The waning light had gone to seed and evening was coming quickly on.
Legolas spent the rest of his afternoon at the practice range. There was one target in particular that was giving him trouble—one of the painted wooden panels high up in the air and dangling from a tree limb.
It seemed that just as he'd aimed well with his strongbow and let the arrow fly, a capricious wind would materialize and push the shot just off center. Once, he entirely missed the target—a thing rare and unusual for the warrior.
He kept thinking of the audience chamber earlier that day, and of Filauria standing so close to his father.
It had made him feel… strange. Unsettled. He hadn't understood it at all.
Had he imagined it, or was there really attraction there? Could there be? Thranduil had not professed interest in another elf, elleth or ellon, since his wife had died.
Legolas shrugged to himself. The King was cold and rather stoic, never fully engaged with others, never impressed with what anyone else had to say. If it were true—if Filauria had captured his attention, would he even do anything about it? Act on his feelings in any way?
It was entirely inappropriate, of course. He was the King, and she only a courtier. She was in his employ.
And yet… She wasn't ineligible. It was her position that made things tricky. Her status as a Sindarin made her acceptable as a potential mate. And Legolas, the crown Prince, harbored feelings for her himself. Was that any different?
He harbored feelings for her.
In the wake of the realization, Legolas slowly lowered his bow and the arrow he had nocked to it. Could he name them, these—feelings?
It was casual interest, he told himself. True, he'd been struck by her beauty the moment he'd seen her at the Summer Solstice celebration, but attraction between elfkin was laughably common and even expected. Since then, he'd come to know her a little better, and this seemed to beget a need to continue the trend. He wanted to know absolutely everything about her. She is well-born, attractive, intelligent, talented, and personable, he thought. Who wouldn't like her? He certainly hadn't given his heart to her yet. If she were to mate and bond with another, he would recover, and probably easier than the last time. Yes—this was definitely casual interest.
But then, if it was so casual, why did his heart skip a beat when he'd seen Filauria and Thranduil regarding each other so—well, so intimately?
Out of nowhere, the anger descended on him. He had no idea how long this had lain dormant within his breast, but the idea that he'd been denied comfort and companionship over hundreds of empty years suddenly disgusted him. He'd been so alone, and Thranduil had all but chased his beloved Tauriel away. The Prince's evenings had been quiet, his bed cold. He had no children. If And now that an eligible elleth had presented herself at court, the King appeared to be lusting after her like… like a hart in heat. Unless Legolas was greatly mistaken, his father harbored some feelings for the bard.
What was he to do?
He had no idea of Filauria's actually returning these affections—if that was indeed the reality of the situation. That was a comfort, at least. She wasn't spoken for that Legolas could tell. And really—the King falling for his own bard? It was ridiculous. Unseemly. Thranduil would never act on it, certainly.
Legolas loosed another arrow. If he was careful and very attentive, he might still have the chance to win her. As the crown Prince and an uncoupled ellon as yet, Mirkwood society would not look unkindly on the match were he to claim her. He would certainly try.
And he would say nothing to his father until the King's feelings on the subject became impossible to ignore.
Legolas used his frustration to give power to his practice attacks. Before the session was over, he'd drilled that elusive target high in the air absolutely full of arrows.
It was a chilly November morning, and I opened my eyes to a grey dawn.
My room seemed cozier now that I'd had the chance to fill it with some of my things. The longer I'd been employed at court, the more chances I'd had to amass, well—possessions.
My collection of gowns had grown exponentially. Several large chests had been brought to my apartments to house extra garments, cosmetics and jewelry. I'd been gifted several volumes of books by new friends I'd met, and the odd instrument, music stand, or scroll punctuated any open spaces in my quarters. I almost couldn't believe my elevated status as a true courtier, nor the advantages that were now accessible to me because of it. After what I'd come from, this was an utter dream.
The crisp, clean bedclothes felt wonderful next to my skin, and for a moment I lingered in bed, satisfied to peer out at the frigid day.
Several pairs of elven feet hastened past my door; I heard someone gently calling for hot water—and my heart sank when I realized what day it was.
Today was the day the envoy from Lothlorien was slated to arrive.
