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Chapter Text

Thranduil gazed down his nose as the frail elven creature attempted to stand on her own, with her knees quaking and honey-brown eyes glazed over with pain. Dirt trailed its way across her sallow face, down her neck and arms, and her thick mahogany hair was uneven in places and tangled about her shoulders. She did not lift her eyes to him, but shook only a few paces before him. She was small, even for one of the Maghi, the ancient, quiet race elves with the blood of the Numenoreans. They lived to the North, and within the last decade, prey to attacks of Wild Men, bearing the image of the red eye.

They had been all but eradicated, a few stragglers drifting into the greenwood, to Imladris, begging for help. He gave them rooms and food, but so few remained now. Many passed onto the fade, some even electing to sail for the Undying lands.

But...this, this waif in front of him breathed through chapped lips and covered yellowing bruises with frail hands.

“M-my lord...” she stammered, voice a soft rasp of breath. He swept to the side, and placed a regal long-fingered hand on top of her head.

“Silence.” He murmured, before glancing sideways at one of the stoic guards, “bring her to a fresh room. And do clean her.”

The guard nodded, eyes averted from his king, and nodded briskly. With one swift movement, he lifted the tiny, dirty creature into his armored arms.

“Do be gentle.” Thranduil murmured, and the guard paused at the unusual softness in the king’s voice, but the king was turned away from the guard and barely struggling creature. She lay listless in the armored arms, skin quivering with an unfelt chill. Her eyes dropping.

“T-thank...thank-k-k y-you...” she whispered, breath heavy.

Thranduil waved them away, eyes straight ahead, absently swirling the red wine in his goblet. Abruptly, he turned and leveled his gaze on the remaining soldier, who had a distasteful look on his face.

“Give me a report on her.” The guard snapped to attention, “Now.” The guard scurried off, in the direction of the previous one.

The creature weighed on his mind. When the caravan stopped in the usual trading grounds - far from the palace naturally - strange murmuring reached him immediately. These troubled him as they mentioned an elven maiden, manacled to the back of wooden wagon. Thranduil deigned to investigate this himself as many came to him, nervous and perturbed by this sight.

Upon arriving at the merchant camp, he sought the slave immediately, and when he saw her, pitifully crumbled beneath the wagon, her brown eyes locked with his. She did not plead or call out to him. Instead, she returned his gaze, until the caravan leader - Samhi - interrupted them. Samhi was loathe to part with his prize, but only a fool denied the king his desire. Even Thorin caved eventually, so this grime was no match. Thranduil informed the merchant he needed a new wash maid.

So she was unceremoniously slung over the rump of a soldier’s horse, and they trotted away. Once safely in their borders, she was taken down and wrapped in a warm cloak. Thranduil oversaw two soldiers as they gave her fresh water to drink, the droplets soaking into her parched lips.

Once again her eyes zoomed in on his, caught and held them.

He slightly turned to a guard walking below his horse, “Return to Samhi and inform him not to travel the eastern path, although it is the shorter route to Dale.”

“My lord?” the guard’s brows furrowed.

“Samhi will know that the Western road takes him away from the river. A meandering route.”

The guard suppressed a smile, and bowed low. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

“This is not about pleasure,” Thranduil growled, “but honor.”

Once the guard disappeared behind them and the young maid was carefully cradled on a free horse, a guard behind her, keeping her upright, he wheeled his horse around, coming abreast of the captain of the guard, Lildar, brother to Haldir.

“There will be tresspassers on the Eastern Road, keep a keen eye, and make certain they do not leave our borders alive.” Lildar nodded grimly, eyes flicking to the swaying figure on the horse. He did not nod or turn away.

“Yes, my lord.”

Thranduil nodded, and quickened his pace.

Now, as he stood at the edge of one of the clear water rivers that ran through the underground palace, the image of the elven maiden drifted in his mind. It was indeed a very disturbing turn of events.

“My lord,” the soft voice interrupted his train of thought. With a wave of a hand he encouraged the healer to continue.

“We have...bathed the maiden and put her to sleep.” the healer gulped, “She was very frail, my lord. And...wounded.”

“How?”

“My lord...it is a private matter.” Thranduil’s jaw clenched.

So that merchant scum used her for his apish pleasure? Defiled her as she was some orc? He slammed the goblet down, and with a quick turn, stalked out of the room. The healer’s head was downcast, but tracks of tears dampened her face.

She slept for three days, her bruises disappearing as healers tended her. They brushed out her hair, and changed her blankets, dripping water into her mouth every few hours. Slowly, too slowly for Thranduil’s liking, her breathing evened, the rasping sound fading with the hours. He came to check her progress once each day, watching the healers as they administrated athelas and murmured incantations to the stars over her prone form.

On the fourth day, the healer’s informed him she awoke briefly, her croaking gratitudes bringing even the guards to tears before she drifted to slumber once again. Thranduil nodded solemnly. He looked down at her, the shorn sections of her scalp hidden now by braids. Silver threads of luck were twirled into the hair, but only made her pale skin look sallower.

He bent down, and brushed his fingers across her forehead. “She is feverish.”

He cast a look at the healer.

“Yes, my lord.” the healer replied, pausing her work in crushing fresh smelling herbs. “It comes and goes.”

Thranduil stood up straight, looking at her peaceful form. But he knew the storm that brew underneath, he could feel the fear even as she slept.

“When she awakens next,” he draped his heavy silver robe over the maiden, “I wish to speak with her.”

The healer nodded. “My lord?” the healer’s whispered voice made him slow. 

“Hmm?”

“Have the merchants taken the Eastern road yet?”

“Not yet,” Thranduil opened the solid white wood door, “but they will.”

And with finality, he firmly shut the door and stood in the quiet, empty hallway. The smooth floors reflected the soft encased starlight. The scent of the night blooming flowers - always pleasant favorites of his - filled the palace like mid-morning fog. But tonight...tonight it seemed all too dull. The flowers, the starlight all dimmed beneath his ire.

The circumstances surrounding the ill elven maiden in the room behind him troubled him. Troubled him more than Thorin’s disasterous quest. For long now, he dismissed the faint rumors of elven slave traders. Elrond first spoke of these rumors at the Autumn council. The refugees of the Maghi fervently whispered of this, their eyes barely hiding their fear. Even Thorin, upstart King Under the Mountain agreed that in recent years, certain merchants asked unseemly questions.

But the body he now held safely in his realm proved these rumors to have some weight to them afterall. His thoughts flickered to his son, Legolas, who still wandered the wilds with Dunedain and that impish Dwarf, Gimli. He believed Legolas to care for himself, and to remain safe with the rangers of the north. Still, this was ill-fated news indeed.

First, fire-drakes, then the rise of the Sauron and the destruction of his power, and now this? It seemed petty almost, to deal in the trade of the living. First, the Maghi, who next? His realm needed stability, not the fear of a slave trade. But how? Who would desire to deal with the wrath of the Elves? He must send word to Galadriel and Elrond, possibly his kinsmen, Turin to the far west, in Belriand. He took off to his study, to deliberate further on how best to speak of this news. This was no mere problem. A council must be held.

Feeding trails of Maghi refugees was one thing, protecting them from slave traders was another.

Chapter Text

She lay, open eyed and still, on the soft pallet. Thick silk blankets lay atop her, the shimmering fabric a memory she could barely grasp. The wide empty room with ceilings that towered above her contained little beside the bed, one small chest and some piles of fresh blankets in the corner. Slim, oval windows broke the darkness with peering starlight. 

The dusky sky so far above her blinked back at her. It never changed. Stars dotted the skies when she once Gadrehal the weaver, then remained vacant as her people burned, as she stumbled after the wagon of Samhi, as he...took her into the tent they did nothing but watch. 

She felt tears bubble to the surface again. They stung her face as they spilled over from her eyes, dripping off her cheeks, dampening the pillows. Even with her hands over her face, her sobs broke the simple silence of the healing chamber. Her breath hitched and crashed, the cracking sound of her voice disturbing the peace. She was alone now, yes in this room, but her kinsman, her people were dead, burned or traded away. 

For every pang that squeezed her chest, more tears fell, burning her face, wetting her pillow. With every memory of the torture and the pain and the loss she cried, she washed the grief from her body with the only thing she had left: tears. Her pain was what remained. The stars were too distant for her to plead to, but her grief...her grief slip in next to her and held on tight. 

“Hush,” the voice was deep and soft, somewhere between the warmth of a fire and the softness of midnight laughter, it was hard like the steel she wished she had. A large hand swept the damp strands of hair from her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears barely slip through. They caught on the gentle fingers as they wiped the salty wetness from her lips and cheeks. 

“You are safe now.” the voice murmured, one hand wiping away tears, while she reached out to clutch at the other. Her tears only came faster, her body jerking with attempts to silence the sobs she could no longer control. The hand rhythmically stroked her forehead and hair, and somewhere beyond her pain, he whispered old elven tales to her. 

The lyrical words dipped and swelled, his strong voice reaching through the nameless void stretching in her chest. It reached down through the layers of pain and fear and sorrow, a brief break in the storm clouds to touch her.

She took large gulping breaths, trying to focus on the smooth hand soothing her. She tried to find the feeling, letting the pain wash from her. But what did safety matter now? What did any of it matter now? She was alone and defiled and useless, she had been tried and tested and failed. The scars on her body were only the beginning. 

When she cracked open her aching eyes, her sight was blurry. Tears lingered, and her throat burned from her sobs. The hand continued, a thumb occasionally smoothing over her eyebrow. The tales pausing as she tried to catch her breath. 

The king knelt next to her bed, splendid robes spread about him, the silver and midnight blue resplendent in the starlight. His brilliant blonde hair was not braided, and an entwined silver circlet adorned his regal head. Impossibly midnight blue eyes looked softly at her, his mouth a thin stern line. Even through the haze of tears she knew the king, the one who rescued her from the horrid, greedy hands of Samhi. He was close to her, his tall figure bent over her protectively. His solemn face gazed directly into hers, arm cradled over her head allowing him to comfort her with ease. 

As her tears slowed, his hand tightened around her small one, encasing her in its stern warmth. She wanted to thank him, but how to express gratitude for such an act? How to aptly beg her thankfulness to the King of the Woodland realm. She a meager Maghi, a weaver of all things? How could she thank such kindness when she felt hollowness grow in her soul. The starlight dimmed inside her, leaving only blackness. 

He no longer spoke, but continued to sooth her. He let the warmth of his hands, the solidness of his presence seep into her. She turned her head so her cheek brushed against the silk of his robes. Tear stained and weak, she only huddled towards the radiance of the king. He who stood tall among Men and Dwarves, held sway over the Elven lords. He who was revered and powerful, felt an intense sadness as he gazed upon the creature before him. 

He stroked her head until she fell back to sleep, eyes puffy with tears, voice hoarse from her powerful sobs. Even with magic such as his, he could not fathom her pain, her greif, her sorrow. It was a black pit he sensed in her, growing in her heart. Although no scars marred her face, they littered her heart deeply. 

“Sleep, and may the Valinor watch over you.” he murmured, his hand lingering on her head, watching as her breathing evened, the sorrow settling down. 

Such a pitiful creature he rescued, tiny even for an Elf maiden, unusual brown eyes and thick hair. But she had endured, for how long he knew not, but she had endured pain and countless tragedies, this he could see and feel in her hot tears. 

She had endured, and that, he could respect. 

Chapter Text

It was another three weeks before Gadrehal felt strong enough in her bones to stand on her own. Her body surprising her as it filled out once again, the flesh healing and returning, her hips and stomach rounding, her skeletons hiding behind full skin. Her hair grew back, the patches fading away as the strands elongated, and the silent, steady healers expertly braiding it to hide the parts too short to braid. Bruises faded, white scars were covered with soft robes.

She beat the raging fever that had settled in her head, she tossed and turned endlessly, crying out for her family, screaming at unseen ghosts. She hallucinated frequently, huddling away from the lecherous form of Samhi as he taunted her. Soon, she began to think she hallucinated the night with the king as he comforted her. Such a great king as he could not debase himself to whisper old tales to a raging mad-elf.

The two elven healers - Illyria and Dalra - were her constant companions and cooed ever every success. From the moment she kept the broth down, to her breaking of the fever, and to her swinging her legs out from underneath the blankets. They chattered over her like hens, taking joy in brushing out Gadrehal’s hair and fussing over her. Yet still, they failed in making her smile.

Most days, Gadrehal was content to lay in bed, watch the sun lift and set, sleep in short fitful bursts. She had trouble following the idle prattle of her healers, and although they were kind and thoughtful - Illyria made certain to bring the fruits Gadrehal enjoyed the most - Gadrehal could not muster the energy to feel anything towards them. They clearly were fond of Gadrehal, but Gadrehal felt simply nothing.

And worse, Gadrehal was not troubled by this at all. She was listless, alive but apathetic to all around. She knew that she needed to feel something, that she should be grateful to be rescued and generally, alive. Her limbs were in tact, her fingers still worked and remained nimble. If she so desired, she could return to her life as a weaver. But yet...yet, her heart weighed heavily in her chest and her mind was dull. Even the simplest of things made her sigh and turn away. Illyria and Dalra was worried. They hovered, and the more they hovered, the more Gadrehal wished only to be left alone. She knew there was no peace to be found, but could they not leave her be? Could they not leave her to her misery and helplessness and sorrow? Must they always watch over her?

And even as she took her first steps, there was no joy or pride. Illyria clapped her hands, bright violet eyes shining. “Such good news!” she whipped around, yellow hair twirling, “We must inform the king immediately!”

Dalra nodded hastily, and rushed from the room. She gingerly walked around the small chamber, testing her legs for the first time in...years. For so long had Gadrehal been chained to the wagon, and if she did not walk fast enough, she was dragged behind it. Her body had not been her own for so...so long. Gadrehal wiggled her toes, the floor cool. Her steps were short, and slow, unsure. She felt lighter, no longer weighed down and restricted.

“Such...freedom.” Gadrehal murmured, reaching out for Illyria. She gentlely held Gadrehal's hand, letting her lean on her when needed. They both remained silent, Gadrehal’s somber mood infectious. She circled the room once, twice, thrice. Letting her legs go, although slow, concentrating on walking.

“Well done.” The king’s voice actually held a note of pride, and Illyria almost dropped Gadrehal in her shock. She quickly bowed, and Gadrehal stood on wobbly knees, eyes lowered away from the majestic elf standing in the doorway.

“My lord Thranduil,” Illyria murmured, remaining in a curtsey. He ignored her. His eyes sharply on Gadrehal. “I am glad to see you better.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Gadrehal responded, trying to bow, but her newly found legs threatened to deceive her and send her toppling.

He waved away her attempts, “No need for such trivialities.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gadrehal intoned.

One eyebrow rose as he studied her. “On the morrow, be dressed and appear at my study.” Thranduil stated calmly as can be, his appraising look replaced by an apathetic one. The smallest hint of pride vanished. There was no other explanation as she strode out, silver robes trailing behind him.

Dalra entered, looking sheepish and out of sorts. She tiptoed over to Illyria, and whispered something in her ear that Gadrehal couldn’t quite catch. Nor did she care to hear of it either. They whispered around her plenty. Draped over Dalra’s arms were soft green and silver robes, made of the purest silks and wool to be found. The two quickly glanced at the battered elf maiden, before settling down onto floor pillows. They beckoned Gadrehal to sit with them, and tentatively she did.

Dalra - the older of the two - pushed a braid behind Gadrehal’s pointed ear.

“Tomorrow, Thranduil wishes to discuss the issue of payment.” Dalra whispered.

Gadrehal’s brows furrowed deeply over her eyes. “Payment?”

“It seems you are a guest no longer,” Illyria’s eyes shot towards the door then back to Gadrehal who sat between them.

“I still do not understand,” Gadrehal whispered back, a flutter of worry wiggling in her chest. Payment? She had no money. What could she give that a king would want?

“Thranduil will not let you lie about in your bed until the next age,” Dalra warned, “we are a small realm and all must do there part.”

Yes. Do their part. It was only fair, wasn’t it? Why would she have thought otherwise? He was a gracious king, but she was not part of his kingdom. Why would he treat her as such. She was merely an ex-slave, worthless. She had nothing to give him. She needed to repay such kindness somehow. Although, the how remained in question. She had no where to go, and she could hope that her skills as a weaver could earn her a place in the Woodland Realm.

If not, maybe the forest could swallow her whole and this mess could be avoided.

Chapter Text

Dalra spent most of the dawn hours brushing out Gadrehal’s hair, fussing over the tiniest braids and their placement. Gadrehal bathed in a tub of fresh lavender oil and warm water, which surprisingly to her, made her feel more at ease than she had in weeks. The warm water loosened her tense muscles, but not her nervousness.

She knew little of this King, other than his patronage of her people. King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm was synonymous with the kings of Gondor and Rohan, as well as Lord Elrond and King Thorin, under the far away Mountain kingdom of Erebor. But there were distant people of distant lands with whom she knew naught but there names and stories of their mighty deeds. She had never seen nor met these kings before, but they traded often and generously with the Maghi of the North.

