Chapter Text
The corridor’s torches had yet to be relit for the day when Thranduil opened his chamber doors. The guards standing at the end of the corridor bowed as he approached. “Has Lady Nimue returned?”
The guards glanced at each other before responding. “Lady Nimue has not been within this corridor all night.”
I hoped she would have returned to her rooms or slept in her sitting room. Judging by the guards’ looks, he must not have been successful in hiding his concern. Although, they did not say she had not returned to the stronghold.
“Inform me when she does return.” He continued, sweeping past them. However, the effect was not the same since he lacked his usual robe.
He had spent the entire sleepless night, when he wasn’t consumed by worry, devising a plan. Hopefully, it will serve as the beginning of an apology to Nimue and start the changes to courtly life she - we - desire.
His sure steps led him to the kitchens, glad the rest of the stronghold still slept.
His plan to surreptitiously break his fast was foiled. He should have remembered the kitchens rarely slept. Cooks, scullions, carvers, and all manner of servants filled the large space. Some were deep in preparation for the day’s meals, others breaking their own fast, and still more bustling in and out of the various alcoves and pantries.
The pungent scent of garlic and onion overlay that of the roast turning in the great fireplace, but the sweeter smell of honeyed fruit and cardamom rolls called to him.
After a quick glance, he edged toward the bread ovens, only to freeze as a chorus of laughter bounced off the stone ceiling.
Nimue.
I would recognize her laugh anywhere. She is still here. He sent a prayer of thanks to the Valar.
She was ensconced among the servants gathered around the rough log table, watching the gesticulations of a stablehand. Her cloak, the same one she had worn yesterday, was thrown back from her shoulders, the bottom dappled with mud. The single thick braid she wore was beginning to unravel. From experience, he knew how beautiful she looked with the loose tendrils framing her face. It reminded him of all the times they had stolen away from some event of his father’s to have a private moment.
A quiet yelp tore his attention away from Nimue.
Staring wide-eyed at him was a servant dressed in a baker’s apron. “My—”
He grasped the servant’s arm and dragged him behind a rack of pots. “Do not say a word,” he hissed.
The servant did little more than open his eyes further.
“You will tell no one I was here.” He released the servant and wiped his hand on his pants. “Send a tray to my office.” A whiff of yeast reached his nose. “Be sure it includes those rolls.”
The servant opened and closed his mouth three times.
He arched a brow.
“Yes, of course, right away, my king.”
He did not wait for the servant to bow, sweeping from the kitchen the same way he had arrived.
Reaching his office, he opened the shutters himself. Leaning against the window frame he let the sounds of the awakening forest and cheery sunlight chase the night’s chill from him.
The only thing that could make this more perfect is Nimue in my arms.
Leaving the picturesque scene behind, he sat behind the desk. Picking up the quill, he tapped it against his chin.
There were a host of names attached to Nimue’s needlework, names I have never heard mention before, how am I to tend to them all?
He started with the easy one and wrote Gwynn.
She came to the library looking for a gift for … He pursed his lips. The head scribe.
Head scribe. Head scribe.
Right, she was having problems with quills.
He added head scribe-quills to his list.
And then there was something from last evening with Madog.
He wrote dancing-Madog.
There were others, things not suited for Nimue.
He frowned and wrote new steed-spider and archery-Legolas.
What else?
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Galion entered carrying a tray with his breakfast, he set it on the desk before bustling about making the tea. He always prepared it exactly how Thranduil desired, even Nimue had not mastered this task.
Thranduil exchanged his list for the teacup. As he sipped his morning brew, he watched Galion’s eyebrows raise as he read.
The butler read it three times before asking, “My king, I wish to accurately fulfill your wishes, might I inquire about your intention for this list? Should I arrange these items, er, activities for Gwynn?”
“No. I wish to speak to those who oversee these activities.” He frowned. “They petitioned Lady Nimue and I have decided to personally see to their requests.”
Galion’s eyebrows shot up again. “I shall send word and set appointments—”
“No. I wish to speak to them today. I want you to take me to them.”
“What of the council?”
He gave a stern look. “Inform them we will reconvene in two days.”
“Of course, my king. Arrangements will be taken care of while you eat.” He bowed and left the room quietly muttering to himself.
Thranduil took a bite of one of the rolls, pleased as the rich taste of cardamom filled his mouth.