Oh, Valar, I thought. I wished in my heart that the Lady Galadriel might be our only visitor, but suspected it was too much to hope for.
My sister and brother-in-law would most certainly travel with her.
Yrathea was part of the inner consort and had become indispensable as one of Lady Galadriel's companions. Her husband—even now, the thought nettled me—waited on Galadriel and Celeborn as well.
And suddenly, my room felt cold and dull, and I wished only to go back to sleep.
Could I? For a moment, I considered simply keeping to my rooms and telling everyone that I was ill. Of course, knowing the royal family as I did, they would most certainly send healers to attend me.
No, I thought. Better to get cleaned up and see. They might not have come. Then you'd be worrying for nothing.
Groggily, I roused myself from bed and gathered my things before padding down the hall to the baths.
The enclave that housed the dining area was uncharacteristically busy that morning. Several Mirkwood courtiers that I seldom saw in public were in attendance, and I noticed a smattering of Lorien elves as well. None of the sovereigns had joined the throng yet—too early, I suspected. I sat down and helped myself to a fortifying meal of sprouted grains, herbed mushrooms, and a carrot soup. As I ate, that unpleasant fluttering in my stomach began to calm. They might not even be here. Silly elleth, to worry over nothing!
I had just taken a large sip of tea when the door at the far end of the chamber opened and my hopes for the day were shattered. There they were, arm in arm; Yrathea and Dalyor, looking just as happy and contented as they had made me wretched and miserable.
My heart pounded so hard, I was sure anyone who cared to look could see my throat pulsing with it.
Despite my best efforts to remain unfazed, my breath came quick and short—and my breakfast threatened a hasty reprisal.
Must… escape, I thought to myself. Danger. Pain.
I kept my head down as the two of them meandered in and began to chat with other elfkin. When I judged they were well-occupied and wouldn't notice, I surreptitiously slipped out through a side door and hurried back to my room.
With my door safely closed, I leaned against it to catch my breath—and burst into helpless tears instead.
If I was at all coherent, I would have been surprised. The deluge was instant and immediate, and the force of my implosion bent me at the waist.
I covered my face with my hands and sobbed.
I could not be about today, could not entertain the King—I could not. I could not see the two of them, see how they smiled at one other. Slowly, I moved myself to my bed, still unmade, and lay down. I think I must have cried for about an hour.
After, I peered at my pitiful reflection in the looking glass and shook my head, resolved.
Absolutely not. I would not appear in court today.
"What do you mean, she's indisposed?" Thranduil asked incredulously. "That's ridiculous. I saw her last evening—she was fine."
Ayduin shrugged helplessly. "I do apologize, my King. A servant has returned from the bard's apartments bearing the news. She says she's unwell."
The King frowned. This, I do not like, he thought. No, not at all.
Being surprised in any way, pleasant or no, was not a thing Thranduil ascribed to. He preferred to know in advance what was coming so he might prepare himself for it in the most effective way possible.
The crown felt heavy on his head today, and his velvet wrap—usually so effective at staving off the chill—was doing nothing in the way of comfort. His long, pale green robes fell languidly to the floor, and his crystalline eyes regarded his councillor sharply. "This is unacceptable," he announced. "Send a healer to her rooms at once. We have guests, and they will expect to be entertained. Have someone hold her up if she cannot stand on her own."
The ellon's eyebrows lifted at the directive, but he bowed to his sovereign and left with a murmured, "Yes, my King."
"Filauria? Ill?" asked Legolas, approaching the throne as suddenly as Ayduin had left it.
"I know as much as you, my son," Thranduil replied. "I am surprised the bard did not send word herself. It is most unlike her to simply miss an engagement without any communication as to why."
The Prince nodded. "It is indeed." There was a short pause, and then he added, "It is concerning. I will go and see for myself, I think."
Thranduil felt a sudden panic then that he could not name. He had the impulse to forbid such behavior but did not know why.
"My son," called the King after him, and Legolas stopped to regard his father.
But there were no words.
Say something, fool, Thranduil told himself, but the feelings would not translate. "Never mind," he finished lamely. "Please let me know what you find out."
And the Prince nodded curtly and was gone.