The Maghi lands were rich with ice-wood, or nim-taur. These trees were highly sought after by many as well as their fresh fruits. The Maghi weavers and parchment makers were renown for their skill. Many books adorn the shelves of kings who ink was set by the great book-binders of her people. Peaceful, small of stature and population, they inhabited the lands around Fornost, growing their forests, weaving their cloth, and binding their books. They gave little aid during the last War of the Ring, sending food and strong cloth to the Elves and Men. Their services although small, were greatly appreciated. And Gadrehal remembered, that when they gave shelter to those who fought in the North, the newly crowned King of Gondor, Elessar, thanked them royally.

But now, wild men and slave traders snuck into their simple towns, and burned them, taking them away, way over the Mountains, way to the North, closer to the frozen wastes than any desired to. Unto the badlands, until, Gadrehal believed, there were none left. It was done so quickly, so quietly, that none came to their aid and the disappearance of her small people fell into rumor.

But here and now, she found herself in the Woodland Realm, under the care of King Thranduil, whom she knew not if he was perturbed by the slave trade or her presence. She knew not what to make of this. Was she the only one left of her people? Would he have the answers? He was a solitary king, she had heard, and had little to do with the goings-on outside of his small realm.

As Illyria dressed her in the soft woolen dress of forest green and silver, it felt like water over her skin. Having been dressed in a sack, if anything, for only Valor knew how long, the soothing texture against her skin still amazed her. It was loose, and she was grateful for that. In some places, phantom aches sprung up, and her skin felt tight against her bones. Indeed, she felt that her body was not her own at times and that when she looked at her hands, she was shocked to see they responded to her, that it was her flesh that she felt underneath her fingers, her breasts that hung beneath her gaze. She tried desperately fit into this new body, that she knew was hers, but did not feel that it was.

Illyria gave her a simple woven girdle, and then smoothed Gadrehal’s shoulders, pushing the hair behind her ears.

“You are lovely.” she whispered, not unkindly, but her eyes were sad. In some ways Illyria seemed more affected than Gadrehal by the scars, by the knowledge of her captivity. It seemed too distant from her, too far away, but still...there was the pain that lingered in the deep vaults of her soul, that she kept locked, kept hidden. Her past was hers and hers alone to contend with.

She did not need the sorrow of others to weigh her shoulders.

They kept her feet bare, as it was difficult for her to wear much on them to begin with. Illyria squeezed her hands, and Gadrehal tried to force a simple smile but still nothing came. But why should she smile? For even in their kindness, they did not know. Her sorrow, her grief was immeasurable. It was not her duty to make others feel at ease around her. If there was no smile in her soul, there could be none on her face. But even as she thought this, she knew its selfishness. She could not return kindness with unkindness. 

“Thank you, Illyria.” Gadrehal removed her hands, “You have been most kind.”

Illyria nodded and stepped back from Gadrehal, to stand next to Dalra, who kept her eyes downcast. Gadrehal turned away, and felt her neck twinge as she kept her head held high. It was longer still since she was unbowed.

The guard waited patiently outside the healing chamber, unadorned of weapons. His leaf-work green and gray armor was arranged neatly, and he worn no helm. His brown hair had the single, simple plait of an infantry soldier. He bowed his head as she stepped from the room, and she in turned, bowed hers. He offered an arm, and for a moment, she thought of refusing the gesture.

But her nervousness wrestled in her stomach, and she knew she needed the assistance. It would not do well to faint on her way to meet the King. She lay her arm on his, her fingertips barely brushing the tips of her hand. She felt uncertain, almost afraid, to be this close to another. She awoke in the tender arms of Dalra and Illyria, but...this.

She stamped the fear down, and walked with the young guard.

She admired the palace as she steadily walked through it. Although they were underground, light diffused the halls and rooms with an unnatural yellow radiance. The ceilings were tall, and steps lead them up and down, winding and twisting, small carved bridges took them over underground pools and rivers, fresh and clean and clear, while the smooth walls echoed the sound of running water. Few Elves passed them, and those that did were careful to hide their stares.

Gadrehal ignored them; she had nothing to be ashamed of. She was not what had happened to her, but neither was she whole. There was nothing that could be done to her that not had already been done.

It was obvious when they came to the royal quarters of the realm. The opulence dripped from rich tapestries, some she recognized as the artistry of her people. The carved wooden doors portrayed the seasons of the woods and plush carpets ran the length of the hallways. More guards stood at frequent posts. Large windows let in the filtered woodland light, letting the golden rays dappled the floors and walls, giving the wide hallway a comfortable warmness.

When they came to a set of arched double doors, the crest of the king, a large golden tree with jewel encrusted leaves was stamped arrogantly in the middle. The guard dropped her arm, and knocked. There was no response, but one of the doors opened, cutting the tree in twain. Gadrehal slipped in, and the door shut with a soft swoosh as it breezed against the soft carpet.

The room she entered was so ornate, never had she seen such color, but she could not focus on a single thing. Instead her eyes bounced from tapestry to table to bookshelves to the plush, cushioned chairs, the long arched windows, to the open double glass doors that lead to immense gardens. She stared at the silk robes carelessly thrown onto a setee, and then finally to the king himself, lounging in a large over-stuffed chair, dressed in purple and blue, no crown at present but a single, simple circlet with a sapphire in the middle of his forehead.

Gadrehal gaped at the peacock in front of her. This was more wealth than she could have ever dreamed and she stood close to the doors, ready to flee. It was all too much, really. Once again, he studied her, watched her.

She curtsied deeply, bowing her head. “My lord Thranduil.”

“Gadrehal, daughter of the Maghi.”

A sudden knot formed in her throat. She wished not to cry in front of the king. No doubt he had seen plenty of tears before, but she felt he was rarely moved by them. Gadrehal kept her head bowed, although she stood up once again. She felt, rather than saw, him stand and move gracefully in front of his large, paper strewn desk.

Even for an Elf, he was tall and broad shouldered, with long fingered hands that grasped a white-wood staff. His high necked tunic was stiff, the strands of silk mixed with silvery, glittering strands of silver. He glistened almost, an impressive sight.

If only Gadrehal had been a poor serving girl. If only she had not survived insurmountable horror and cruelty. If only she had been young and innocent, and she still amazed by starlight. If only, if only.

Now, he seemed merely a proud, dainty king sitting upon his riches, hidden away in his castle.

“You think me a fool, do you?” Thranduil’s voice held a note of amusement, which worried her more. She was no fool, she feared the king, but it was not his show of wealth that impressed her. It was his place and power as king.

“No, my lord.” she responded, knowing better than to look at him in the face.

So, did he read thoughts or did her face show her disdain? He gazed heavily at her, willing her to wilt. But a king is a king, and he rescued her, which meant something. He remained silent, and Gadrehal’s legs began to ache slightly. She had not stood for so long a period yet, and her stillness was difficult to maintain. Whether or not he noticed, she did not know. She doubted he cared.

“You have been within the borders of my kingdom for some time now.” he told her, taking a step closer, looking down at her, “You have healed well.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you wish to remain here?” Gadrehal deliberated for a moment. She had no where else to go. She did not know where she could go. Who would take her in?

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well.” Thranduil moved around, once again watching her, waiting for a reaction. “What use are you to us?”

Gadrehal’s eyes flickered upwards to him. She knew for certain she hallucinated him now. How could one be so kind and gentle, but then be the stern visage in front of her? Not possible.

His eyebrow was raised defiantly, and she felt that he toyed with her. “Once, I was a weaver and tended gardens, my lord. If these skills are of use to you, I gladly offer them.”

He paced away, took a slow slip from his goblet. As his silence continued, she grew worried. What if she could offer nothing, he need not keep her here. She did not deserve or warrant his generosity. Gadrehal risked another glance, and for a moment, their eyes locked. Gadrehal looked away first.

He walked around his desk, to stand by a window. Gadrehal lifted her head, to gaze into them. She noticed the gardens were untended, wild and untamed. Only a single path was clear. The brilliant and radiant flowers spilled over each other, mingled with the ivy and climbing vines and flowers. Through the small gaps, old dirt covered statues waited for a hand to wash away the earth.

“It seems I am in need of a new hand maid,” he looked back at her, and she looked away, “and for someone to tend this mess which grows outside my study.” He waved absently at the creeping flowers.

“My lord, if you will it so, I will tend the garden and serve you, most gratefully I would do this.”

“I need competence, not gratitude, Gadrehal.”

Gadrehal curtsied low, and from her spot, she looked up the king, and his face was relaxed, more so than she believed it possible, “My lord, I will give you both.”

His smile was sincere, and he walked over to her, giving a genuine, small smile, which made her stomach flip. “Welcome, Gadrehal of the Maghi, to the Woodland Realm.”

He offered her a hand, which she graciously took.

“You shall remain under our protection, and under my service until I deem it fit.” He walked away, and settled at his desk. 

“Yes, my lord.”

His look was once against bordering on amusement, “Yes, my king.” he corrected, smiling slimly at her.

Chapter Text

Before the dawn fully eclipsed the palace walls, Gadrehal began prying hardened roots and weeds from the courtyard Thranduil gave her charge over. That first - and really only - meeting with the King was a fateful, and she had landed herself into an immense inner courtyard that was more overgrown than the Mirkwood outside the palace walls. She slipped in the morning, usually when well the sky was still littered with stars and walk amongst the weeds and flowers, relishing the utter natural silence of the place. The night blooming flowers radiated under the moonlight, huge hanging petals glossy and creamy white. They grew everywhere, up columns, past windows and doorways, filling the immense gardens with a honey-sweet aroma that Gadrehal felt intoxicated with.

Her plain green tunic and hose became her staple robes and she relished the look of dirt on her face and hands. It seemed to coax her from her grief, the feel of fresh earth under her fingers. It was cool and smelled like the rain in the autumn and fallen leaves and grass. She was slow in her progress of clearing the gardens. For one, the courtyard was much larger than expected, and much of it was overgrown with a combination of willful flowers, weeds, and trees in need of a good pruning.

So far, she let her nimble fingers dig out roots of weeds, finding more wildflowers than expected, and destroying the nettles infested on the ground. Brambles made her bleed, but she rarely felt the stinging of her hands. The sunlight warmed her during the day, filling the courtyard with untarnished yellow light, and she watched as primroses and violets and a whole assortment of mismatched flowers opened up to the golden rays.

She never hummed, but sometimes the faded lyrics of ballads and songs she remembered drifted through her head, leading her down roads she wished to avoid. But the garden contented her, made her feel of use and forced her out of her listlessness.

She never saw the King either, and he never called on her, although, she was, by their agreement, his hand-maid. She snuck through his study early in the morning before he woke (the king slept very late) and snuck out long after the rays of afternoon sunshine began to cool (the king went to dinner very early). For weeks it seemed, they had not seen each other, and Gadrehal was quite happy to leave it that way. She had no desire to deal with kings. Especially ones that seemed to enjoy dressing like peacocks. She barely spied him through the glass, and not often was he alone in his study, various Elves coming in and out, with papers, books, scrolls, cloth, and ledgers. No matter what he dressed like, he took his duties as king seriously.

She pulled, jerked, and pulled again at a stubborn weed - the sharp brittles poking in her palm as leaned back sharply. With a small yelp, she stumbled backwards with only half the weed in hand. She glared at the vile thing in front of her.

“I know a halfling who would inform you how to pull a weed differently.” The voice was deep and gruff, and Gadrehal shot to her feet, and backed away hastily. She only paused in her backward momentum when she bumped into an ivy-covered statue, the stone dug into her back. The dwarf in front of her wore simple, but elegant clothing. A thick silver band ran over across his forehead and long black locks peppered with silver graced his shoulders. His thick boots were un-muddied and intense blue eyes watched her. Fur lined his robes. 

“My-my lord,” Gadrehal bowed her head, but her breath came faster and she felt the panic rise in her chest, the viscous fluid of fear clogged her throat. He looked puzzled, his brow furrowing, a frown forming under his black beard. She knew she stood in front of the King under the Mountain, Thorin, and that propriety called for her to curtsey or scurrying away as any maid should, but she remained frozen with fear. Her eyes darted away from Thorin’s, who inspected the gardens with some nonchalance, clearly put off by her.

“M-my lord,” she gulped, and curtsied deeply, her legs and hands visibly shaking. The panic ran through her veins as deer through the forest. Spiders crawled beneath her skin. She knew he did not mean to frighten her, and really, she had no need to feel this panic over such a simple mistake.

“Are you Gadrehal?” Thorin asked, peering at her under his dark brow. She nodded, still trying to keep the curtsey but relying on the statue to hold her upright.

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain.” He bowed, his arm crossed over his chest, “and may your people find justice for what has been wrought upon them.”

And with that, Gadrehal lost all trace of dignity and burst into tears. The fear bubbled up into her chest, her heart raced behind her ribcage and no shortage of embarrassment. Why was this happening? And now this great king knew. He knew what had been done to her. She covered her face with her hands, and lost her words. Self hate bubbled up under the surface, but her panic took hold of her. She couldn’t stop the tears or the panic, the fear that had lay dormant for days rising up like a tsunami.

“What have you done to my gardner?” Thranduil’s voice was whip harsh and she barely heard his robes swish across the cleared stone pathway. Gadrehal’s face went red with embarrassment, and she knew of at least five holes in this garden she could crawl into to escape this. If she wasn't paralyzed with fear, she would crawl to one. And lay there until this all passed away. 

“I frightened her.” Thorin replied, with a hint of sorrow in his rough voice. Gadrehal began to wipe at her tears, but her eyes betrayed her and kept leaking water, the salt rushing down her face, making tracks through the dirt.

“Do you know nothing?” Thranduil hissed, “to sneak on - on her as such?” Thranduil’s voice rose in anger. And rarely was he ever at a loss for words. 

Thorin bristled. “Do not speak to me as a child, elf-king.”

Gadrehal choked back a sob and moved away, her eyesight blurry, she crawled around to sit behind the statue. Their words, she did not need their anger. It only made her panic rise, only made the fear boil stronger. Why couldn’t she stop this?

“Leave us.” Thranduil snapped and Gadrehal knew there must be others. Others to witness her breaking apart in the garden, covered in dirt and smelling of earth and flowers. A strong hand grasped her arm and hauled her up, and for a moment her fear concentrated on something else. Was Thranduil angry with her? Would he cast her out? But her breathing fluctuated, hitched, and she wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at his disappointed face. What was happening? What was wrong with her? The fear was uncontrollable.

“Gadrehal, look at me.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. She glanced up at him, looked away, and then looked into his face. He stared at her with open, midnight blue eyes. A hand brushed tears away, dirt smudging his fingertips.

“Did Thorin startle you?” Gadrehal nodded dumbly and a look of rage flickered across his features. Her breathing was still wild and the tears still dribbled down her face, off her chin. The panic fluttered in her chest, and she was blind with it. Would he hit her? She could not run from him. Her thoughts were senseless. Just blind fear. Raging panic. She needed to get out of these walls. So many walls. One prison for another.

“Breathe slowly,” Thranduil murmured, letting go of her arm and wiping more tears away. One hand stroked her hair, cupping the back of her head. 

She shook like a leaf beneath his touch, her breath coming in fast, quick, and her eyes were dilated. He felt in some way responsible for the poor elf-maiden. What terror had she known before this ordeal? Naught. And now she knew nothing of the panic that came after, the constant fear. He knew, of course, of her nightmares. He knew of her skittish nature, how she avoided contact with others, and that she spent most of her time in the gardens. There was more to heal than just her bodily wounds. Her mind and soul needed healing as well. He knew of the panic and the fear that lingered with soldiers after their first battles. He knew of the nightmares that haunted those who saw extreme terror and lived to tell the tales. It was natural she would suffer from this. She was no trained warrior, and the horror she experienced was no battle to prepare for. It was a violation of her body and her soul. He was not surprised by this, he was more surprised it took so long surface.

And if not for that fool Thorin, she may have gone longer without it raking her mind. He smoothed the hair from her forehead, whispered encouragement. Alone, here, it was almost easy to help her. It had been long since someone relied so on him such as this. His...painful goodbye to his son years prior did not go as smoothly as this. But here, maybe due to her madness, it was not so. Her tears bubbled up and fell down her face, and she still shook.

“Gadrehal,” he commanded, and she once again looked into her face. The blatant fear that resided there made him cringe, and not for the first time did he wonder what exactly happened in her slavery. He knew...certain atrocities, but he did not know all. Her pain for a moment broke through him, and he pulled her closer to his chest. She clutched at his robes, tiny dirty hands gripping the fabric with an unforeseen strength and a sob broke out.

“I-I-I am-m s-sorry, m-m-my lord...” she cried into his robes. He lowered them to the ground, letting the vines and the flowers and the green settle above them once again. He lowered his head over hers, feeling the softness of her hair and her shaking body. He hushed her, one hand still soothing over her head, another her back. He felt her spine beneath her tunic, and he wondered if the reports of her not joining in the communal hall for meals were true.