I erred yesterday but I will not be like my parents. How hard can it be to grant a few favors?
Their first destination was the scriptorium. Thranduil had not been within its confines in several decades but it was much as he remembered. Rows of sturdy desks topped with candles in various stages of melt, under-scribes hustling down the aisles exchanging scrolls or fetching new parchment, and the only sound was the scratching of three dozen quills.
The scratching turned staccato as he strode through the room. Scribes peeked at him with wide eyes before dropping their gaze at Galion’s pointed look.
He headed first for the prominent desk of the head scribe, not because he couldn’t remember which scribe was Gwynn, but because it was only proper.
The silver-haired maiden came around the desk and curtseyed to him. “It is a great honor to have you among us, my king. How may I be of service?”
“My lady spoke of the difficulties you were having with quills. I came to resolve the matter.”
Her eyes widened as color rushed to her face. She quickly curtseyed to hide her discomfort.
“Remind me, head scribe, what is your name.” He ignored the exasperated hand Galion brought to his face.
“Annest, Your Majesty.”
He raised an eyebrow when she did not continue. “Tell me Annest, what is the difficulty with the quills.”
“Yes, my king.” She bobbed another curtsey. “Quills have been more prone to breaking.” She chewed her lips. “The supply may be exhausted before the next shipment from Enedwaith.”
Have we ever run out of quills? What an odd thing to be concerned about.
“It could be the apprentice scribes simply need more training on proper handling, which has already begun,” she hurried to say.
What was it Nimue mentioned? He hummed. “Who inspects the shipments for quality?”
“Yirsid, Your Majesty.”
He nodded but had no idea who Yirsid was or where they might be found. “This matter will be investigated. I will not tolerate the delivery of poor quality goods.” He turned to Galion. “Make a note to discuss this matter with the trade advisor.”
Galion nodded.
“Thank you, my king.” Annest curtseyed.
Thranduil inclined his head and turned away.
Galion cleared his throat and gestured at the list he held.
“Ah, yes,” Thranduil said. “Where is scribe Gwynn?”
A crash and the sound of pages fluttering came from the far end of the scriptorium. Annest shook her head and pointed to the source of the commotion.
Inclining his head, he made his way to a desk, smaller than the others but close to the hearth, covered in precarious piles of books.
Gwynn kicked a book under the desk and curtseyed, staying in the low bend until he motioned for her to rise. She opened her mouth but all that came out was a wheeze.
“Has my lady made arrangements for your request?”
She shook her head and managed to sink lower. “I would never presume such immediate action.”
“It will be unnecessary for you to travel to Lake-town. There are plenty of trinkets within the stronghold. They can be put to better use than gathering dust. You shall have the pick of items in the south storeroom.”
Her hand fluttered to her throat and she nearly fell over. “Thank you, my king.”
Galion cleared his throat. “That room holds the artwork salvaged from Doriath, my king.”
Would a scribe consider taking one of those? Thranduil grunted. “Does it not contain my mother’s wardrobe?”
Galion nodded and hesitantly asked, “Perhaps, Mistress Gwynn could inform you of what item she is interested in?”
Thranduil turned back to the scribe and arched an eyebrow.
She squeaked and fisted her hands in her skirt, whispering too quietly to hear.
“Speak up,” Thranduil commanded.
“Yes, my king.” She curtseyed again. “I thought Annest would appreciate a fresh diary or perhaps some new hair ribbons, she greatly admired the ones Lady Nimue gifted Fayleen. I would like to gift something befitting of her station.”
Thranduil nodded. “Galion will make arrangements for you to locate such items.”
Galion closed his eyes and sighed out a long breath.
“Thank you, my king.” Gwynn curtseyed again.
He inclined his head and strode to the exit. When he reached the hallway, he asked, “Who is next on the list?”
The parchment rustled as Galion took it from his pocket. “It says dancing and Madog. ”
“Who is in charge of dance lessons?”
“My king?” Galion’s steps faltered.
“Surely, someone within my kingdom can provide instruction on dancing.” He struggled to keep his voice level. Why does everyone question me? Is this what Nimue must put up with?
“Of course, my king,” Galion soothed. “It has been some time since someone has needed to fill the role of dance instructor. I believe it has not been since Prince Legolas came of age.”
