, he would return to his quarters after such a day and she would massage his shoulders and back… she had an ointment made of a flower she called Brown Beaks…

"Highness?" one of his intendants was asking.

He looked up at the ellon coldly. "Yes?"

"The meal is ready, Sire."

"Meal?"

"Yes, Highness. The midday meal. Will you take some food?"

Ah, yes. "Indeed. Thank you. Please invite any courtiers in attendance to join me."

The ellon bowed. "Very well, your Majesty."

Thranduil placed a long forefinger to the juncture between his dark eyebrows and glanced at the floor. He'd looked at far too many maps today. An unnatural number of maps. Why was it that when his forces were moving and trying to accomplish something, he never had enough information—but in times of relative peace, a ridiculous number of irrelevant maps seemed to grow up out of cracks in his floor?

There was a soft shuffling noise from the side corridor, and the new bard entered flanked by one of the assistant tailors.

Now, that was better. This gown actually fit her. The elleth seemed uncomfortable with the way the fabric clung to her body, but she'd simply have to get used to that. The skirt trailed behind her slightly in back, and the low neckline complimented the lines of her long, lithe neck.

The Elvenking nodded his approval as she approached.

"Do you like the cut, your Majesty?" asked Irwen, the assistant tailor. The ellon's quick hands and unparalleled eye had fitted him for many an occasion, and Thranduil trusted him.

"Quite," the King agreed, eyeing the bard. "Have several made in colors to suit the skin tone, please."

Irwen bowed. "Your Majesty."

The bard was watching him. He found her gaze borderline disrespectful, but could not tell why. He chose to ignore her.

"You may go, Irwen. I trust she's not sewn into the thing. Can she perform?"

"Yes, Highness. She is fit to work. Thank you, Highness."

And the ellon left them staring at each other, with the soft noises of tables being set and pre-mealtime chatter punctuating the background.

His icy blue eyes met her warm brown ones and she lifted her chin imperceptibly. The expression irritated him.

"You look well," he said to her in clipped tones. "I'd ask how you feel, but I really don't care."

A tiny flame sprang up behind her eyes, but she mastered it. "Thank you, your Highness," she said calmly. "I appreciate the care and attention you have spared for my wardrobe."

He almost laughed. She was clever. "Will you take some refreshment?" he asked, changing the subject.

She looked momentarily confused, then smoothed her features. "I thank you, my King, but I would rather perform the office for which I was summoned."

So she was acquainted with the bardic tradition of eating at strange hours, utilizing mealtimes exclusively for entertaining royals and courtiers. He could respect that. "As you wish," he replied. "And what are we to hear for the midday meal?"

Her body instantly tensed. She was one of the more expressive elleths he'd seen, Thranduil decided. The exchange was over almost immediately, but for a moment he watched her wrestle with two choices—asking the King's pleasure, he guessed, or declaring and performing her own selection. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth.

In the end she decided to simply announce her selection, rather than asking him for a suggestion—the stronger choice.

The dining tables were moved into place, and servers from the kitchen began to flood the throne room. They didn't always sup like this—only on busy days at court, and then only for small groups of courtiers. The spread was good. Thranduil never found fault with the kitchens. As he nibbled on fresh forest strawberries, biscuits, cheeses and smoked meat, he allowed his mind to relax.

The bard—Felicia, was it? did well.

She did not betray any of the nerves he was sure troubled her. She turned out three selections back to back, all technically proficient, and all well-suited to mealtime conversation. He hated it when a performer chose music intended for a captive audience when the occasion was inherently social. Then guests would whisper and feel uncomfortable speaking over the music.

An attendant brought him some asparagus with shaved sheep's cheese and ash salt. He bit into the tender vegetables and allowed his mind to relax a bit.

He found that his elven brethren stared at him constantly. The new bard divided their attentions and drew away some of the intense scrutiny, allowing for some relief. He'd never tell her that, though. Thranduil believed in the power of criticism as a motivator.

When the meal was finished, he wiped his lips delicately and stood. At his motion, several of the more animated conversations stilled.

"Thank you, my dear," he said loftily to the bard. "A brave first try."

The elleth colored faintly at his comment. He heard a snicker from somewhere in the room but ignored it.

"Do come back tomorrow afternoon," Thranduil continued. "I am entertaining some dignitaries from Lorien. And don't trouble yourself over material. I will make the selections this time."

She gave him a respectful curtsey before leaving the room. And then he promptly forgot about her.

Enough, I thought to myself. That was enough.

As soon as I could, I fled the court and went to my residence, where I angrily ripped off the snug gown the court tailor had given me to wear. It was hot, and tight, and itchy. I didn't feel like myself at all. I felt self-conscious about the music I'd chosen for the midday meal—should I have let the Elvenking pick? It didn't matter. I was spent.

I buried my head in my pillow and screamed.

Then, face and chest flushed, I threw on whatever clothing my hand happened to light on and left Mirkwood Court proper.

It felt wonderful to be out in the cool twilight.

The forest was singing with buzzing insects, songbirds, and the gentle rush of hidden streams. My feet moved quietly along the path, only crunching on the occasional twig or leaf. I sought what I had come to think of as my tree—a marvelous Sap Maple just North of Thranduil's palace.