He felt an...odd twinge of pain. What had been done to this poor maiden was unacceptable. This was beyond his limits of forgiveness. To harm, to treat, to degrade an elf to this was beyond what he could ignore. Thorin could have his gold and his Arkenstone and his greed. Elrond could have his sense of righteousness, and the Lady Galadriel could look into the future and guilt whomever she wanted. But he, he could not forgive this and let this go unavenged. What mere man had the audacity to do such a thing, and think not that the Elves would let this go? He held onto her tighter. He would find them, he would find whomever was responsible for the destruction of the Maghi, and he would personally run his sword through their chest with eagerness.

“Gadrehal, hush.” His voice was gruffer than he wanted it to be. But he felt anger inside himself, he felt the panic in her thoughts. He pulled her away, and wiped away tears from her face.

“Come, we must prepare for dinner.” The oddness of his statement cracked through the panic. He needed to pull her back from whatever void she stumbled into. “I need you washed and ready to stand to serve.”

“Y-yes, my king.” She bowed her head in respect, and once again she ran a hand over hair. She shuddered, and he took her by the chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Be not afraid, ai-er, you are safe here always.” She gazed up at him, her breathing beginning to slow as their eyes locked. He matched his breathing to her own, helping her off the ledge, watching as she slowly, so slowly, came back.

“Yes, my king.” She murmured, finally looking away.

In one graceful swoop, he stood up, Dirt marred his perfect robes, it lingered on his fingertips where he touched her. Yet his still looked the part of a king, and he took her hand, and brought her to her feet.

“You must bathe, if you are to serve me tonight.” He wrinkled his nose, “you reek of dirt.”

Gadrehal almost suppressed the urge to smile.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal scampered off quickly, shakily leaving the King to his feast. He warned her to remain near, in case he had a need for her. She heard the loud, rough singing voices of the dwarves, and Thranduil had given her an innocuous smile, exaggerating his dislike to the dwarven king. She feared there might be words later over...the incident in the garden.

There was laughter and jest, they were loud enough to be heard in the kitchens where she patiently waited. She doubted Thranduil actually had a need for her service that evening, but rather wanted her close to him. A watchful eye. His behavior...confused her to say the least, but it did not matter. She was forever grateful for him and his kindness. Albeit it’s strangeness. Maybe it had been the king after all who comforted her all those weeks ago. He was an enigma, and she but his maid-servant. It was not her place to question what he did, not matter it’s oddity. He gave her a place to spend the rest of her simple, grief-stricken life and a garden to tend to. She knew there was naught more to ask.

Her time as a slave was over, and her time to grieve had begun. The king played some part in all of this, and she knew not what it was. A part of her hoped, as simple it was, that he would continue to treat her with such kind gentleness. It was a welcome reprieve from the hovering hens -Dalra and Illyria - and the solitude of her rooms. He seemed to understand her pain, without having to fill the void with useless words.

The kitchens were relatively quiet, most of the servers lingering at the feast, waiting at the elbows of their lords, holding pitchers of wine or platters of food. Only a cook or two remained, ladling steaming soups into bowls and watching bread as it warmed in the ovens. An older elf, his black hair streaked with white-silver, sat at a counter-top and hummed away as he chopped vegetables.

“Come on, lass, no need to linger in the corner, skulking about,” he glanced at her, and waved her over with his knife. Gadrehal watched the knife, carefully, as he resumed chopping vegetables. She warily crept over, her eyes trained on the knife and wielder. He looked over to her again.

“No need to fear,” he chuckled, “just old Llarm here.” A cook shot them a look and shrugged away whatever thought came about in her mind. Gadrehal slipped into the smooth stool next to him and glanced behind her at the doorway, which lead down a slim hallway - servant’s hallway - which in turn opened into the Great Hall, used for mighty feasts.

“Ah, waiting on your lord to call for you, hm?” He swept a a hand across the block of wood, pushing the vegetables into a large ceramic bowl. She nodded, watching him deftly cut through carrots, onions, and other colorful, sweet smelling vegetables.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, hands clutching each other in her lap.

Thranduil - well she assumed it to be him - had left a plain, silver and green dress for her. It was only slightly different from the one given to her when she presented herself to him. The girdle was a braided rope of silver, with threads of green, and it almost fell to the floor. It had a high neckline and was long sleeved, pointed over the back of her hands. She enjoyed this rich fabric, and liked the way the skirts swept around her legs. Small slippers had been laid out underneath, which she loathed, although she could not complain that they were uncomfortable.

Llarm passed a cabbage to her, “start peeling that.” He waved the knife again, which Gadrehal leaned away from, earning her another laugh from the old elf. The tips of his ears were not quite as pronounced, and she wondered if he was Maghi, or a pure half-elf. His dark brow was spotted with gray, and small crows feet lined the corners of his slanted eyes.

Gadrehal methodically began peeling the cabbage, gingerly laying the thick, smelly leaves on the wooden block. He began to hum again, head bobbing slightly to the fast rhythm. Gadrehal remained still except for peeling the cabbage, careful not to rip the veiny leaves.

“Llarm!” A large shouldered elf, wearing a leather breast plate and a sword at his hip, laughed and stepped into the kitchen as if he had done so oft times before. Gadrehal once again eyed the sword suspiciously, but controlled her breathing. She felt a flush creep up her neck with the exertion to control herself. She had no idea where this fear came from, what deep pit inside her dark soul it lived, but it took control, and that was that.

“hmm?” Llarm turned around, and smile broadly, “Baedral!”

The two embraced heartily, clapping each other on the back. Llarm pulled away, hands still on the other elf’s shoulders, “what brings you back to the Woodland realm, friend?” Baedral smiled down at the older elf, nodding,

“Elrond has been summoned by King Thranduil, there is to be a council.”

“Ah, that would explain the Dwarven king’s presence then.” Llarm stated, picking up his knife and casually peeling some carrots. “Damn dwarves eat us senseless. Drink us blind too.”

Baedral laughed uproariously. "Are they good for anything else?"

Then he spotted Gadrehal hunched over her cabbage, legs and arms still, only her hands working. Two eyes on the cabbage, one ear on the conversation.

“Llarm?! What is this? Having one of the king’s servants peeling cabbage?” Baedral walked over to her, his hazel eyes bright, brown hair long and braided. An un-pledged elf, for sure, and a minor guard. She remembered the subtle ways.

He bowed low to her, out of dramatic show rather than duty: “My lady, I am Baedral, guard to Lord Elrond. Would you give me the great pleasure of your name?”

She knew he flirted with her, as guards are apt to do. She - apparently - had a pretty face, and as a serving girl, she was not above his station.

She bobbed her head in response. “Gadrehal, lord.” her voice was a soft whisper, the fear closing her off. She wanted to leave, flee back to her garden or her rooms.

“Ah, that sounds Maghaen.” He flashed her another disarming smile, which only made her shoulders stiffen. If he touched her...

“And what place in the king’s household do you hold, my lady?” Suddenly the hush in the kitchen was over bearing, and she could feel eyes on her. Her place in the king’s household was gossip for them, and she knew a blush bloomed over her face. Whereas anxiety blossomed in her chest.

“I am but King Thranduil’s hand-maid.” she whispered, as Baedral’s eyes widened, she hastily added, “and gardner?”

“Oh, my girl,” Llarm’s face softened, and a look of pity filled his eyes, “his hand-maid?” Gadrehal nodded, uncertain of this response. What did that mean?

“Well, she is quite pretty, a tad skinny for his taste, no?” One of the cook’s joked, poking her with a slender finger. Gadrehal moved away, unnerved by the touch.

Gadrehal shook her head, “My apologies, but I do not understand?”

The cook was certainly amused by that, and gave a great guffaw of laughter, “The king’s hand-maid is usually his bed-warmer, if you see?” She laughed, squinting at Gadrehal, a bemused expression on her face. "He making you wait a bit until then, I see?" 

Llarm looked displeased, and sat down. Baedral looked disappointed. Gadrehal understood. She had been a ‘bed-warmer’ for too long, she knew what a mistress was, even if she had been more slave than mistress. Her face burned with shame. She believed that Thranduil would not be so callous as to do that to her. But, that would not stop the rumors. Even in such a state, she was not so unaffected as she believed. She slid off the stool, and gave a quick curtsey.

“Have a good evening,” she grabbed a pitcher of wine, “I must go serve my king.”

"Ha! I bet you do, lass!" The cook laughed again, laying a slab of bread on a counter to cool. Llarm shot a look to Baedral. 

"Leave her be." Llarm snapped at the cook. "No shame in any of that." 

She knew how it sounded. To go serve her king had a new meaning now, didn't it? She knew what they would all think. She knew the whispers that would follow her now, and she wondered if they knew as well, knew her history, knew her pain, her grief. Is that why Llarm looked so sad?

She did not care. She did not need them. They were nothing to her, and let them whisper. She knew pain, but still she trembled on the inside. She was even more alone, she was lost in this world.

She gave them a curt nod. "Have a pleasant evening." 

"Oh, yes lass, you do just that, eh?" the cook laughed again, giving her a lascivious wink. She did not glance back at them, but she felt their eyes just the same. Let them stare. She held her head up high. With all her heart, she trusted the King. He rescued her, soothed her, and took her mercifully into his kingdom. She would serve him in any way she could. Her footsteps were sure as she trotted down the hall. When it opened up into the feasting hall, the flickering torch light, the smell of fresh, warm food and wine filled her nostrils.

She took a deep breath, and spotted Thranduil. But he, it seemed, spotted her first. His eyes, brows lowered in confusion, were trained on her, and followed her adeptly, even if he did not move himself, as she circled the room to stand behind his high, carved chair.

“More wine, my king?” she whispered, knowing he heard her. He nodded, and lazily offered his goblet. His eyes roved her face and neck, noticing the flush, felt the unease. Not many paid her heed, but when she glanced up, Thorin, watched her as well.

“Are you well?” his lips barely moved as he took a sip of the wine.

“Yes, my king.” she murmured, standing up straight. She went to take a step back, but his hand lightly brushed her arm, gaining her attention.

“Meet me in my study tonight.” he never once turned towards her. “Go now.”

And with a simple, two fingered motion, she was dismissed.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal once again sat very, very still in the graceful silence of the king’s study. Only her eyes moved, her head titled ever so slightly as she read the spines of the many books. She did not know how long she sat on the plush ground, her legs curled underneath her, the silk skirt smoothed over her ankles. Thranduil’s study was filled with books, leather bound some, others only bound by thin string striking the thin loose pages. Scrolls were neatly stacked together in square holes. The fire in the hearth was down to its embers, and she shivered underneath the thin dress. It was better suited for the warmth of the feasting hall, and not the lonely private chambers of her king. She did not know how long she waited for the king, the moon was hidden from her this night, the clouds heavy with impending rain.

Whenever her eyes flickered to the shadowed gardens, she saw the leaves hung heavily, the flowers drooped with late summer dampness. A storm was brewing, the air was damp and chilled with it. The shadows drifted, but yet she remained awake. The low light was just enough for her to see by, and she was contented to wait.

Oddly, she felt that she should be worried that Thranduil wanted to meet with her in his study. Alone. In the deep hours of the night. A part of her screamed that she should be afraid, that he was going to ask her...or force her... But the pit of her soul was calm, and she believed, deeply, that Thranduil did not desire to ask of her anything. Yet. She believed in his goodness, for he was not an unjust king, and he rescued her. This, to some, may seem miniscule, but he argued over her, he fought to gain her freedom. It was not even in question that although he paid for her slave price, her freedom was hers. He did not expect repayment, except her service, which was not unfreely given. Yes, she believed in Thranduil’s goodness, even behind the regal and stern demeanor, he was just.

She closed her eyes, yet still her mind thrummed with thought and feeling. She tried remembering her time as Samhi’s slave, the pain, the fear, the wretched acts commited on her body. Yet somehow, it seemed farther away now. With each day, with each moment spent in the garden, every bite of plump bread and honey, it slipped behind her. She acknowledged there was something wrong inside her now, a madness lingering beneath the surface, a fear growing inside her, a rotten tree with roots sucking at her core. But here, she could prune such a beast.

“Gadrehal, stand.” She had not heard him enter, and she was embarrassed to think she fell asleep. Thranduil stood in front of her, his long cape gone, only a silver and red tunic adorning his body. His crown was gone as well, but rings glittered on his long, slim fingers. He stood every inch the king, but his face was soft in the ember light.

She scrambled up, her legs a bit wobbly. He walked closer to her, eyes blank as they studied her. She kept her head bowed, looking at her bare feet. The slippers discarded by the fire. He noticed and shook his head.

“Do you so unkindly discard the gifts I have given you?”

“No! No, my king,” she pleaded, but his face held no malice or anger.

She licked her lips and looked despairingly at her feet. So far, either dirt or a skirt has covered what she desired to hide.

“Your gifts are beyond my words to express such beauty,” she began and he raised an eyebrow, and she noticed how much taller he was than her, how broad of shoulder, and his fingers gently touched each other as he listened. Yes, he listened. Maybe that was why she was so sure of his kindness. He may be cruel at times, he may be stern, or seemingly distant. But he listened, he heard more in your words. She dropped pretense.

“my king...the scars on my feet make it...difficult to wear such things.” Ah, the scars. How much more would be denied to her because of such things? The world was on the edge of a knife for her, and she knew was close to flinging herself into the void.

“Let me see.” was all he said, and she shuffled. She gingerly lifted her foot, and turned it to the side. Across the soles of her foot, along the sides and ankles, the heal and pads of her toes, criss-crossing white and puckered scars marred the skin. They did not...ache, but they made her feet swell. She hated them, as she hated all her scars. He nodded and she stood firmly in front of him once again.

He turned away and walked the room, face impassive as always, but his...brow furrowed ever so slightly. He paused to gaze at the gardens before continuing his circuit. Gadrehal looked at the fire, the bookcase, and then at Thranduil.

“Does...does something trouble you, my king?” She gulped nervously. Was it her place to ask such a thing? Does anyone ask the king such a question? He stopped and looked at her, eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she believed she turned his ire. Instead his look intensified. A gale was brewing behind his eyes.

“Repeat that.”

Gadrehal took a steadying breath, “Does anything trouble you, my king?”

His chuckle was low and dark, he turned away from her, and put a hand on his desk, fingers splayed over paper. His white-blonde hair shone in the shadows, and fell long and straight down his back. “I have many advisors and councilors, ai-er, and they trample in and out of my study for hours on end.” He turned his head, so she saw his sillouehette. She did not speak, because she did not understand. “And they prattle endlessly.”

He lifted a paper, skimmed it, and put it back. Gadrehal shifted, feeling uneasy now. She did not understand this trail of conversation.

“But the last to ask me if I was troubled was the mother of my son.” His sigh was almost inaudible. “and she passed away to the halls of the Valar.”

He turned to her again, and stepped very close so they were mere inches apart. He stared down at her, and a harsh wind sprung up, and the embers protested. His eyes were dark, angry. With a swift motion, his hand came up and pushed back her hair, revealing a thin scar on her hairline, one of the first.

“This,” he hissed, staring at the scar, “this troubles me.” A seething frothy fury lurked in his eyes, and she wanted to inch away. Fear fluttered in her stomach, clutching at her insides, ready to climb its way into her head once again. He looked down at her tiny feet, barely peeking out from underneath her dress, he glared at the offensive white lines,

“these trouble me, Gadrehal.”

With another smooth motion, he ducked away, and she saw the tense shoulders, gone was the stern, apathetic exterior. This was an angry king, this was a king feeling a deep, unbidden fury. But he was angry on her behalf, not at her. He was angry over her slavery, her treatment.

“It troubles me, Gadrehal, that Elves are treated in such a manner, and only now am I learning of this.” He turned on her again, and she saw he was in the throes of a fit of anger. He grabbed her hand, and looked at the scar that cut across it, “this troubles me, Gadrehal, this.” His finger traced the scar, and she felt the sigh as it crossed his lips.

“I can only offer you safety, but it is not nearly enough.” His thumb pressed into her hand, warm and smooth and her soul reached out for the touch, reached out for the comfort it brought her. He seemed lost in thought, staring at the scar on her palm, staring at the white line like it could tell him the answers to all his questions. His blue eyes were intense, crashing with thought she could only guess at.

“Tomorrow, the High Council will meet. Gandalf the White, Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, Radagast the Brown, Lord Turin, and King Thorin have arrived to take seats.”

He let go of her hand, abruptly but did not move away. He caught her eyes, and still the anger was there.

“They wish you to speak. They wish you to give account of...your ordeal.”

Gadrehal took in a deep breath and broke the eye contact. Stand...in front of these lords and ladies, their retainers...and tell all? How could they ask such a thing?

He held out a comforting hand, stopping her panic before it began. “On your behalf, I declined.”

Thranduil finally moved away from her, his head clouded with thought. Too much wine, and the scars...she had so many scars.

“Thank you, King Thranduil.” His name on her tongue was soft, languid, and he felt her relax.

“But an account must be given. And your presence is necessary.” He continued, wishing he had more wine. Could they not leave her in peace? Could they not let her be? Must they make her relive such horror, even if it only be through words? Thorin, surprisingly, agreed with Thranduil on this point. And had offered - once more surprisingly - a viable solution. She remained quiet, waiting. She was always so still, fading into the woodwork, a living statue. He was glad Samhi was dead, punctured with Woodland arrows.