He hummed and remembered the evening he came upon Legolas practicing dancing with his mother. That had been a lovely evening. If only they all could have been like that.
“Would you like Madog to have dancing lessons?” Galion asked. “Or are these for yourself and Lady Nimue?”
Thranduil shook the thoughts of the past from his head. “Lady Nimue has arranged the courtship of Madog and …” What was his name? “One of the guards. He would like to learn proper dance form.”
Galion nodded. “In that case, Mistress Clwenda would be the perfect person for the task.”
“Take me to her.”
Galion glanced at him dubiously but did as ordered.
They wove their way deeper into the stronghold, descending several long flights of steep stone stairs, until they reached the river. Their destination was the squat wooden building that stretched over the turbulent waters to straddle both banks. Steam wafted from between the slats of the laundry house and shouts mixed with the refrains of a working song.
When they reached the entryway, Galion suggested, “Perhaps you would like to wait outside, my king? I can fetch Mistress Clwenda.”
He ignored the question and stepped inside. His tunic stuck to his skin and the tips of his hair began to curl from the heat. The cloying smell of lye mixed with lavender made his eyes water.
Fires burned high under long rows of copper tubs. Servants used long wooden paddles to dunk garments and other linens.
In a row of others, ladies plunged their arms into the steaming water, their skin glowing bright red as they scrubbed the cloths against washboards.
Still others tugged the wet items through clear water before hanging them to dry on lines stretched over braziers.
Lesser servants darted among the stationary ones, dipping buckets into the river, adding water to the tubs, and beating cloth against the rocks.
I have seen war camps with less activity.
Galion stepped beside him and pointed to a silver-haired maid at the head of a nearby tub.
He raised an eyebrow. This was the dancing instructor?
Startled faces tracked Thranduil’s journey through the laundry house and murmuring increased in his wake.
Clwenda stiffened the closer he drew. When it became obvious she was his target, she dropped the gown she had been scrubbing, dried her hands on her apron, and smoothed her hair. She curtseyed the moment he reached her. “My king, I am honored.”
“Galion tells me you are a dance instructor.”
Clwenda’s eyes darted to the butler before she nodded. “Yes, my king. I have previously taught dance. Did you need—”
He waved off her question.
“I did not expect a laundress to be educated in court dances.” He winced.
She bowed her head and twisted the apron strings around her fingers.
Galion huffed and suggested, “Perhaps this discussion would be best suited somewhere more private?”
Thranduil nodded and indicated for him to lead the way.
Galion offered his arm to Clwenda and they all stepped into the cooler air along the river.
What would Nimue do?
He went over the words in his head before speaking. “It is a rare talent for a laundress to know court dances.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“How did you learn?”
“I was part of the entourage that accompanied your lady wife. All of her maids received such instruction.” She again twisted the fabric between her fingers. “I have a particular talent for remembering the steps.”
He stared, dumbfounded. I never gave much thought to my wife’s servants or really any servant. Do they all possess hidden talents? What talents does Galion have?
Clwenda rocked on her heels and Galion patted her hand.
Thranduil pulled himself from his musings. “You will provide dance lessons to interested parties. It is a skill we have long neglected. Matters will be arranged to allow time away from normal duties and space for such activities.”
The parchment appeared in Galion’s hand again and he made a note.
“I am much honored,” Clwenda said but anxiety painted her features.
“Carry on.” He turned and walked away, his business done.
Galion heaved another sigh and spoke softly to Clwenda before catching up to Thranduil. “Will you go to the stables next?”
He nodded and began the long climb.
Curious glances and hushed conversations dogged their steps. The skin on Thranduil’s neck prickled.
This is why I stopped mixing with them after the coronation. They do nothing but judge.
A dark-haired servant, older and portly, for an elf, cautiously stepped from a cross corridor and bowed. “My king, may I have a word?”
He inhaled sharply, ready to tell this upstart off when he again remembered his purpose. “What is your name?” He couldn’t do much about the clipped tone.
“Paeris, Your Majesty.” He bowed again.
“Walk with me, Paeris.” He wasn’t going to chat in the corridor like a peasant himself.
Galion stepped back and motioned for Paeris to take his spot.
“Tell me, Paeris, what is it you ask?”