When I was in training and new to the court, I would come here. The way the maple changed with the seasons was comforting to me somehow, and mirrored the way I seemed to be developing and morphing—always a slightly different elleth with every visit. What was I in this iteration? I felt just as young, small, and insignificant as the first time I'd come to the Mirkwood.

As the tree came into sight, I quickened my step. Underneath its boughs was a cushion of soft, shady loam, and I sank into it gratefully, leaning against the rough bark of the tree trunk. Just ahead, a small tributary to the Cinwe River flowed along, the last pale rays of the setting sun glinting off the waterlogged stones. The sound of it was comforting, and secure in my anonymity, I finally lowered all my defenses.

I wept.

I missed my mother. I wondered if I would ever fit in at court. I dreaded being dismissed, and feared that somehow—despite my best efforts—dismissal would come to be my fate.

The royal bard was a coveted position according to hearsay. But why? Now that I was finally at court, up close—the whole thing seemed a nightmare. A carefully tailored, perfectly groomed, well-fed nightmare.

One of the things that bothered me the most was my uncharacteristically emotional reaction. In the moment, I had found the King to be unspeakably rude. He was toying with me, I knew, and just for the pure enjoyment of it. But if I tried to discern just what had disturbed me, I found to my frustration that all of it was contextual. He was subtle… and I had nothing of significance to reproach him with.

And beyond all that, what did it matter? Rude or not, he was the Elvenking. His behaviors, strange or cruel, must necessarily be tolerated. Oh, I knew that were he to stray into the realm of physical abuse, the council would intervene, but somehow that seemed unlikely.

I wiped at the hot tears with my sodden sleeve and continued to cry softly. I felt so lost.

A sound brought me out of my reverie and I jumped to my feet.

"Lady Filauria?"

The voice was gentle and concerned, and I dabbed hastily at my face, hoping my eyes weren't too swollen.

Prince Legolas was there, tapping at my elbow gently.

I was mortified and moved to scramble away.

"Lady!" he exclaimed. "You are distressed."

He was garbed for hunting, with a leather jerkin and leggings. His formidable bow was strung across his back, and he set these and his quiver down in the soft dirt beside us. His silken hair was pulled back in a half-tail, with tiny rope braids over each ear. His body radiated heat, and I guessed he had been out for most of the day.

"I am fine," I assured him. "Just tired."

"Are you hurt?"

"No," I laughed. "Nothing like that. Thank you for your concern, my Prince."

Prince Legolas frowned at me, then scanned my body—ostensibly for bruises or blood. Finding none, he urged me to sit once more while he searched himself for a handkerchief. "Please," he said gently, sitting down beside me. "Tell me what troubles you. Perhaps I can assist you in some way."

I hesitated. This was tricky. Complaining at all about Thranduil King could be taken as insubordination, or worse, treason. How much did I dare to say?

"As I said, my Prince," I said. "I am only a little tired."

His frank look made me smile tremulously and cave in.

With a sigh, I continued, "It was my first day at court as royal bard, and…" I could feel the traitorous tears begin to fill my eyes once more. "... I did the best I could, but…"

The Prince gave a sigh of his own. "Ah, yes," he said. "Father was a bit hard on you?"

I was careful not to respond, keeping my eyes straight ahead, but he probably read my posture for confirmation.

"I hate it when he does that," Legolas went on. "He doesn't mean to be horrible to servants… he just…" The Prince thought for a moment. "He likes to test them. To see how far they'll stretch. It seems mean-spirited, but I promise it's short lived."

I wiped my nose indelicately. "So I just need to stick to it?" I asked. "Wait him out?"

The Prince was tracing a pattern absently in the dirt beside us. "No, not really… How do I put it?" He squinted up through the leaves of the maple tree at the last vestiges of sunlight before nightfall. "The King enjoys elves who are—reactionary. He provokes those he thinks he can move in some way. The best advice I can give you is to stand up to him. He'll respect you for it, and it shames him a little too—though he usually pretends not to mind."

I shook my head in amazement. Anyone would think our sovereign a little elfling—not a monarch hundreds of years old.

He produced a handkerchief and handed it to me. I took it, and blew my nose.

The sun dipped down below the mountains then, and the two of us were bathed in cold after-light. For some reason, the idea that we were alone together outside of court made me suddenly uneasy. The Prince seemed to sense it and climbed slowly to his feet.

"May I escort you back through the Greenwood?" he asked.

I gave him a reassuring smile and noticed as his eyes dropped to settle on my mouth. "I thank you, but no," I told him. "This is one of my favorite places. I come here when my fëa is weary. I just need to collect my thoughts and I will return to court shortly."

Though I found his presence a comfort, I was relieved when he gave me a nod and turned to go.

Then he stopped.

"Lady," he said carefully. "I offer you my sincere friendship. I am a reliable and willing confidant. If ever you have need of an ally in Mirkwood, I will perform the office."

I met his eyes.

It was an unusual thing to say to a bard. I skirted the line between courtier and servant, true, but there was enough in my background to render me hopelessly beneath him socially.

"My hand on it," he added, removing one of his hunting gloves.

He offered me his outstretched palm, and I took it unthinkingly—he was a monarch in waiting, after all. It was pure reflex to obey him. But his hand was calloused and warm, and when my fingers met his, a spark of excitement ignited in me and pooled in my lower belly. I wondered if he felt it too.

"Thank you," I said stupidly.

He bowed to me. He bowed to me… and then he left me to my own thoughts.