“Instead, you shall dictate your account to me, and I shall approve its validity.” He looked at her, and she was pale, the color gone from her face. Her eyes were focused on the embers.

“Gadrehal?” Why must her name always roll off his tongue like that? There was a pause, and she squared her shoulders, eyes still focused on the hearth.

“Yes, my king.” she did not look at him, “we must begin for it is a long story.”

He sat at his desk, and prepared a quill and ink bottle. She sat on the floor, close to the embers in the hearth and shadows played off her face, filling in the gaunt places around her eyes. She was gone, he knew, whether by madness or memory, he knew not.

“It began with fire five winters past...” she began, and Thranduil, dutifully, wrote her words to paper, glad it was him to hear such sorrow, and troubled deeply by the way the ice around his heart seemed to drip.

Chapter Text

“It began with fire five winters past. We lived in the Gondolin Valley of the range of Fornost, we were weavers, my kin and I. On that night, my clan was inside our communal hall, gathered around the hearths, speaking in low whispers around the fire. We had heard the rumors, orcs and goblins, wild men scavenging, attacking between dusk and dawn. We were no fools, and shut our doors to such talk. We had heard of others disappearing, of a shadow lurking in the mountains that stretched into the valleys, that watched. We did not seek out aid, for they were but rumors. 

There was no moon that night, as happens once a month, and we huddled under our blankets, content and unwary. The fires were slow to burn. At first we only thought it was the wind, for in the lands of Fornost, the wind screeches from the north with a terrible sound. But as the wind grew louder, soon we learned it was screams. The first of the fire arrows broke through the walls and high windows, setting all it touched to flame. In panic we ran outside. But we did not escape the flames when we fled out of doors. Instead we met with knives and swords and the earth slick with blood. Wild Man in armor and leather, that laughed and screeched at us grabbed hold of me and my sisters and my brothers. Those who resisted were slain where they stood. 

We had no warriors. We had no weapons. We had no way to defend ourselves and our families. Those of us who survived that night of death soon lived to regret not meeting the steel of our invaders. They stripped us of our clothes, shorn our hair, and selected every third of the captured to burn at stakes like animals. We watched as our sisters and brothers were fed to the flames like kindling. We watched until the dawn rose and the burnt husks of those we loved stood smoking. Our tears did not stop or gain us clemency. Instead, we were shackled and made to walk through the cold, barefoot and bereft. 

Anyone who lagged behind was cut down, and any elfling who dared cry at night was left for trolls. They whipped us until our backs were bloody and raw, many died from such, the skin festering as we tried to carry them. They took the mothers into their tents at night, until they screamed so long and so loudly they had no voice in the mornings. If they grew restless, they would pick one of us and tie them to trees, to use in target practice for their arrows. There cruelty was endless. 

Our feet cracked and our lips dried, water and food denied to us as we pushed east.

I foolishly once tried to escape. My wrists grown so thin, I slipped from my shackles. Then in the twilight, in those shadows I thought at least I would die in the wilds, starved rather than stabbed. I was so slow, so weak and was soon re-captured. To warm me against such a decision again, my feet were slashed with daggers and my sister slain in front of me. They slit her throat and lay her body over mine that night. My screaming did not stop. 

I do not remember the endless days it took us to reach Rhun, where they herded us into stables like cattle, prodding us with the tips of their swords. Passers by came to stare at us, the fallen elves, dragged us out into the harsh sunlight and poked at the bones under our sagging skin. They laughed at us. 

To prove our agility we were placed into the bear-baiting pits. Here, several elves and a hungry bear were placed in an arena, the last to survive is rescued from the maws. Only I of my family survived these pits, and soon I was auctioned off. To Samhi. He took me as his slave, dragged me behind his trading caravan as he went to Harad, into the Iron Hills, once almost to a place called the Shire. This man had no mercy within him. 

Others of my kin were sent to the Necromancer of the far western-north. That became Samhi’s most beloved trip, to bring more Elves to this beast there. We went to Harad, where Samhi let my far-sisters feed the appetites of gluttonous Haradians. I, he saved for himself. He never let any touch me but him, and I was tied to his wagon, dragging behind. How long did I remain under his eye I do not know? Time has no meaning here. 

I do not know how many of the Maghi are left, as the raids continued and often I saw the vestiges of villages burning, more Maghi brought to the markets of Rhun, and the Iron hills. It was only due to the threat of orcs did we venture into the Woodland realm. And here my story ends. There is naught else to tell. But the traders of Rhun invaded, enslaved, and killed the Maghi. We are now a dying, lost people, and mine is only one story of many.”

Chapter Text

The round chamber was silent as the presenter finished the recitation of the brief, but painful story. Although twas only one page in length, it took almost until morning for Gadrehal to tell it to Thranduil the night previous. She never once looked at him, and both sat in a heavy shadowy silence afterwards. 

As Thranduil wrote, her eyes were glassy as she stared into the dead fire. He had helped her to her feet, hand wrapped around her bicep, but she no longer felt him. She had retreated far, far into herself, and still she lingered there, hidden in some nameless void of grief and sorrow. For there were no words, no sigh capable of expelling such horror. He saw, now, that she was not whole. A darkness, a fissure in which part of her soul hid in, swirled inside her. 

The Rhun traders cracked open her soul, her mind, and that is how she survived, by delving into that crack. She would never heal from this, not fully. There were wounds that could not be mended. 

He had pulled her close then, and a part of him desired to weep over the hurt committed to her. She was a shadow, a wraith. She let herself rest on him, for the story drained her, and her body sagged beneath the weight of her loss. She was silent, only breathing, only letting her heart beat. He let her head rest on his chest, let her settle her weight into his arms, for moment carrying her burden with her. For now that he knew her story, it would never leave him. 

He would give her all the gardens of Mirkwood if he could if only to ease the sorrow that rooted in her soul. 

Thranduil had known the moment his eyes first locked with hers, wrists tied to the wagon wheel, dressed in a sack, that beneath the dirt and the pain, that his heart broke for her. He thought of her constantly, and one might say, fretted. He had watched her in the gardens, inquired over her eating habits, where she walked, how she slept. He wanted to give her safety, wanted to give her healing, mend the cracks inside her. But no garden or touch of the hand could do any of those. 

She was broken, stitched together by pure determination and sorrow. He knew, yes he knew, she would not fade, if only she did not know aught else to do but endure. To survive. Even as she spoke the story, she was gone. She breathed still because she retreated, she walked because she was silent and still, and let her soul slip away until it was merely a body that was battered. He had known sorrow, he had known grief, and he had endured, and there was something to say for it. He grew cold as the years meandered on, and as king of this realm, he did his best to keep his people safe. He did his best to keep his son safe after the death of his mother. He protected his people with bows and secrecy. Yet for all the good it did him, the more he hid, the more he found danger only battered their doorsteps. 

And now, in the round chamber full of gray mid-morning light, clouds hung damply above them, sheltered only by clear class windows, her story was told. And many heard of her pain, many heard of her horror. The presenter shifted uncomfortably, and cleared his throat. He did not meet the eyes of his king, nor of the lady on his left. Thranduil leaned to the side, closest to Gadrehal, who stared openly on the blonde presenter. 

He saw that hiding away only caused more pain. Although the Maghi were only distant kin, they once shared a bloodline. And they had suffered because of Elvish secrecy, Dwarvish greed, and Man’s pride. They had failed the most innocent of lives: weavers and smiths, book binders and scribes. 

The time for hiding was gone. In trying to protect his own people, he only hurt others.  

King Thorin sat two seats away from Gadrehal, and his intense blue eyes were trained on the elf. He watched her as the story was read, brows lowering with each word, with each new act of horror told. There was rage there, that harden metal of Dwarven fury. Yet it did not touch the merest surface of what coursed through Thranduil. 

Gadrehal’s hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes watched the presenter. But Thranduil doubt she heard the words as they entered the air. She had not returned from where she retreated the night previous. 

“Tis a story indeed,” Turin finally breathed, shaking his brown head. Glorfindel beside him nodded. They both looked forlorn and disturbed. 

"We have had skirmishes along our borders, but...this goes beyond what we have seen from the Wild Men." Glorfidel continued, his gaze flicking over to the Maghi and then away, as if embarrassed that they have done so little. 

“What do you expect to be done, King Thranduil? Have us ride east to Rhun?” Dain scoffed, hands on his elaborate sword hilt.

Thorin turned to him, frowning: “Show some respect, Dain,” once again his eyes landed on Gadrehal, and Thranduil felt his ire rise. “Show respect for the dead and the living that carry their weight.” 

Eyes flickered towards Gadrehal, and Lady Galadriel tilted her head, blue eyes lidded and soft. Even Lord Elrond looked more subdued than normal. The room felt too cold, and the presenter shifted again, and finally Thranduil gave a brief wave, relieving him of his presence. No one noticed his absence. The story lingered here and a pall fell over them all. 

They had failed to protect those which they pledged to just that.  

Dain did not respond to Thorin, but neither did he look at the still form beside the residing King. Thranduil nodded, surprised at his acquiescence of the Dwarven king’s words. 

“These are disturbing events,” Elrond murmured, and beside him Galadriel nodded. Even the great Mithrandir frowned solemnly, splendid in his white robes. They fell into silence once again. They all agreed at the tragedy presented to them, but none knew how to proceed. 

“What was the point and purpose of this, then?” Dain shook his head, impatient and gruff, “Why bring us here to hear this little story?” He sat back, crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them. He seemed restless. 

“We had no trade with the Maghi. What concern is this of mine?”

“Do you think they will stop at Elves?” Radagast spat, “do you think these slavers will stop with anyone? They stole into their homes, they invade their lands. This was a test and we failed. We ignored the rumors, we did not search as the Maghi slowly retreated from our markets. And this is why. Because we forgot our friends to the north, and now we must live with their grief.” 

Many nodded. Thranduil watched the exchange, and fought the urge to have his bowmen stuff this fat dwarf full of arrows. Imbecile. 

“I brought you here to speak of this malice,” Thranduil announced, tapping his staff on the floor to gain their attention. Dain sighed maliciously, and Thorin’s angered look at his vassel-lord only kept Thranduil’s retort on his tongue. “I brought you here because kin of my own have been slaughtered under the watchful guard of a council that swore to protect them.” 

He looked directly at Dain, “And we all failed to keep that oath.” You scum, he added silently in his thoughts. Dwarven greed and gold was not worth the headache to put up with them. 

Gadrehal still did not move. She did not react to the harsh words that were hurled across the room. Lord Turin and Dain arguing against action, and Elrond cautioning for more detail. Thranduil’s temper flared, impatient with their need for more. Aggravated with them all for their lack of sympathy. 

“You preach to us, great King, of sympathy. Of oaths.” Dain snickered, “but what have you done ere these last years but hide away in your halls in your finery. I see no Mirkwood bows scouring the forests for orcs? Where were your bowmen, oh great Woodland king, at the Pellenor Fields, as we fought for the great cities of Gondor? Where were your legions, Thranduil, as we dwarves fought in the north as Men fought in the south? No, it were troops from Rivendell that aided us!” 

Silence descended. And Thranduil’s face darkened with anger. These fools underestimated him as always. It was the blood of his people that cleared the wood, fought off orcs from Gundabad. He seethed. 

"We fought in the north during the Great War of the Ring! Or do you not recall the losses we took then? As Easterlings invaded and we repulsed that attack. Do you forget the Elvish blood that was spilled then? When we took to the field, aided by your liege-lord?" Thranduil's voice took hold and none spoke against him as he spat his vehement words. It was a point of contention, between Thorin and himself. That so many of his army were lost, coming to the aid of the dwarves. And yet the dwarves would not acknowledge it. 

“Enough!” Gandalf finally spoke, standing up and his hands were held in a placating gesture. He looked imploringly at the king. 

Thranduil did not heed the wizard’s warning, and stood as well. “Do not mistake Dwarvish greed for bravery, Dain,” Thranduil hissed, “there was no honor in your guard, only a desire for Gondorian reward.” 

“You dare insult the line of Durin?” Thorin stormed, “You sit on your throne in silks, while we fight off attacks from the North? You insult our honor when we fought besides our brothers in arms?” 

“I only speak truth, Thorin Oakenshield.” 

The next Dwarven words out of Thorin’s mouth were not fit for translation, but voices rose higher as Elrond and Gandalf attempted to restore order. 

“We began this tragedy, King under the mountain,” Thranduil hissed, “and you may be loathe to see it to the end, but make no mistake, I will finish it.” 

“Do not preach to me of honor when you only wish to fix the mess you created with your trade with Rhun!” Thorin yelled, stabbing a finger as the taller king. 

“Because you received no profit either?” Thranduil bent low into the dwarven king’s face, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared with anger.

“This is not about profit, but lives of Maghi!” Turin interjected, joining the fray, “you scream at each other about honor, and come to no conclusion on how to fix matters!” 

“Oh, and I suppose you think you have the answers!” Dain laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Elves always thinking they know best!” 

“My lords!” Galadriel stood, and her voice cracked the air with lightening. Her blonde hair hung down her back, and she wore a headdress of silver and white jewels. A faint shimmer of light pervaded the air around her. “Your bickering serves no purpose.” 

Her eyes drifted to a now empty chair, and Thranduil’s face once again fell into cold indifference, when his heart burned inside him. A retainer at the door looked frightened as the king’s hard gaze fell on him. 

“She fled, my king,” he mumbled, bowing his head. Thranduil glanced at the empty chair, and then…to Thorin, who looked just as perturbed by the vacated seat as he did. He smoothed his expression before turning to the council. 

“We did not come here to argue.” Lord Elrond chastised, 

“Thranduil did not call us here for pointless debate,” Gandalf continued, staff in hand, "The more you argue over petty foolishness, the less answers we find." Thranduil scowled deeply at the old, white wizard. 

“The pride of two kingdoms must be set aside, if only for a moment, to remedy this horror. For as we all fought in the War of the Ring,” Elrond pointedly glanced at Thorin and Dain, “we must all do our part to stop this from continuing. We have lost a great people to our negligence. We have failed in our oaths, and have been blind. The destruction of Sauron was not the destruction of all evil in this world.”

"It seems we all have forgotten that." Glorfindel stated, his radiant golden hair tied into a warrior's braid. He looked sadly at the empty spot next to Thrandui's throne. 

“We have grown complacent indeed,” King Elessar nodded, standing with Elrond, “with it has come much blood shed. Let us not turn a blind eye to the plight of the Maghi, to the few who still walk this earth.” 

Thranduil scowled, and turned away, crown high and ornate on his head. “I have said this.” 

Elrond closed his eyes, but before anyone responded, the king began to walk away. “We shall meet again in the evening. There are matters I must attend to.”

Dain went to argue, spit once more at the king, when a guard jogged, breathless into the room. He bowed to King Thranduil, whose face tightened around the mouth and eyes. 

“My king,” his eyes nervously bounced around the lords and ladies in attendance, “My king, the lady Gadrehal...she-she has fled into the forest.”

Chapter Text

Thranduil’s horse stampeded through the thin paths, his captain and several bowman tracking the obvious trail she left behind. One of his best, held a simple slipper in his hand, the beadwork dismantled and the threads coming lose, mud dripping from the heel. Thranduil wheel his horse around, and plucked the slipper from the captain’s hands, examining it with shrewd eyes. A darker stain by the tip bled through from the inside of the slipper, and he kept his eyes cool. Blood most likely.

Those insufferable dwarves and their incessant need to argue everything. If they had kept their cool, she wouldn’t have been frightened off so. Elrond trotted up next to him, his black horse shaking its mane and snorting, pawing the ground. They were too close to Thranduil’s borders for anyone’s liking. Spiders still lurked around his area, constantly testing their limits, and finding them stuffed with arrows. The forest seemed heavy, the weight of the gray clouds pressed down around the greenwood, and it seemed too close.

“She left quite the trail, didn’t she?” Thranduil sent a quick glare to the Elf lord beside him, and kicked his horse into movement. The older Elf proved to be an annoyance as well, following Thranduil since he stormed from the council chamber, and insisting he join in the search. Deeply broken branches and footprints sat pristinely in front of them.

It hadn’t been difficult, necessarily, to follow her into the wood. They were more shocked at just how fast and far she had gotten.

“Sire, the trail leads down to the river.” He gave the bowman no response, but let himself gain the lead, turning his horse with a flick of the reins towards the mighty river that lay due west from their current position.

“Be on alert,” was all he said as he passed them and prayed to the Valar she would be found. The guards who let her slip away currently took up space in his mostly empty dungeons, and will remain there for the foreseeable future. No amount of pleading would change his mind. He could only imagine the trouble she could find herself in, floundering about the wilds such as this. She must be blind with fear. Or worse, hurt somehow. His imbecilic guards letting her run out here. The simpletons making him look like a fool, he cannot even restrain a deranged elf-maiden safe within his walls.