“Yes, my king. I, um, I spoke to Lady Nimue. I mentioned a need, er, desire, for servants to have a place to bathe. I located a disused hot spring and I thought it could be renovated but I’m just a cook. I do not know anything of building—”
“Where do you bathe now?”
“In the river, when we can but I thought the ladies would appreciate,” he chuckled, “well, we all would, somewhere protected, and warm, my king.”
“Why is this spring not in use?”
“I’m not sure, my king. I believe a spider attacked bathers there once.”
“Galion, track down information about a spider attack, one so close to the stronghold should be easily remembered, and have this spring surveyed. There is no sense in letting a resource sit idle.”
The quill scratched across the parchment.
“Thank you, my king.”
Thranduil dismissed Paeris without breaking stride.
The bright sunlight warmed his skin when they finally stepped from the dark confines of the stronghold.
“My king, may I have leave to attend to these items?” Galion asked, holding up the parchment.
“Yes. You won’t be much use with the steeds.”
Galion’s lip quirk was quickly hidden by his bow.
“I shall take luncheon with my son today.”
“The kitchens will be informed,” Galion left with a murmur of, “and so will Prince Legolas.”
Why is it odd I wish to spend time with my son?
He crossed the yard unimpeded and entered the stable that housed the elk-cows and young.
A tall elf with auburn hair quickly rose from a haybale and bowed. “My king, should I saddle Arasrohir?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “A ranger recently lost her steed. Send her to me so a new mount can be selected.”
The elf blinked and his mouth fell open.
Thranduil arched an eyebrow.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Right away, Your Majesty.” He ran from the stable.
Thranduil shook his head and wandered along the stalls. The tension he had carried since yesterday began to ease. The earthy aroma of the steeds mixed with fresh straw filled his nose. The swish of a brush, the shuffle of hooves in the hay, and soft whinnying reached his ears.
He stopped at the stall of a bay-colored steed, smiling when it pressed its wet nose into his hand.
Hesitant footsteps drew close behind him. Patting the steed a final time, he turned and found a short, dark-haired ranger waiting.
She bowed and said, “You sent for me, my king?”
“What is your name?”
“Solamh, Your Majesty.” Her eyes quickly darted away when they met his.
He turned back to the horse. “You recently lost a steed. Have you selected a replacement?”
A small squeak sounded before Solamh found her voice. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice. A mount has always been assigned, my king.”
“Who does the selecting?”
“I, umm, I believe it is the captains.”
“How is compatibility ensured?”
Solamh’s mouth opened and closed, and her hands fluttered across the strap of her quiver. “Compatibility?”
He clicked his tongue. “Where is the stable master?”
An elf stepped forward from the small crowd that had gathered and bowed. “I am Cynuise, the stable master, Your Majesty.”
Thranduil repeated his question, “How is compatibility between mount and rider determined?”
Cynuise stared, frozen in place.
Thranduil pinched his nose. How is he the stable master when he doesn’t know something so basic?
“Release the steeds into the paddock,” he ordered.
No one moved.
Sighing, he opened the stall door and led the bay horse into the meadow. Shouts, creaking leather, nickering, and sharp hoof steps followed him out.
When the handful of elves and twice as many steeds had joined him, he said, “The most important factor in selecting a mount is temperament.” He looked across the fence that separated the horses from the elks. “While Arasrohir, the first, has produced a strong line of sires, not everyone has matched my temperament.”
The crowd of silver, red, and mithril heads nodded along with him.
“You must determine if the mount will listen to you, and if you will listen to it.”
“How does one do that?” Cynuise asked and quickly bowed.
“Enough with all this bobbing.” He waved a hand. “It is distracting from the lesson.”
“Yes, my king.” Cynuise made an abortive bend making the others snicker.
“Solamh, come. You shall demonstrate.”
Her eyes went wide and she dutifully shuffled closer.
“Walk among the steeds and see what one you make a connection with.”
She moved among the horses, hesitant hand held out, petting noses and speaking softly. She stopped in front of a massive tan stallion. It curiously sniffed her pockets, obviously searching for a treat. Finding none, his ears went back and he snapped at her fingers.
Thranduil sighed. This is going to be harder than I imagined.
Looking over the herd again, he saw Solamh now stood before a chestnut mare.
She scratched her ears and smiled when it playfully nudged her with its large nose.
Thranduil called, “What horse would you choose? The tan or the chestnut?”
Solamh’s eyes flickered between the two horses, Thranduil, and Cynuise. “I am not sure, my king. The tan has the muscles to withstand the rigors of patrol.”
Thranduil pressed his lips together. I must make a note to implement more training.
“Which would you choose, stable master?” he asked.
“The tan,” Cynise answered without hesitation.
“No.”
They shrunk back from his harsh declaration and he winced.
“The tan stallion is larger, and even if it had not tried to bite Solamh, it is much too big for her frame. She could not force him to follow her commands in the heat of battle. That is the most important element in determining compatibility.”
Sounds of surprise and understanding rang out around him.
“Mount the chestnut and see how you get along,” he instructed Solamh. “The rest of you, find your steeds and check for compatibility.”
He spent the next several hours among the horses and rangers. They drew a small crowd of curious onlookers, and once everyone had grown comfortable with his presence, he had an enjoyable time. A few times he even exchanged banter as he had done as a prince among his father’s rangers.
He looked around the meadow and smiled. I should do this more often. It is preferable to listening to the councilors make the same asinine arguments they have for the past century.
Is this what it is like for Nimue? This easy companionship? Do I really want to prevent her from having this?
A flash of golden hair appeared and Legolas’s amused voice floated over the gathered crowd, “Father, I never would have guessed it was you causing this disturbance.”
He patted the neck of a black stallion and ambled to the fence where his son stood.
Legolas smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. “Galion sent word you wished to luncheon with me. Would you wish to do so now, or have you not finished with the horses?”
Thranduil glanced at the sky, noting the sun’s position, and his own hunger, and nodded.
“Would you prefer to eat in my office?” Legolas asked.
“Where do you and Lady Nimue usually luncheon?”
Legolas again raised his eyebrows in surprise. “There is a small garden nearby that Lady Nimue prefers.”
“Will she be joining you today?” He half hoped she would be so he could begin making amends.
“I don’t believe so.” Legolas shrugged. “Would you prefer to stay in the fresh air?”
Thranduil nodded. He hadn’t spent so long free of the dark halls since his last trip to Imladris. Something else he wanted to change when he apologized to Nimue.
Legolas led him away from the hustle of the barracks and stables and along a narrow path between two trees. They emerged into a small glade containing a shallow pond. A circular stone table and four chairs sat under the protection of the willow branches.
A servant appeared and laid out their meal before retreating.
Father and son sat across from each other. They ate the simple meal of cheese, bread, and sliced fruit all washed down with red wine in silence for many long minutes.
Legolas gestured with his wine goblet to the pond. “Lady Nimue wishes to add a fountain and perhaps a pavilion. She mentioned having something similar in Amon Lanc.”
Thranduil sat back and took in the clearing. Now that Legolas had mentioned it, with a little work, it would be easy enough to recreate the secret garden where he used to meet Nimue.
Legolas tipped back the remainder of his wine and poured more. “I thought of making the changes myself but after the quarrel you had, perhaps it would mean more coming from you.”
He gulped down his wine and sat back. “Do you know where she went last night?”
Legolas shook his head. “Even if I did, I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you.”
He pounded his fist on the table. “It is my right to know.”
“I have found ladies hold less resentment when you do not demand things from them.”
He perked up and asked, “Surely, you know where Tauriel was last night.”
Legolas shook his head. “It was not my concern where they went. I trusted Tauriel to keep herself, and Lady Nimue, safe. And besides, I would not betray their confidence, if they had told me.”
“You trust Tauriel that much?”
“You do not trust Lady Nimue?”
Thranduil hung his head.
Of course, I trust her. I do not trust others not to take advantage of her sweet nature. She has been through enough.
Awkwardness descended between father and son and they finished the meal in silence.
After the servant reappeared and cleared the dishes, Legolas said, “Father, I don’t pretend to know all of what passed between you and Lady Nimue, yesterday or long before, but don’t let your need for control drive her away.”
He looked at his son, as if for the first time. “When did you grow so wise?”
Legolas smiled. “I was paying attention to all your lessons.”
It seems I have forgotten those lessons myself.
Legolas stood and stretched. “I must get back. I promised to help Emhyr with archery techniques.”