His scowl deepened as his horse picked up the pace, the rushing of the river not too far off. Slivers of blue filtered through gaps in the trees, and Thranduil knew the pool just beyond the leaves. Here the current slowed, and even one on foot could swim across unharmed. Until the spiders on the far side snuck from their barrows.

When Thranduil cleared the trees, he did not expect to see Gadrehal floating on her back, arms and legs moving to keep her face above the water. Her eyes were closed, but yet he knew she breathed. She moved around, flowing with the current. Her dress weighing her down in the water. 

“Ah, look, Thranduil, it seems she is unharmed.” Elrond came abreast of the king, and gave a small knowing look. Had the elf known all along, that she was safe and unharmed? “I suppose she only needed the open air.”

She sighed, the air passing from her lips, and she sank below, disappearing underneath the murky depths and swirling water. Her hair spread about her in a blanket of deep brown, until it too disappeared beneath the swirling blue. The bowman gathered around their king, eagerly watching for the young maiden to resurface. No one spoke, and they awaited orders. Instead, only the damp, limp fabric of a dress drifted upwards, and moved steadily down stream. They all stared at the dress, and with only a look, one of the bowmen nimbly fetched the soaked material.

His captain cleared his throat, and Thranduil found Gadrehal, across the pool, resting her head on her arms, wet hair drifted around her shoulders and back, spreading about in the water like seaweed. Her breathing was slow, lips tinged purple from the chill in the water, but she seemed peaceful. Her eyes did not twitch underneath their lids, her body lay still, grazed by water.

“Leave.” Thranduil commanded, and at the harsh sound of his voice, her arm shook. Yet she did not move otherwise, just lay in the water. Silently, the bowmen and captain disappeared into the forest, leaving no trace that they ever saw the young elf-maiden swimming in the pool, ever followed their king into the wood to look for such a maid.

Elrond hesitated, watching as she dipped below the water again, white form swallowed by the blue-black waves.

“She seems at peace, Thranduil,”

“I see that,” Thranduil replied evenly, searching the water again for her. He wanted to wrap her in his cloak, throw her over the rump of the horse and bring her back. This was utter nonsense.

“Do not force her into another prison, Thranduil.” Elrond whispered, turning his horse around. “Do not force her trade in one shackle for another.” She resurfaced, using her arms to delve through the water fluidly. 

The king stiffened, and kept his eyes straight ahead. He ignored Elrond, barely moved upon the back of his horse. And refused to acknowledge that which had been spoken.

Elrond kicked his horse into gallop, and spead back to the palace. He watched her for another moment, 

Thranduil slipped off his horse, and landed gracefully on the rocky ground beneath him. He walked over to water’s edge, the lapping waves barely touching his boots. Her head popped up above the water only a few paces away.

“My king,” she sighed, once again her eyes were closed, and her breathing even, her flesh was chilled and her lips. He crouched down - why was he being this kind, kings did not crouch, especially for simple maidens - and touched her head. It was dripping wet, and felt oily beneath his fingertips.

“Come,” he urged, his fingertips sliding down her forehead, to her cheek. Her eyes slammed open, and she stared at him, her body trembling.

“My king?” her voice rose with the question, her eyes trained on his, her brown eyes shining, shining with madness and the chill of the water. He wanted to bring her back, but still he found...as she stared her, crown on his head, silk robes on his body, to be amazed. To be amazed by her resilience, her soft strength. True, she was mad, but…but she touched some part of him. Why was this so? She was no different than any other young elf. 

Ah, yes, but she was. She was different. She was scared, just like he was. She had suffered loss, she had endured. And now, he would heal her. He would have her remember happiness. 

“Do you like the water, Gadrehal?” He pushed away locks of sticking hair from her face, felt the curve of point of her ear. Her skin was cold.

“Yes, my king,” she murmured, still looking into his face, staring into his eyes. It had been too long since anyone looked at him. Centuries, maybe, since anyone met his eyes. Even Legolas had stopped eventually, but for different reasons that obedience. “Why?” he asked, offering his hand. Beneath the paleness, she trembled and her cheeks flushed a small pink.

“My king?” she glanced away, before meeting his eyes again. Thranduil’s face was composed, and he grew impatient with her hesitation to leave. He only raised an eyebrow.

“The water cleans me.” she whispered, pushing herself up out of the water. She was naked, and her hair clung to her body. Thranduil did not turn away, and he observed all her scars. He took off his cloak, and with a great flourish, swung it over her shoulders. She clung to it, wrapping it around her body. It absorbed her, covered her, and hid her.

“The wild water takes it away, my king.” she turned her head, to watch as the water went by.

“Takes what away?” he asked, “I have no time for riddles.” He lifted her easily, and placed her in the saddle. Her bare, scarred feet dangled on the side of his horse.

“The darkness, my king. The one that lives inside me.” she murmured, staring into his eyes, just as she did the day he discovered her, without fear or trepidation. It was a deep look, and a part inside him shifted under the intensity of the gaze. She touched his hair, feeling how soft it was. She leaned towards him.

Thranduil nodded, just a little. The elf in front of him, sitting on his horse, was still...cracked. She was in the quieter throes of madness, but madness nonetheless. She had been frightened, and ran. The water...calmed her, yes, but did not cure her of the madness. But he doubted still that anything could.

He hauled himself onto the horse, and wheeled them around. She occupied herself with braiding the horse’s mane, wrinkled fingers delved deep into the warm horsehair. He took them back to the palace at a slow walk, arms on either side of her. His robes dwarfed her. She remained silent, bobbing along with the gait of the horse.

“Thank you, my king.” she whispered, finishing another braid in the mane. He did not respond.

Chapter Text

The mid-afternoon sunlight danced through the high windows as Gadrehal silently plodded the carpeted halls of the royal quarters. She had never been beyond the study and the gardens, never daring to step foot along halls which did not belong to her. This was a new world for her to explore, in the solitude of the vacant royal quarters. Only a few guards saw her passing, and they made no mention of it.

Her memories of the days previous were hazy, but she had little interest in them at any rate. She was content to wander about, barefoot and loose haired, around her new living space. The carpets were plush and warm against her feet, and here the sun penetrated almost every room. They were far from the underground rivers and stony walls, far from the wide stepped walkways and smooth bridges. Few wandered about these places, and the silence was full of birdsong and the quiet brush of leaves and wind. The walls here were covered with thick tapestries, and at times, she touched the hems, relishing the feel of the thick threads holding them together. These were remnants of her people, the Maghi.

Once, long ago, even she did this, wove thick strands of purple and green and yellow threads to make tapestries, to make cloth. Now she wandered about, listless, her head full of thread and cotton, aching. Thranduil gave her new rooms, empty and bright, in the royal quarters. White wood walls were bare, and a pile of blankets lay at the foot her new bed. Her dresses were there as well, folded neatly in a plain chest. He did not tell her why, in fact he didn’t tell her at all. It was Dalra, who she awoke to upon waking.

She knew she had run, but only memory of light in the water, the chill of a current pushing against her skin, and the drifting wind against her body remained. Dalra said she fell into a fit of madness, brought on by the arguments erupting during the council. Dalra was adamant twas the dwarves’ doing. Gadrehal did not remember, and she held no desire to remember it either. She did not know what she desired. Now that she was gone from underneath Samhi’s hands, she knew not where to go or what she wanted. There was no home for her to return, nor did she think, she would desire to see Fornost again. She enjoyed the gardens here. The busy day-to-day of the quiet kingdom, of barrels of wine and merchants, of cooks and guards. Most of all she enjoyed the King...but yet, yet.

She did not know what to think of the king, cold but gentle. She remembered - distinctly - the way his hand brushed her face. She also saw the robe of his, still folded in her chest, silver and purple and deep red, and remembered the way it felt against her skin as he wrapped her in it, still warm from him. Gadrehal touched the fabric, sat with it at night, wondering. Did he want her as a mistress? She did not know if she could. After...Samhi, she did not know. But he was gentle with her. Silently kind. It was true that she felt safe with him. And she owed him much for her rescue.

But could she fall into the arms of a king and not be burned? Her mind thought of the cloak he so tenderly draped around her naked shoulders, and found no answers there.

As she rounded the corner, three dwarves came into view, and she slowed her gait. She must have wandered into the guest wing of the palace. In the middle was Thorin, King Under the Mountain, flanked by a white bearded dwarf and thick blonde dwarf, whose beard was neither full or long, with only a few braids around his mustache.

“Oh, my lady,” the white haired one was the first to spot her, and he bowed low. He wore supple kid gloves and was impeccably groomed. She blinked at him, and his smile was abundantly pleasant.

“I am Balin, lord of Moria,” he trotted over to her, “and this is my grand-nephew, Fili.”

The younger blonde dwarf bowed, “Pleased to meet your acquaintance, my lady.”

“It is good to see you, my lady Gadrehal,” and then Thorin bowed to her, took her hand and kissed it, as oft kings do to ladies. Gadrehal flushed, and removed her hand before curtseying before the king. Her heart remained calmer than their first meeting, although her head still felt too heavy on her neck. She had exerted herself, apparently, when she ran. Or drank too much river-water.

“And you, my lord Thorin.” she whispered, finding her voice to betray her.

“is this the elf-maiden who was captured by Rhun?” Fili asked, squinting at her. She hid her cringe, although she knew this to be true, she only wished to forget.

“Oh, lad...” Balin held a hand to his forehead, “and you are to be king?” Balin shook his head, and grabbed the young dwarf’s arm. Thorin closed his eyes, and wished for patience, and reminded himself for the tenth time that day, Fili was still young.

“Yes, my lord.” Gadrehal nodded, looking at the young dwarf in his simple eyes. “I was the enslaved. Although I was a weaver before, and prefer if you remember me by that.”

Fili bowed low at the waist, and slipped a small dagger from his belt. “My lady, I will remember you by your bravery and unending beauty,” and he offered up the gilted dagger.

Gadrehal took a small step backwards, unsure of what to do with such a gift. Her people never created or used weapons, such a gift was unheard of. Balin coughed, and motioned with his head for her to take the dagger. She glanced at Thorin, who remained passive, bordering on amused. Were all kings emotionless? she wondered, before reaching out to take the dagger in her hand.

It was small for her, and even though the Maghi were shorter in stature than their other Elven kin, dwarves remained shorter still.

“Now if we are done with this display, I think Fili and I shall retire.” Balin sighed, nudging the younger dwarf with a stern look on his jovial face.

“Will I see you again, my lady?” Fili asked, eyes glittering, awed. Gadrehal shifted nervously under such a studious gaze.

What would Thranduil say?

“Come, Fili,” Balin directed the dwarf down the hallway, roughly holding him by the arm. "We have got to work on your manners! You can't go round asking people if they were enslaved, boy." 

“My nephew still has much to learn, my lady.” Thorin turned, and for a moment looked as if to offer his arm, but thought better of it. “He forgets his words at times.”

Gadrehal did not respond, for she knew not what to say to this king. She knew not what he wanted of her.

“My apologies, my lord, for my behavior days previous.” she finally said, bowing her head.

Thorin sighed, and his hands were clasped behind his back as he began walking the way Gadrehal originally came.

“My lady Gadrehal,” he started, “many years ago, my people were destroyed by a dragon, and we fled onto the Blue Mountains. It was the Maghi who fed us, clothed us, and gave us refugee. Again, when I set upon my journey East, to seek back my kingdom and homeland. It was the Maghi who gave us ponies, who gave us cloth for tents, and leather saddles.”

Gadrehal knew some of this story. She listened to the words of the great king silently.

“In our time of need, never once did the Maghi turn us away, but instead brought us closer to fire and told us stories to lighten our grieving hearts. There is not enough thanks in the words of dwarvish to show our gratitude.” Thorin glanced up at her, at intervals, to watch her, to see her listening to him. Even as she walked, it was not so much grace but a stillness that covered her body. “I come before you, Lady Gadrehal of the Maghi, and I offer onto you my kingdom. For as your people once aided me, I now will aid you in any way that you desire.”

She remained silent, mulling over his words. Gadrehal kept pace with the king, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress against her legs, the warmth of the sunlight on her face, the feeling of her feet sinking into the carpet.

“Would you care to see the gardens, my lord Thorin?” she asked, as they came abreast of Thranduil’s study. She looked deeply at Thorin, at his broad shoulders and black beard and hair. She noticed his buttons were shaped like acorns. Such an odd choice for a king.

“It would be a pleasure, my lady.” She nodded, and slipped open the door. Thranduil was absent, she knew by the lack of guards. They tread quickly across the room, the opulence not lost on Thorin, who snorted as he gazed around. Gadrehal unlocked the great glass doors, and the two slipped into the golden sunshine. She took in a deep breath, smelling the raw dirt and flowers. The rain the night before made it all glisten, heavy with dampness. Weeds had begun to grow again, and wild flowers blossomed in the cracks of the pathway.

“My lord,” she sat down on a stone bench and patted the spot next to her. She did not smile, but her face was more open than Thorin expected. He took a seat beside her, and they remained in a companionable silence that neither felt the need to break.

“Thank you, my lord,” she turned away after a while and her fingers traced the petals of a purple flower, “for your words are kind and welcoming to me.”

Thorin nodded, and listened.

“I know not the desires of my heart, nor where the direction of my soul leads me.” She looked at him, and her eyes were sad. Too much sadness in her lifetime. She had seen horror Thorin wished upon no being. Even the Elven King, Thranduil. Pompous peacock that he was.

“I have forgotten the sound of happiness and the grace of the sun,” she plucked the flower and held it to her nose, closing her eyes. “My people were once grateful to help all who asked. And I thank you, ever so much, for your offer. But...I wish to remain here, for I owe Thranduil much.”

Thorin bristled, but knew he had no right to argue with her. If she felt safe here, then so be it. Thranduil took care of her, and for Thorin, this was enough. For now.

He believed she owed no one anything, for he wished not to see her enslaved in a different manner.

“My lady, I am in your debt.” Thorin responded, “and if you ever have need of me, my kingdom is at your call.”

She cocked her head, “I hold none over you, my lord.”

He nodded, “and that is why I am so willing to return it. I gave my word to the Maghi, that I would come to them if ever they were in need. And I do not go back on my word, my lady.”

“You are most honorable, King Thorin,” she responded, touching the flower in her lap reverently, Fili’s gift glittering next to the softness of the flower. She seemed more relaxed in the garden, in being in the sunshine and surrounded by dewey flowers, the soil beneath her feet leeching away the sorrow to the ground. She sat still as a tree, feet in the dirt, but her mind was far away.

“My lord, will you tell me about your gardner?” she asked, quickly looking at Thorin from the corners of her eyes. She set the flower on the bench between them. Thorin gave a small smile, ah his gardner.

“Yes, my halfling, who fears the Elven king so much he dared not tread the paths of Mirkwood even to return to his homeland!” Thorin chuckled, thinking of Bilbo who settled business while Thorin was away.

“He is a hobbit, and loves his gardens.” Thorin began, fingering an acorn button, letting his mind wander back to Erebor, to his mountain and to his hobbit.

Chapter Text

“Ah, yes, the halfing so fond of disposing me of prisoners” Thranduil glided into the gardens, wearing his summer crown, tall and full of green blossoms. He wore matching green and silver robes, trailing on the ground behind him, and his long oak staff graced his hand. He looked every inch of a wealthy, regal king.

Gadrehal bowed her head, as she stood and bobbed a curtsey. “Good afternoon, my king,” her voice was light. She stood before him, waiting for orders.

Thorin looked on broodily.

“He saved me and my company from your lack of hospitality.” Thorin snapped back, finding no need to remain polite. If the elvish peacock wanted to insult his halfling, he thought wrong indeed that Thorin would stand aside. Both kings bristled, and Gadrehal kept her head bowed, only listening to the exchange unfold. Thranduil barely moved, and in this way, he reminded her of ice, still and cold, reflecting the light.

“And why should I have extended such hospitality to you, Thorin?” Thranduil answered calmly, in familiarity that only kings may say to other kings. “You refused to return me what was mine. I merely gave you time to mull it over.”

“Those jewels were not yours to demand!” Thorin barked back at Thranduil, who rose a smooth golden eyebrow. “And I would stop insinuating such nonsense about Bilbo.”

“He did steal the keys to my dungeons.” Thranduil looked at Gadrehal, “I make no falsehoods about the halfling.”

“No thanks to you that we were there in the first place!”

Thranduil sighed heavily, bored with the conversation. He gave Thorin a long, sideways look, blue eyes shining. Thorin wanted to argue the point home, that Thranduil had no right to imprison them, treat them as such, but many years and two wars were between them now. Although it was to remain a sore spot for all dwarves of Erebor and the Mirkwood Elves.

Turning away from the Elven king, Thorin bowed low to Gadrehal, who hesitantly returned a curtsey. When he grabbed her hand, she seemed startled and he felt her body tense. He may have overstepped a boundary, especially when he watched a fast flicker of anger flash over Thranduil’s face.

“My lady Gadrehal, I request that you join us for a meal this evening. My lords Balin and Kili would be honored by your presence.”

Gadrehal’s eyes widened slightly at the request, and although she opened her mouth she did not speak. Her eyes held no fear, but the apprehension settled on her shoulders.