“Wait.” Thranduil grabbed his wrist before he could walk away. “I must apologize to you.”
Legolas drew back in surprise.
He sighed and released Legolas to run a hand through his hair. “I said things about your relationship with Tauriel that were unwarranted. While I believe you can forge a better relationship with someone of higher status—”
“I am not marrying Lady Arwen.”
Thranduil pulled a face.
Legolas laughed at his expression.
While that would be preferable to a match with a Galadhrim, I don’t want any more ties to Elrond than necessary.
Recovering, Thranduil continued, “I should be the last person to discourage matches based on status alone. I simply do not want to see you heartbroken, as I was. Whoever you choose as a partner will have to withstand the pressures of court. Make sure your bond can overcome those trials.”
“Thank you, Father.” Legolas studied him for a long moment, before hesitantly asking, “Perhaps Tauriel could join us at the head table for supper some evening. I’m sure you would see how well she can handle herself.”
Thranduil closed his eyes. He had said those exact words to his father about Nimue. Not only had the request been harshly refused, but he later found out Nimue had been banished from the Feasting Hall.
“Father?”
He nodded. “Yes. An appropriate date will be found. Soon.”
Legolas gushed his thanks and excused himself.
Thranduil sat for a long while, preparing himself for what he must do to make amends for yesterday’s biggest blunder.
Gathering his courage, he tucked the mostly full wine bottle under his arm. His trek through the barrack was uneventful and he climbed the stairs without causing a disturbance. When he reached Feren’s office door, he knocked and waited for permission to enter, even though it rankled to do so.
Feren jumped to his feet, pressed a fist to his heart in salute, and bowed when Thranduil stepped through the door.
Thranduil took in the office, half amused and half relieved to see no youth hiding in the corner today.
“My king, how may I be of service?” Feren’s question put a stop to his musings.
Thranduil held up the bottle of wine. “You and I are overdue for a conversation.”
The color drained from Feren’s face but he nodded and indicated Thranduil should sit before locating goblets.
Thranduil poured them each a glass of wine.
Feren fidgeted, not drinking, and looked anywhere but at Thranduil.
Somehow this seems more fraught than any diplomatic council I’ve been in.
He drained the wine and set the glass aside with a sigh.
Feren’s fingers tightened around his goblet and he opened his mouth to speak, only to snap it shut at Thranduil’s gesture.
He started, “Feren, you are my oldest and most loyal guard. No. You are my most loyal friend.
“When my father’s entourage first settled in the Greenwood, you helped me find my footing. You fought at my side, protecting our people, every time some new menace forced us from our homes. You were there at the disaster of Dargolad.” He swallowed thickly, that battle still colored his every decision. “Had you not been there, the outcome would have been far worse. You are more than captain and marshal of my guard. You are my shield brother.”
He risked a peek at Feren and found him frozen.
“I mean to apologize for yesterday. When I heard the accusations being laid at your feet, I let my emotions get the better of me. And then to find them true, well,” he chuckled, “I suppose I let my temper take over.”
A squeak left Feren’s throat.
Thranduil held up a hand. “As I told my son, I should be the last person to complain about improper relationships. I profusely apologize for the scene I caused yesterday. If you wish it, I give my blessing for your courtship with young Kinet.”
Feren blinked a few times before gulping down his wine. He wiped a hand across his mouth, still unable to speak.
Thranduil held out the bottle and refilled both goblets.
Feren finally spoke, “Thank you, my king.” He blushed and sipped more wine. “I had all but given up on finding my match. I was content to be the most devoted guard but then Witold brought his son to me for training, and I felt something I never experienced before. It was as if I had been asleep my whole life and was just then waking up.
“I tried to brush it off. No youth, no one, had ever tempted me in that way before but Kinet was persistent. He felt it too and wouldn’t be put off by my poor attempts to send him away.”
A blush dusted Feren’s cheeks. “While I would have preferred approaching Kinet’s father in a more traditional manner, yesterday was the catalyst needed to move the suit forward.”
Thranduil held his goblet up in cheers. “I am happy you found this joy.”
Feren returned the gesture and said, “I must say, my king, Lady Nimue’s return to the Greenwood has been a balm to everyone, especially you.”
“It has, and I hope I have not soured things with my recent actions.”
Feren clapped him on the shoulder. “Lady Nimue has stuck with you through much worse. I’m sure all will be forgiven.”