“Gadrehal has other duties to attend to this evening.” Thranduil interjected, stepping towards the two, with Thorin still grasping her hand. It was not as smooth as Thorin predicted it to me, it was a gardner’s hands.

“Yes, my king,”

“What duties are these?”

The two overlapped each other, Thorin’s eyes glaring at Thranduil’s. He knew what the elven king was plotting. Thorin was displeased with her position in the elven's palace, and desired to tell the king to shove his cold attitude someplace inappropriate. She already suffered as a slave, did the king deign to put her back where she was rescued from? 

“She is to serve me in my study this evening.” Thranduil stood stiffly, his eyes darkening as Thorin squeezed Gadrehal’s hand before letting it drop. Thranduil elaborated no more, seeing the matter dropped.

“Surely, my king,” Gadrehal took a small breath, “you do not need me as you take your meal?” She barely glanced up at Thranduil, whose incredulous look was almost comical. He looked quite taken aback. “If...if I were to take my repast with lord Thorin and his lords, I would not shirk my duties to you. As, as I would be finished by the time you required my attendance...” She let her voice drop.

She wanted to have a meal with the Dwarven king. A part of her liked the gruff sound of his voice and the tenderness that leaked into it as he spoke of the hobbit, Bilbo. The calm, reassuring smile of Lord Balin was not full of pity, but general kindness. And even the younger one was full of mirth that she found…infectious. Although she could not feel such joy, she wanted to be around it still. And it had been so long since she wanted anything, she had almost forgotten the feeling of it.

Thranduil twirled, and stalked away, his body languid but stiff with displeasure. He waved an absent hand, “Be back by as the moon dips below the garden wall.”

Disguising her cheer with a low curtsey, “Thank you, my king! You are most generous.”

His response with a heavy look from the corner of his eyes as he disappeared into the study. Gadrehal gave Thorin a small, light smile, and he nodded his head, remembering to keep the interaction between the two elves in his memory.

“To repast, my lord?” she asked, surprised at how eager she was to share a meal with Thorin and his company.

Thorin felt pleased himself, for he too felt a certain fondness for Gadrehal. She was Maghi, and not like the Mirkwood Elves. She had proven herself to be a survivor and remarkably resilient. Although a sorrow lingered about her, he saw her blossoming. Now that her horror was done, she was free to live again and he believed her to do just that. Even though she felt distaste around weapons, a warrior’s strength resided in her yet.

~~~

Thranduil took another long sip of the Dorwinion wine in his gilded goblet. He read the missive in front of him again, from Bard’s son, Bain, who had written another report of orc sightings around the great city of Dale, in the lands between the lake and the woodland realm. It was common practice for the two of them to exchange such information, as they pledged alliance to one another long ago ere the Battle of the Five Armies. Yet this report troubled him, as the mention of orcs became more common in their monthly letters.

As he tallied the numbers with another sip, Gadrehal slipped through the door, moving as silently as usual, a pink flush to on her cheeks. He glanced up at her, and caught her in his gaze. She curtsied, dipping low, in an extra show of reverence to him. She then glanced out the windows, and caught sight of the moon. She visibly relaxed as she realized she was not late.

Thranduil had only been early.

“My king,” she murmured, “how can I serve you this evening?”

He did not answer immediately, making her wait, as he skimmed another letter from the captain of his guard. He was not...angry with her. Truly. He just did not approve of her dalliance with dwarves either. He did not trust the dwarf. What nonsense did he fill her ears with?

“There is a harp,” he motioned lazily with his hand towards the far corner of the room, beyond the full fire, to a small hand harp and pile of pillows. She nodded slowly, and moved towards the harp. She circled the pillows, her eyes trained on the instrument in front of her, curious. It had been quite some time since her fingers touched an object so beautifully wrought. It was gold with tight, thin strings.

She settled on the pillows, arranging her skirt around her legs and hiding her feet. Thranduil made a point of ignoring her. He picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink, and began to make note of the productiveness of the the council this morning. She plucked at a few strings, the sound sweet and flowing, an echo of the garden bees in the spring, a vibration and a hum, background to the sunshine.

The council had gotten no where this morning, Dain and Glorfindel interested more in this Necromancer from the north. And what he desired the elves for. But Thranduil forbade Gadrehal’s further attendence, and he believed she knew no more than what she first spoke of. Elessar did not see how any further action could be done, unless they found and removed any remaining Maghi from their current homes. The question remained of how to find them, and who to send and where to bring them to.

Elrond, as usual, offered the plentiful valley of Imlardis. The Lady Galadriel offered some of the free lands of Lotholorien, and Elessar generously offered the forest of Ithilien. But past this, they gained no ground. Turin believed that it was futile of search for the Maghi, for in searching for them, it would be as shaking a hornet’s nest. The Maghi would retreat, as they were already afraid. Glorfindel was in favor of still sending out armed messengers, and to just relay the offers of protection.

Thorin, shockingly of course, thought this was imbecilic, and said so. How would these clustered groups reach the safety of such places without armed escorts? In truth, Thranduil agreed but loathe to say so. The Maghi had all but disappeared, and if - if any were left in the North - how would they travel to safe places? They would be ripe for an attack by marauding orcs or slave traders. The more he thought of the situation, the more he dismayed. No agreement could be reached.

And Glorfindel spoke truthfully, as a necromancer of any sort was dangerous. And this necromancer’s interest in Elves was deeply disturbing to hear. He sighed softly, and took a moment to listen to the song Gadrehal picked out on the harp, something very soft and slow. Her eyes were closed, and she leaned into the harp, her fingers gliding over the strings.

She looked entranced by the object she held between her hands, resting on her thighs. The glow of the fire melted into her rich hair, and flickered shadows across her face. This is why they needed to find the Maghi, and aid them. For slowly, the weight of fear was lifting her soul. He had a duty to protect them, as he protected her now.

He scratched out more words on the parchment, paused, then continued. The council took up much of his time, and he had other matters to which to attend. Autumn inventory in preparation for winter must be completed. There were problems of the spiders along the borders, and patrols needed re-arranging and reviewing. Trade agreements with Dale and Gondor needed to be rewritten as the Maghi trade lines have officially been eliminated in light of the recent situation. He had simple matters between merchants to see to, mating ceremonies to approve of, and guards and soldiers of his that needed training. He needed to begin prep for the winter months.

He rubbed his head, glad to be rid of the crown. The disruption of the council only added to his daily tasks. She changed to another song, less sad but still equally as soft. Her eyes flickered towards the king, who drifted between reading parchment, writing on it, and rubbing his head. Although his face was placid, she saw the turmoil in his eyes.

“My king, shall I retrieve more wine?” she kept playing the harp, her fingers remembering the chords like she spent no time away. He wrote something, dipping his quill into an inkwell.

“Yes.” he read over what he wrote and seemed to find it satisfactory. Gadrehal rose, and placed the harp next to the fire. He did not look up as she passed him, but before she slipped away, he added:

“Bring another goblet.”

When she returned, she carried a carafe of brilliant red wine and a extra goblet. She busied herself with pouring the wine into the goblet, and with him barely noticing she replaced the empty one with the full.

“You may pour yourself some.” he informed her before she moved away. Her eyes drifted from the wine to Thranduil. She did not argue, but poured a tiny pit into his previous goblet. He motioned to the pillows and harp, and she retreated quickly. He took a long sip, and then his eyes zeroed in on her.

“Tell me what you know of this Necromancer to the north.”

She remained silent, and tilted her head, plucked a few strings. The sound was quiet, blending with crackle of the fire. Thranduil waited for her to speak, waiting for her to gather her thoughts and he hoped she would not spiral away from him again.

“He lives in the old kingdoms of Angmar.” she began, taking an encouraging sip and plucked a few more chords, absently running her fingers over the harp,gathering strength from the chords, letting the vibrations run into her arms, anchoring her away from the current of darkness this opened inside her.

“I never saw him, and neither did...did Samhi.” She said his name as if a burnt taste lingered on her tongue, and she took a long drink of the wine to wash it away. The wine stained her lips darker and Thranduil shifted slightly, to watch her as she spoke. “Thrice a year, we traded Elves - only males - to this necromancer. Rumors murmured that he channeled Morgoth and defiled the elves, twisting them into unholy creatures. But...but we never knew for certain, my king. Twas only rumors we heard. I only heard gossip from the cooks.”

She focused on the fire, “although Urak-hai wandered about the camp we traded from. There lived great horrors in those lands.”

Thranduil nodded, “And it was Maghi he desired?”

She shook her head, “no, my king, any elf would suffice.”

His hand clenched around his goblet, and he fought the urge to envelop her in an embrace. She did not like to speak of this, but Thranduil needed more information to give to the council on the morrow. She ran her fingers up and down the harp now, not sharply, but enough to give a small sound.

Inventory and bowman training suddenly lost their weight on the list with necromancers to the north, elvish slave traders, and Dwarves with an interest in his hand-maiden. There was no reprieve as king. Yet...in some ways, her music seemed to draw him back. In the past, this time in the evening, he preferred solitude, to ruminate over his missives and royal matters, charters and grievances in quiet. He had not expected to enjoy her quiet presence, playing the harp, letting it melt with the sharp sound of burning logs.

He had only demanded her presence because he distrusted Thorin and his offer of an evening meal to Gadrehal. More-so, he was shocked she wanted to share in such a meal. But, instead, he found he found her presence...more than tolerable.

“Gadrehal,” he called softly to her, and she looked up at him, “continue with the harp.”

And so she did.

Chapter Text

Routine is born from time, and so did it pass, evenly, softly, unnoticed by Elf or Dwarf. The months droned on into autumn, the leaves of the oak trees fading into a brilliant orange, tinged red with far away sunsets. Birds migrated to the south, gathering in great black flocks to speed away from the dimming forests of Mirkwood.

Gadrehal found her evenings dominated by the king, joining him each moon rise in his quiet study, with the fire throwing light across the expansive room, the red glow warming her feet and hands as she took up roost in her corner. Each evening followed a similar pattern, centered around the silence company of each other. She became his companion, a steady presence for him to rely on at the ending of each day, and him for her.

For it had become her corner, with the harp or book she read aloud to them both. On certain nights, she read stories to him, her voice steady and silvery. Other nights, she plucked a tune from the harp, encouraging the music from the string with sure, quick fingers. They rarely spoke to one another, she serving wine to them both - he insisted she have her own goblet - and tending to the fire in the hearth. Occasionally, he would ask after her day, with a soft, distant tone, quill perched in his elegant hand, crown tossed to the side of the settee he never used except to toss his robes.

Not often, the king would have her read letters, dull trifling things that came in all sorts. Letters of trade, birth announcements, merchant complaints, requests to pass through the realm. Her voice gave sound to these petty words, and him a chance to think over them as she read. Her quiet presence was constant and cool, and he found it nearly impossible to work on nights she did not attend him.

The council continued for longer than Thranduil anticipated, dragging on with repetitive arguments and Dwarvish stubbornness. Gadrehal dined with Thorin most evenings, at least those he remained within the borders of the Woodland realm. Much to Thrandui’s chagrin, of course, but he did not have it in him to deny her this. Her seat next to the Dwarven king was always warm and draped with soft cloth while he served her his favored Dwarven meals, regaling her with tales of battle and the grandeur of Erebor. Balin’s genuine smile made her feel relaxed while Fili enthralled her with outrageous and exaggerated stories, which after a while earned him a small smile from her. He counted this a victory.

She had been disappointed to see them leave, the council disbanded with the agreement that a envoy of two dwarves and two elves each to sent into the northern lands in search of remaining Maghi villages. These envoys were to offer protection and new lands for the Maghi people, bring them away from the wild men and slave traders. So far, in the zenieth of autumn, no envoys returned or sent glad news. It had all remained eerily silent.

Gadrehal now spent her days quietly, her hands digging in the dirt, surrounded by the smell of earth and dying leaves. She rarely left the gardens during the daylight hours since Thorin left. She busied herself with clearing overgrown paths, pulling vines from abandoned statues and cleaned the dirt from around their ethereal faces. The flowers grew ripe and thick as the summer faded, and sighed into their wintery deaths, petals withering, leaves browning and wilting.

Watching with detached sadness, Gadrehal could only sweep away leaves and faded petals. She avoided the crowded halls of the daytime realm. Rarely did she venture into the dining halls of the merchants and craftsman and soldiers of the woodland realm, most often sneaking into the kitchens and swiping bread and honey. Her body wilted along with her flowers. If Thranduil noticed this, he spoke not a word of it.

She found herself unsure of the body she possessed, unsure of its new desires and feelings. It, if not her soul, felt alive, felt heat and hunger and aches and burns from the sun. It felt soft on her stomach and rough on her hands, it seemed to want. Because wanting was new, something she had forgotten to do. To want. To desire. But now, now her body demanded and wanted and desired, food and warmth and sunshine and crisp water. It wanted sleep and languid mornings, curled amongst ferns and dewey sunlight. She, herself, felt distant from this body of wanting. This body that healed and regrew, many of the scars fading away as she fought to escape the void she lived in.

Yet her heart still felt heavy, and oft times she found herself drifting away, lost inside herself, kneeling in the gardens, sitting at the base of statues, still clutching flowers and branches in her hands. For hours she could be like this, the chasm in her soul swallowing her. The sorrow was easy to fade into. The grief a cradle that rocked her, that created a shell preventing her from being with others. The listlessness overtook her, making it difficult to wake in the mornings, keeping her wrapped in her blankets. Sometimes she did not sleep at all, but lay awake, clutching her pillow and the robe Thranduil had not reclaimed from her.

After her evenings with him, she would slip back to her rooms, take out the chest from under her bed, and remove the robes. His forest scent lingered on the rich, heavy silk. Gadrehal wrapped herself in the enormous robes and buried her nose into the soft texture, breathing in the aroma of the forest, of the fresh river, horses, and the heady scent of the king underlying it all. She did not understand this attachment to the robe, and the king himself, for she felt herself growing almost fond of him. She lay with the robes at night, curling underneath the folds, warming herself in the room she kept cold.

She was afraid, afraid of her wanting, afraid of the shell which seemed to wear thin the longer she remained in the Woodland realm. She was afraid of her nightmares, and sleepless nights and the way her soul fell into fits of turmoil. She was afraid of the tiny spark of her that hoped at happiness, afraid of her memories. She was restless but morose. She found no energy in her restlessness, and found she brooded more as the season began to lean towards winter. Her soul, her mind was split and remained more in the dark than the light. And now, as she knelt in the dirt, her face pressed against the cool of the stone, she felt her soul spiraling into that dark pit inside her.

A strong autumn wind rushed through the gardens, tugging at her clothes and her hair, pushing around the trunks of trees and dried flower stalks. She sat at the base of her favorite statue, one she recently cleaned of vines and brambles. It’s visage was of a woman, draped in long, slim robes, arms open. Gadrehal left flowering vines to drape alone her shoulders, flowers tucked around her neck, her lips smiling. She stood in the middle of a smooth marble basin, which Gadrehal curled in, breathing in the wet smell of dead leaves.

She felt the urge to hate, to let anger bubble inside her, fill her with something other than this emptiness. Fury lurked somewhere just out of reach, just beyond what she was capable with. She could never quite find it, never quite muster the anger she believed she should feel. She could barely find the energy to feel anything. It came only in bursts, but faded as fast as it came. Highs and lows, some days more than others, some days brighter than others, most days darker than others.

“Gadrehal?” The voice called from somewhere beyond her, far from her soul, but it stirred something in her. Another crack in her shell.

“Gadrehal.” The voice was firmer, harsher, a hint of command. She lifted her head from the cool stone, her fingers twitched. Her vision was hazy, and she tried to drag herself from the pit she fell into. Why was it so? Why did she fall so deeply into this state of sorrow?

Hands touched her face, held her head still, and she tried to focus, focus on the blue eyes staring at her.

“Gadrehal.” the voice was closer now, the breath tickling her skin, her lips.

“Thranduil?” she murmured, “why...why is my soul so dark?”

He was quiet, but he kept her head still, fingers brushing against her hair. She was lost. “I am so lost, my king, my soul is so dark.” Her eyes began to regain focus, as she clawed out of the hole she slipped in.

“Ai-er,” he whispered, running a hand over her hair, face softening, “you have suffered much, your soul grieves. Do not let the grief swallow you. There is still much left for you.”

He ran his hand over her shoulder, bringing his forehead to hers, her breath evening. He knew of these episodes, her relapses. He saw the darkness gathering inside her, and truthfully, he was not shocked by it. Such horror, such a stain does not wash itself from the soul easily. It took time, and patience. Both of which he had plenty of.

“Gadrehal, let me help you through your grief.”

She watched him intently, and he saw she was coming back, coming back. It pained him to see her like this. It pained him to think that such evil still existed. But yet the nature of evil it drags the light into the darkness.

“My king,” she kept looking at him and he realized he was an anchor for her, he saw it in the desperate way she looked at him “you have aided me plenty. How can I ask for more?”

He wanted to gather her in his arms, for he knew the sting of grief, and he knew the damage it wreaked when tackled alone. She did not deserve such a fate, to become embittered by it, hardened by it. She had seen enough, and he could not - would not - let that happen.

“Gadrehal,” Thranduil felt strongly for this small elf-maiden, saw her pain but also saw her strength. Grief, sorrow, and horror were combinations that corroded the soul, and he saw this corrosion beginning within her. He remembered, he remembered the time after the first war, when Oropher died, when his wife died, when dragon fire devoured the forests. He recalled the empty nights left only with his memories and nightmares, he remembered rebuilding a broken kingdom, he remembered his body healing while his soul grew cold with grief and anger.

His thumb rubbed her cheek, and he brought her closer. “Gadrehal, your soul need not be dark forever.”

Her gaze lifted to his again, and he felt the crackle in her body. Felt the jolt in his. He stirred, felt a longing that lay dormant for so long. He needed to show her, bring her back, clean the sorrow from her soul.

“My king...” she whispered, her hands grasping his shoulders, a red blush rising on her cheeks and neck. What was this she felt? What stirred within her that propelled her from her blinding state of grief?

“Gadrehal, let me bring you back from this,” his fingers ran through her hair, smelling of dirt, loosening the leaves stuck there. This was not the king she saw in the throne room, the king in front of her was warm...

...as were his lips as they graced hers, pressed firmly against hers, sweet and soft and tasting like spring water and nectar. Her breath released, her body limp beneath his, but his warmth spread from her lips, and her heart beat wildly.

And her soul stirred somewhere, somewhere deep where she could not touch it, but it stirred. And it wanted.

Chapter Text

He held the folded piece of thick parchment between two outstretch fingers, “This arrived for you this morning.”

One eyebrow was raised high in inquiry, his legs crossed as he sat sideways in his study chair, and a smattering of other maps and letters lay in haphazard piles across his wide desk, which he ignored, eyes focused on her. His thick white-gold hair lay across his broad shoulders, shaped nicely underneath his blue and green robes.

Gadrehal’s head perked from the red cushions of the settee. The book she flipped through sat in the curve of her body, her thicker dress lay in folds down her legs. Late autumn winds angrily pushed against the windows, driving dry dead leaves and branches into the corners of the garden, sweeping them against the walls of the palace. The night sky was hazy with clouds, threatening rain, or worse snow. She examined the letter in his hands, the thickness of the paper, the rough hand of the writing.

He waited for her to unfold from her blanket and seat, to come retrieve it from his hands.

“From Thorin.” he offered this morsel to her. She slid from her seat, and padded over to the king.

A goblet of warm wine sat unattended by the corner of the desk, as well as a bowl of fruit and cheese, also untouched. Several stacks of trade agreements and letters of note piled over books and quills. She hesitated, watching the king with lidded eyes.

He had not touched her since that day in the garden, but instead, insisted on her presence in the study more often. She was called upon to serve him at his meals, which consisted of her sitting at his side, while the two chewed silently, and her refilling his goblet every so often. Serving was an excuse: she knew it, he knew it, and the whole kingdom knew it.

He never touched her. Not once. It grew to be an itch underneath her skin, a constant warmth that tingled her lips whenever he drew near, but never too near. He remained just out of reach from her, yet did not run. This was not a chase, but a waiting game.

His eyes lingered on her, peeling the shadows from underneath her ribcage and replacing them with a red blush on her cheeks. She knew what this was. It was desire, pure and simple. She would not call it lust, because she did not quite know if it was that raw of a desire. What she truly desired was the light, the wanting, her soul had cried out for the day he kissed her. She wanted to feel like she did that afternoon, surrounded by her blackness, the air slightly chilly but cool against her flushed skin. She craved the way her soul stilled underneath his touch, for it was not a stillness born of fear, but the stillness of the water after a storm, no more ripples, no more disturbances, just light filtering down to the smooth pebbles beneath the surface. He - Thranduil - managed to be that light, it reached, and reached, way down to the pebbles of her soul and illuminated them with something soft and warm and like a great sigh, dispelled one tiny shard of darkness.

She did know kisses could do such a thing.

He waited, patiently, now for her to come retrieve the letter he held for her, perched between his fingers. His face was blank, but she had learned to read the storms and winds, his moods in the set of his shoulders, the forced way he made himself to look lazy and bored. She plucked the letter from his hands, only because he let her. He was not pleased with this.

“Thank you, my king,” she said, breaking the seal and unfolding the letter. Still he watched her as she read the words, her eyes crinkling with a small joy. Thorin wrote to her of day time things, of his kingdom and his hobbit, of the garden, and his well wishes for her. It was, indeed, a perfectly ordinary letter, but the fact she held fresh parchment in her hands with the painstakingly written words from a king many leagues away filled her with elation. She brought the letter to her chest.

“What does he want?” Thranduil’s words were sharp.

She looked over her shoulder, sitting down on the settee again, and pulled the blanket over her legs. Thranduil decided the corner was not conducive enough, and gave her the settee. Since the garden was dead, the autumn chill sending her flowers and vines to sleep for the winter, she found herself listless with naught to occupy her time. She had long since discovered her place as hand-maid to the king meant little. He did not want her to clean or attend him in his rooms, she merely fetched wine and played the harp for him the evenings.

Sometimes she walked around the palace, but mostly, she spent her time in the study -she told herself it was not due to Thranduil’s presence, but for the books instead. He gave her access to any and all of the books in his library, and so she enjoyed curling up in front of the constant fire, to read. She read Elvish histories, and love stories, and ballads and the sorrowful tales of war. She read the Hobbit’s tale, and the tale of the ring.

Every so often, she left the royal quarters in search of Dalra or Illyria. Their bright smiles were just the right medicine, at times, to chase away the demons of her nights. They gave her menial tasks, mortaring herbs, drying them, or cleaning bottles. They chattered on about normal gossip, the kind she once partook in when she sat with her loom, years ago, with her weaving sisters. It was in this way she learned of the king’s many mistresses, the ‘hand-maids’ over the long, lonely years.

She was not surprised, necessarily. For why would he not take to bed a young elf-maid or two? She wondered if they felt the same calmness and heat in their souls when he touched them?

Illyria insisted the king did not want Gadrehal for such a purpose, but wanted to watch over her. But Gadrehal was not so sure. She did not know what the king wanted. From her or from anyone. He wanted obedience, true. But from her? She did not know. He claimed to help her, and she believed that. Yet...yet he had kissed her. Did he know what it would do to her? Did he know the light he imbued in her soul? She did not have the answers to this question. Yet this question nagged at her enough to keep her from falling into another episode of dark entrancement.

“He only sends me his greetings.” she replied, turning a page in the book. Still, he stared, lips pressed into a thin line.

“That is a long letter just for a greeting.”

Gadrehal gave him a long look. “He writes to me of Bilbo, my king.”

“The thief.”

“The gardner, my king.”

Thranduil hummed, and finally looked away from her towards the papers on his desk. He picked one up and skimmed it, brow furrowing. Then he let it drift to the desk. She took note of his restlessness. The letter disturbed him.

“Shall I play the harp this evening, my king?”

He made no response, but merely skimmed another missive. His eyes ran back and forth over the lines. Gadrehal bit her lip silently, and tried to focus on the book she currently read. She could feel the moment of choice that hovered before her.

Thranduil made his offering. He revealed to her how he wanted to help her. And it was a method that worked. He awoke the soul in her, from a simple kiss. That was all. He dusted off her soul, and let the light in.

As she stared out in the sky, the heat of the fire warming her legs, she mulled over the desires of her heart. She was scarred and bruised, yes. But...but was that all she was to ever be? Could she be more than that again? She wanted to believe so. She wanted to believe she could be better. It was over, wasn’t it? If only for a little while, the king would spread the storm clouds inside her, would she not do it? Could she do it?

She felt his gaze on her again, felt the blush rising on her neck. She met his eyes, and then demurely looked away.

This was her choice. The king offered his help, in an unusual manner. He offered...pleasure. Yes, that was the word. He offered her pleasure when she had not known such a thing could exist anymore.

She gracefully unfolded herself from the settee once again, leaving the letter and the book behind, the blanket pooling half on the floor. The firelight rippled, the logs cracked, and beneath that she felt another warmth inside her. Her soul battered against its cage, she let her mind slow its thoughts.

“My king,” she curtsied, she was tired of waiting.

Then she lowered her head, and hesitantly, brought her lips to his.

Chapter Text

The pressure of his lips was slight, and tasted like the warm rain of summer. She permitted a small sigh to pass out of her, and briefly his lips perked upwards. He did not push her, did not pull her, and she could smell him, deep like the forest.

"My king...” she murmured against him, and she let her eyes flutter closed. He hummed in response, and she felt her shoulders soften, her muscles relax in her back and neck.

His hand reached up, and tenderly, brushed her hair away from her face and behind her ear. A finger deftly traced its outline, then ran down her jaw. She shivered at the light, sensual touch.

She kissed him again, more firmly now. But still he did not push back. Gadrehal realized he relinquished control to her. This was her choice, all hers, and she controlled this. Her heart pounded uproariously in her chest. Her choice, her speed, her decision. This was all hers.

This realization sprung a light inside her, and she relished the feel of her decision. It tasted like sweet red wine and rain and forest sunlight. It tasted of Thranduil, who lounged in a chair as she bent over to kiss him, her lips experimenting with the new found freedom and feeling. His hands rested on her shoulders, one thumb rubbing the sensitive skin along her neck, easing her. They were warm and smooth, soft over her dress and shoulders.

Keeping her eyes shut, she pulled away slightly, her tongue running over her lips to capture the taste of him, the smooth heady elixir. She leaned in, kissed him quickly. She wanted to savor this, savor the shadows as they ran from this sensation.

Her body felt still, but it thrummed with desire, with feeling, with a foreign lightness and her mind cleared. Her body floated along the waves of simple pleasure, savoring the way her body felt. It was intoxicating almost, to feel one with her body, to not hate it or be humiliated by it. Because it was her choice, she walked verily into this, and took it by the hand. She wanted Thranduil, she wanted her body to feel this...this good.

His fingertips trailed down her neck, then upwards again before running through her hair, and then he let it cascade down her back again. He repeated this measure several times, and Gadrehal realized her hands clutched at the arms of his chair, her knuckles straining from the effort. She willed her fingers to loosen, and she decided to raise one hand herself. But before she touched the king, she opened her eyes and met his. They were a brilliant blue, the blue of midnight and the starless sky before dawn and waves crashing against the rocks of the sea.

His pupils were dilated, his face smooth as stone, but his hands still rhythmically stroked her neck and ran through her hair. Her fingers hovered by his shoulders, and she suddenly felt wary. How far was she permitted to go with the king? What boundaries did she have with him?

“You may touch me,” he purred, lids lowering slightly. His size always surprised her, and she thought for moment, it should intimate her. Yet it did not. It made her want to run her hands over his broad shoulders, curl in the warmth as she did so long ago when he cared for her as she healed. Instead her hand grazed his hair. It was thick and white and ran like silk over her fingers. She stroked his hair, reveling in how different he was, how regal and strong. Nothing like she had ever known. He truly was light in her darkness.

She traced his sharply pointed ear, and a shiver ran down his body. Her eyes snapped back to his face, but his eyes were closed now. His body even more relaxed, head tilted backwards, face not so stern, placid and calm. But as she watched him, awed by what unfolded around her, his hand cupped her face, long fingers thrust into her thick, dark hair, and he pulled her to him.

His kiss was firmer, and her breath escaped her. His tongue ran across her lower lip, toying with her. She whimpered, her hands traveling to his shoulders and clutching at him desperately, her lips pressing firmly back. The fire felt warm against her legs and back, where her face flushed with heat for other reasons. He held her close to him, letting his lips tease her, pamper her, making her insides melt and quiver.

Gadrehal felt breathless as she responded in kind to him, although she was hesitant and soft. She sighed into the kiss as it deepened, her mouth yielding and opening to him.

And then he broke away with a barely audible breath, a hand running over her head and down her back. She panted, and stared at the king beneath her, a playful smirk on his lips.

“It is late, Gadrehal.” His finger stroked along her cheek as she tried to comprehend his words. Her lips felt swollen and red, and she could no longer tell if it was the fire or her desire that warmed her body so. He, as always, looked collected.

Her hands rested on his forearms, barely feeling the robes beneath her finger tips. He stood up, and his hands gripped her shoulders, keeping her close but yet moving her away. His body towered over hers so she titled her head to meet his eyes, which shone with mirth.

So he was not displeased, but still he had ended their...moment.

Thranduil’s eyes traced the lines of her jaw, her lips, and finally met her own. What did he see in them?

He leaned down, his hair falling around her face, tickling her skin, and she...fought the urge to giggle at how soft and silky and strange it felt against her skin. Although it did not grace his mouth, his eyes smiled at her one last time before he gave her one more chaste kiss.

She sighed gratefully, completely wrapped in the sensation of Thranduil, his smell, his taste, his touch. Was it wrong of her to use the sweet sensations of her body to dispel the stain on her soul? Most assuredly, but she did not want to stop. She did not want to loose herself to despair any longer, but to loose herself to desire.

He hummed against her lips, and she felt it rumble down to her very center, it shook loose the dirt of her soul, and she wanted to reach up and touch his hair, his face, his lips. He did not pull away from her hands as she let her fingers trace his lips.

“I shall see you on the morrow,” his breath was warm on her fingertips.

She did not want to leave him, but this was clearly a dismissal. He was ending their time together for the evening it seemed. She knew it was prudent, but she was an animal. She had been given her freedom and she knew no control. Thankfully, he did.

“Yes, my king,” Yet neither of them let go, her fingers on his neck, breath deep. He made her feel full, he made her feel clean, like each kiss was the warmth of spring, chasing away the cold of winter. His kiss shut away the drafts. She wanted to drown in such a feeling.

She pulled away from him, reluctantly, fading into the cold that was not his body. Yet her body was languid and smooth, relaxed in manner new to her. As an Elf she always held a grace about her, but this was beyond grace, her body blooming with heat and light, the rocks peeling away from her joints.

She curtsied, because duty always came first. But...then, he put his hand over his heart, and bowed his head, eyes locked on hers, and then, then extended his hand out to her. It was one of the highest forms of respect, a gesture known mostly by the Silvan Elves, and not one given lightly. Thranduil took one step closer, and with his out stretched hand, stroked her face.

“Sleep well, Gadrehal.” he murmured, eyes soft and head titled, as if he too was surprised by act.

To kiss her was a delight, and what she expected from him. But - but to extend to her such a intimate and honored gesture quite another. She almost stumbled backwards. For Thranduil had given her something much more than the feeling of desire and fluttering butterflies in her stomach. You did not bestow such honor on servants. But only to kin and equals.

Gadrehal knew not how to respond to such a gift, for this meant something beyond physical desire. She did not know what it meant, truly. In her befuddled state, her mind drowsy with the kiss and the flickering fire, she curtsied again and stole out of the study, without a look back.

Chapter Text

Thranduil lounged on his throne, one leg tossed over another, robes spread abundantly about him, and his winter crown shining on his forehead. His long white-blonde hair was arrayed over his shoulder, and his ringed hand lightly grasped his favored staff. For the most part, the throne room was quiet, only a few merchants timidly approaching him for requests or complaints.

An ambassador from Dale arrived, escorting Dorwinion wine and crisp linens from the blossoming city. It had taken a long while - even with assistance from his realm - for Bard to rebuild the city to even a glimmer of it’s former glory. But now with lush trade from Gondor and Rohan, and even the most western lands of Turn, the city and it’s people grew rich and fat. Thranduil didn’t give it much thought, as long as they remained loyal to their trade and troop agreements that was.

As the sweating ambassador wheezed his stumbling platitudes, a guard rushed into the room and knelt in front of the king. Thranduil raised a hand, motioning for the ambassador to stop speaking. The king’s gaze traveled to the soldier, head bowed and helm in his hands.

“Speak.” Thranduil commanded, his fingers clenching at the staff a bit harder than he wanted.

“My lord...emissaries from the North have returned.” the guard risked a glanced upwards, and then quickly the empty space behind him. “They have news of the Maghi.”

Thranduil did not let his face change, but he felt his heart sink inside his chest. He barely glanced at the ambassador. “We shall discuss this more over the evening meal.” And with that the man from Dale was dismissed, a guard escorting him from the hall.

Thranduil motioned to the kneeling currier.

“My king, both elven and dwarven scouts have returned to us.”

“Show them in.” Thranduil did not have the patience for such nonsense. He wanted to know immediately what had occurred to the north. It did not matter who gave it to him, so long as it was delivered. The scouts had disappeared to the northern lands several moons ago, and no word had been given since.

The guard hesitated, and Thranduil’s ire flared inside him.

“Now.”

How much urging did this simpleton need to follow a direct order?

“My king...” Thranduil’s answer was merely a look, informing the guard that his next words should be equally important or he faced a spell in the dungeons for wasting the king’s time.

“Our lord Legolas and the dwarf are with them.”

Thranduil’s jaw tensed. He knew precisely who the dwarf was. But at the moment, his more prominent thought was why his son was accompanying a scouting...

Was his son a scout from the North?

His eyes flashed dangerously, and he felt his mood blacken.

The guard, rightfully, scampered back down the length of the throne room and opened the door. Legolas, the red haired dwarf that reminded him of the impertinent Tauriel, the bald dwarf from Thorin’s company, and Baedral, an elf of Elrond’s entered. The dwarf had his axe slung over his shoulder, and Legolas’ bow was tucked on his back along with his white knives. Thranduil scowled in return to Dwalin’s.

“Ada.” Legolas put arm across his chest, fist over his heart, and nodded his head. Gimili snorted, but Legolas nudged him with his free elbow.

Thranduil gave his son a long, long look. It had been many long years since he saw him, and if it had been surrounding any other circumstance, he would have been glad. Now, he was fuming that his son would go needlessly into that place, without his knowledge or permission. His son was not always the smartest, but this was absurd.

“Legolas.” he stood up, and glared down at his son, ignoring the the dwarves and the other elf. “I see you have returned from the north.” he glanced at Gimili, “still with the dwarf?”

“Aye, I have a name,” Gimili growled, glowering at the tall, blonde king standing at the top of curved stairs, in front of the ornate throne, carved from living stone and tree.

“Ada, we come with news of the Maghi.” Legolas began, hoping to move his father away from whatever caused this black mood he was steeped in.

“Continue.” he barked, taking the steps slowing and letting his robes drape in his vacant throne. Gimili grumbled something, and Thranduil’s brow lowered at the dwarvish insult. Dwalin chuckled, but once again, Legolas nudged Gimili with a bit more force.

“Show some respect, dwarf, to the king of the woodland realm.” Baedral snapped, and Thranduil had the faint feeling this type of immature and petty squabbling was a constant between the four. He dismissed this thought, because it was undeserving of his time. The Maghi and what his son was doing as a scout took precedence. How long had his son wandered the north? Had he gone from the beginning? His temper flared brilliantly behind his eyes, and his gripped tightened on the staff.

“Ada, we aided a clan of the Maghi, and settled them in the valley of Imlardis.” Legolas wanted to placate, wanted to soothe away the ripples of strife between the two of them. Thranduil did not understand, for this news should have eased him. Should. Yet there was still a darkness about, and he did not see further good tidings to come from the scouts. Legolas was back where he belong, albeit with a pet dwarf, but still he found the circumstances of his return to be troubling and irksome. 

“They send gratitude to you.”

“As they should.” Thranduil walked leisurely around the four of them, his eyes taking in the dirt and the weariness.

“What of their numbers?”

“They were few.” Dwalin finally spoke, “and frightened. They spoke of a necromancer.”

Thranduil glanced at the dwarf, studied him, then turned away, pacing towards the stairs. Again, this necromancer was mentioned. A dark shadow fled before his thoughts, and he wanted to know more about this magic user. He made a mental note to remember this, this whispered threat from the Maghi. He would not be as negligent as to shirk his duties to them again.

“Ada, these Maghi spoke of slavers, coming into their homes and capturing them, bringing them into the east to be sold.”

Thranduil only hummed in agreement. He knew this was true, as one resided his household and was his evening companion. Amongst other things.

“Is this true?” Legolas inquired, perturbed by his father’s unnatural and angry silence.

“Yes.” he finally deigned to reply, the thump of his staff louder than his footsteps. “What other news from the north?” Thranduil glanced over his shoulder at the four, who stood now uneasily in the presence of the king and weary after so much travel.

“The Maghi are weary and afraid. Wild men bearing the mark of the red eye of a necromancer have invaded their lands, killed their people, and only now are we learning of this. They are frightened and unwilling to talk. We found many ruined Maghaen towns, some still smoldering. Many have been taken to the East, so they say, and sold as chattel.” Dwalin spat, and Thranduil sneered at the crude gesture.

“Only a handful made the journey to Imlardis,” Legolas continued, “they do not trust us any more than they trust the wild man. They wish to hide.”

Thranduil nodded, although it was barely perceptible to any but Legolas, who watched his father carefully.

“They want to be left alone.” Dwalin nodded, and his hard features softened briefly as he remembered the shattered and frightened, broken families they found, hiding away in the caves.

Once again, Thranduil nodded, for he understood their fear and mistrust. They came too late to save them from such tragedy, why now should they believe a glimmer of hope?

“There was fighting a plenty to be had, aye Legolas?” Gimili shifted on his feet, and pursed his lip. The only response was another look from the king, demanding further explanation.

“Wild men, bands of goblins and orcs, they wander the hills of the north freely. We skirmished with them frequently.” Baedral shot a disapproving look to the red haired dwarf, and then faced the king once again.

King Thranduil remained silent, but continued his even pace, betraying the war of emotions behind his cool facade. He dabbled with whether or not to inform Gadrehal any of this, yet for her to discover such sad news from any other source was not a pleasant thought. But bands of orcs, mucking about freely anywhere in the lands of Middle Earth was a problem that needed addressing. More puzzles for him to ponder.

“You have done well,” Thranduil nodded, and then he motioned with his hand, and guards appeared, “please retire and rest. We shall speak of this later.”

Baedral left easily, followed by Dwalin, who made certain to loudly voice his complaints against Elven hospitality, which Thranduil ignored.

“Legolas, tell me, did you find any members of the Silverfen clan?”

Taken aback by the abrupt and unusual question, Legolas did not respond immediately. “No, Ada.” There was a small pause, “from those we met, that clan was invaded and has since fallen to the Red Eye.”

“Go eat and bathe, Legolas.” was the soft response from Thranduil.

“Ada?” Yet there was no response from his father, whose mood went from black to pensive very quickly. Suddenly, Thranduil’s fury vanished, replaced with the sadness. His Gadrehal truly was alone in this world, her clan and family dispersed and dead at the hands of slavers. He needed to tell her, although he dreaded such a conversation. His evenings with her were a constant and secret joy to him.

“Come now, lad.” Gimili looked at the king, who’s mind was elsewhere. Legolas glanced at his father, intrigued about where his father’s thoughts drifted. There was...something. Something different, something...he couldn’t quite name.

When the door finally closed behind Legolas, Thranduil returned to his throne and sat heavily. This was disturbing news. The orcs and the mistrust. The death they had for so long ignored. And further mention of this necromancer. What did he play in this? No mere mortal should ever meddle in the affairs of the dead. But, thoughts of Gadrehal turned him away from his other questions. Such as why Legolas was in the north in the first place. He almost had half a mind to call back his son, and demand answers. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, knowing full well an altercation with his son over such would get them no where.

“My king?” Her voice was soft, as always, even. Gadrehal carried a goblet, and he knew that his favored red wine lay cupped in her hands. She looked expectant, wanting to please him. Or comfort him. He never quite knew what went through her head. She became very skilled at blocking him out.

She gracefully walked over, and handed him the golden goblet. He took it, and sipped at the smooth liquid. He closed his eyes, and the words almost tumbled out before he could stop them. He offered his hand to her, and she slipped hers in. She squeezed her fingers, “My king, is there anything you require?”

He did not answer, but instead looked deeply at her. Gadrehal’s hair was pulled back into a single braid, which she seemed to favor. It revealed the scar on her temple more. Her dress was simple, smooth, and she was quiet, her eyes were softer. Over the past weeks, as they kept company with each other in his study, her playing the harp, reading to him, he felt an attachment...grow.

Her nightly kisses were sweet to him, eased him in a way he did not know he needed. He reminded himself, twas only to help her, to chase away the shadows of her soul, to show to her the sweetness of physical pleasure when she had known only pain. He reminded himself of this. And he told himself he felt nothing as she knelt at his feet, alone in the throne room, and placed her head on his lap, sighing through her nose, eyes closed, one hand on his knee. He smoothed a hand over her hair, the strands soft and silky beneath his palm.

He did this because she needed to heal. It was his duty to heal her, to help her.

Yes, of course, that was it. His duty.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal’s quick steps made no noise on the stone floors, she quickly rounded a corner, and bit her lip. She rarely ventured beyond the royal quarters, and now, she realized, that was a poor decision. She was hopeless lost in the kingdom of Thranduil, having passed by barracks, through kitchens, she thought hallway of guest quarters, and she had somehow managed to find herself lurking in the merchant quarters. All in her vain search for a currier. Gadrehal heard Thranduil grumble unhappily about a caravan heading east to Erebor and Dale, with elven arrows, cloth, and other goods.

Thanking her luck, she desired to finally send forth her letter to the King Under the Mountain, Thorin. She missed the quiet dinners she shared with and Balin, even the younger dwarf. She had had no chance previously to do so, and she wanted very much to respond to his kind missive he sent weeks previous. She knew better than to ask Thranduil for such a thing, for he detested the dwarves and made no measures to hide his displeasure at her budding friendship with the king.

And to worsen matters, he had been unusually quiet. He was a king of very little words, but...this went beyond even his typical silence. His deep eyes watched her, and she thought of the fury of his kiss on the evening past. He seemed to burn with a new emotion that rested just below the surface. Thranduil had been reluctant to have her leave, his arms wrapping her to him, his face buried in her hair. His fingers had traced the scars on her forehead, her palm.

She shook the memory away, because she wished not to ruin the warm feeling in her chest with the deed she was about to do. If she could find a way to the elves about to leave with the caravan and slip the letter into Baedral’s hands. Thranduil would be most displeased with her if he knew.

She passed elves, some laughing, other discussing trade and their daily business. It was all very ordinary, and most did not give her a passing glance. She felt strange here, dressed in her simple dress, barefoot and thick braid down her back. Her body was healthy again, regaining its fullness and weight, her hair growing back and falling thickly over her shoulders when she let it be unbound.

Yet still, she never felt quite safe unless her king was near. A part of her warned against such an attachment. A simple part of her knew the king would not let her be by his side always, and she must learn to control the darkness inside her. That to merely mask it with him was not a way to solve such a problem as the shadow lurking around her soul.

Now, Gadrehal stood at a cross section, bouncing on her toes, deliberating on her next turn. She had passed scribes and fletchers, armorers, and healers. She thought of asking for direction, but the idea of speaking to a stranger kept her lips as unmovable stone. Gadrehal took in a deep, unsteady breath and gave herself a moment. Her fingertips wrinkled the thick parchment of her letter.

When she looked down the long hallway to her right, she heard the faint tinkling laughter masking another sound. It was woolen rush, then click. The sound of wood hitting wood, but not in the manner of practice swords. She cocked her head, and moved towards the soft noise. The sound of creaking wood, the soft whisper of threads and foot shuttle were barely perceptible under the high laughter. Someone spoke, there voice high as they mimicked another.

She strained the hear the sound beneath the laughter and voices. It grew distint and louder as she tiptoed closer. The rush, the groan of wood, the soft whirl of a shuttle. Her heart leapt in her chest, and her eyes grew watery. A large doorway appeared, and as she peered in, a lightness grew in her heart. In front of her was a weaver’s chamber, with three table looms. One whole wall was purely class, letting in unfiltered light. A river flowed noiselessly below, and the shifting, blue light reflected on the stone walls.

Gadrehal stood back, in the shadows, watching the weavers as they gossiped and laughed, their fingers moving nimbly over their looms, pushing the levers forward and back, picking at strands of shimmering thread. Gadrehal bit her lip. It had been many long years since she touched a loom, once her life’s work. She glanced at her fingers, and wondered if they still remembered how.

Gingerly, she stepped forward, to stand quietly in the doorway. “Pardon...?” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

One of the elves glanced up, a male, with flaxen colored hair and green eyes. His eyes briefly glanced at her face, but lingered on the colors of her girdle, which signified her as a member of the royal household. Albeit a servant.

“How may we serve the king, lady?” he asked, his face smiling and not unkind. She bowed her head, and looked longingly at the loom he sat in front of. She fidgeted with the letter, knowing that she must find Baedral so he may carry it to the lands beyond.

“My lord...” she took in another breath, her face hot with embarrassment and fear, a fear that clutched at her throat, “My lord, I wondered if - if I may try my hand at the loom.”

She knew it was an absurd question to ask. This was their trade, and by rights she was naught but a servant of the king’s retinue. What right did she have to ask. His face registered his surprise, as did the two others. One raised a neat auburn eyebrow, and gazed intently at Gadrehal. She felt their surprise, but felt no anger at her. He watched her for a moment longer, fingers stilling at the threads. He was studying her, trying to discern what the odd request meant from such a small, frightened maid.

She stood still as stone in the doorway, clutching at a letter, eyes staring at the loom with such longing that he had never seen. Her honey-brown eyes glistened with the moistness of tears, and her body was almost rigid with fear. A doe caught in the glen. He did not know if she would flee. So instead, he rose from his place.

“Madruil, what are you doing?” the auburn haired elf hissed, her eyes flicking from the weaving master to the elf impersonating a statue in their doorway. He ignored her, and moved away.

“Please,” he gestured to the stool. And a small light grew in her eyes. There had been rumors, of course, of the king harboring a Maghi. Although no one had seen one. There had also been rumors of elvish slave traders, of the destruction of the Maghi. And now as he saw the scar of this tiny elf’s forehead, and the gleam in her eyes as she sat behind the loom, he put a little more faith in these rumors.

She carefully placed the letter on her lap, and then her fingers delved into the threads like a fish into water.