“Thank you.” He rose. “Now I have one more task to attend before supper. Where might I find Witold?”
A look of discomfort crossed Feren’s features but he provided directions.
Thranduil’s steps dragged as he strode toward his chambers.
The conversation with Witold had gone well. He had been able to talk father-to-father in a manner he never had before and was relieved to find the concerns he had for his son were universal. He had also been pleased to learn Witold gave his blessing to Feren’s courtship suit. He never wanted anyone to experience the pain he had gone through when he had been forced to give up Nimue.
Reaching his chamber, he threw open the doors, hoping Nimue would be waiting within. His heart sunk to find the rooms empty and the hearth cold.
He dragged himself to the couch and sat heavily. Perhaps he would have Galion bring him a supper tray and turn in early. He couldn’t bear the thought of sitting at the head table without Nimue.
The door creaked open and he startled, unsure if he had dozed. He straightened and rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache forming.
Soft steps crossed the room and a tray was set down with a slight clinking.
Before he could open his eyes, the couch dipped next to him, and a slender form pressed against his side. Fingers stroked back his hair and gentle lips kissed his cheek.
“Nimue,” he cried, eyes flying open.
He crushed her to his chest, needing to make sure she wasn’t a dream.
She returned his embrace and they rested together for a long moment.
Sitting back, she said, “You have been busy today.”
He nodded. “I wanted to rectify my mistakes from yesterday but it was exhausting.”
Laughing, she got up and poured them each a cup of tea. “Don’t you think you took it a little too far?”
He scrunched up his face and took the cup.
“I appreciate what you have done, truly I do, but you have everyone aflutter.”
Sipping the tea, he raised an eyebrow.
“The servants aren’t happy with the change in routine, the guards don’t know who they should allow into spaces and let everyone in - to which the archers took full advantage of to enjoy a barrel of wine - and I overheard two groups of councilors muttering about you being bewitched.” She finished her tirade and returned to her seat next to him.
“I am so very sorry.”
“I know. You have demonstrated that.” She poked his chest. “I thought that by you witnessing what I was doing, you would grow bored and give me leave to continue by myself. I forgot what a diligent student you are when you’re interested. Although—”
He kissed the top of her head. “Although, I’ve made a rather large mess of things.”
She laughed.
He put his arm around her. “I’m not sure you should continue to take these requests, it is tiring.”
“For one, I don’t try to solve all of them in one day.”
He made a noise of understanding. “Do you enjoy it?”
She nodded against his shoulder. “It gives me a purpose. You have your kingly duties, Legolas has his, and I cannot sit around with nothing to do.”
That is what my wife did, or perhaps I did not know her as well as I thought.
He pulled her closer and said, “You have my blessing, and support, but you must promise to let me know if it ever becomes too much.”
“I promise.” She turned her head to kiss his chin. “Thank you.”
“And you must promise me to never disappear again like you did last night.”
She nodded and kept her eyes focused on the tea.
“Where did you go?”
Untangling herself, she got up and went to the table. She returned and handed him an object wrapped in a handkerchief.
Slowly, he opened it to reveal a slightly dirty circlet. It cannot be.
She again sat. “Seeing Feren and Witold reminded me of when we courted in secret. I went to the ruins of my family’s home. That was still where I buried it a millennium ago.”
He gently stroked his fingers along the fine gold. He had this forged to prove to her she would be his queen. It had not gone over well. She had always better understood the barriers to their relationship than he. He thought it lost, tossed into the river to never be seen again.
“I couldn’t get rid of it,” she whispered, “but it was too dangerous to keep.”
“Then,” he interrupted. “It was too dangerous then.”
She nodded. “But now, maybe it is okay. I know you have been bemoaning to Galion about my lack of a crown. I thought maybe this would suffice.”
Tears clouded his vision. “It is what should have always been yours.”
She put a soft hand on his neck and pulled him into a kiss.
When they broke apart, he reverently put the circlet on her brow. It shone brilliantly against her dark hair as he always knew it would. “My queen.”
With a contented sigh, she leaned against his side and they finished the tea.
Thranduil’s heart felt ready to explode. He never could have imagined this tedious day of chasing down servants’ requests would have ended like this, but he wouldn’t change it for all the silmarils.