~~~

Thranduil sat at his desk, quickly writing a response to Elrond, who had informed him of the stories the newly arrived group of Maghean refugees spoke of. The necromancer played a very prominent part in these, and it worried him more than he wished to admit. HIs quill danced across the page, inquiring after the state of the Maghi and offering any services besides cloth and food.

The necromancer, it seemed, desired elvish slaves and controlled the wild men, sending them forth in Maghean lands to plunder, pillage, and gather slaves. He was gathering Elves and lands, and had quite successfully masked his movements by either killing or capturing Maghi, preventing them almost completely from sending word for aid.

Thranduil was glad to have finally found a body for him to run his sword through. As soon as forces could be mustered, he desired to send an attack and destroy this necromancer. This was, to him, a sound plan and strategy.

There was a knock on his door, and he barely slowed as he barked: “Enter.”

A guard followed by the master weaver, Madruil, stepped through the door. They both bowed low, and Madruil stepped forward. Thranduil paused briefly in his writing,

“What brings you here, Madruil?” His tone implied his impatience.

“My king,” he stopped, and glanced about, making note of the pile of pillows in the corner with a gleaming harp and the two goblets next to the jug of wine, “I believe there is something you must see.”

Thranduil stopped and put down the quill, “I do not enjoy games, Master Weaver, and you would do well to explain yourself.”

“Yes - yes, my king,” Madruil took a deep breath, “it concerns the Maghi elf.” Madruil had never had a private audience with the king before, had rarely seen him except on feasting days and times when his attendance was required in the throne room.

“She is at my loom, my king.” he explained, and the king leaned back in his chair, eyes fixated on Madruil, “She has been there since early this afternoon, and...and I am afraid she will not leave, although the sun is close to setting.”

Thranduil hummed, and stood up, his hands clasped behind his back. “Take me to her.”

It was not a request, and Madruil knew it.

~~~

Gadrehal was focused, concentrating on the loom in front of her. It was beyond focused, it was obsession. Her fingers ached as they flew over the thread, her ankles cracking from her repeated use of the shuttle. Her body fell into a rhythm it had not forgotten, her fingers slipping gracefully over the silk, creating colors and patterns and designs that no elf of the Woodland realm could hope to ever make.

Her prowess with thread and color and the loom was once her pride, but now it sucked her in. She had not felt this joyful in years, even as her body protested from the strange movements. It had been so long since she moved like this, eyes trained on the thin threads in front of her. She barely heard the whispering of the elves around. She worked with an unnatural speed and grace, picking at threads, weaving them and braiding them and entwining them with a flash of movement that was difficult for others to watch, for she was a blur. She had gone from such stillness to a flurry of action, her body hunched over the work, protecting it, shielding it, bringing it closer to her body and soul.

Candles had been lit, the tang of beeswax lingering in her nose as she surveyed her work but did not pause. She loved the way the colors of her creation glimmered in the fading orange glow of the sun, the flicker of the candlelight catching the deep blues and purples she made. She knew how to add and shine color into the cloth in a way no other could. She knew this to be true, for it was often said when she lived among her people. Her fingers would braid colors together to form the most magnificent shades and shimmers.

As one hand plucked at threads, the other ran over the smooth cloth she produced, preening at the way it rippled under her fingertips. It practically glowed with its own light, as it caught and reflected and danced with the gleam of the sunset. This was her joy and her pride, this gave her a sense of purpose that she had not felt since the fires that took her people and her lands from her. Not even a kiss from the king made her heart hum with such pleasure.

She was vaguely aware of a harried murmur from the others, but she could not stop herself. She was lost from the sights and sounds of the world, completely entranced with the loom and thread and repetitive motions. The piece was almost completed, only a few more inches of thread to use, to braid together. She needed to complete it. Her fingers dexterously slipped into the threads once more, letting her follow the color, follow her heart that she found woven into the threads.

Her shadow fell over the loom, and she moved her head slightly, to the left, then the right, ducked down to allow the light to pierce her work, so that she may see where her fingers need go next, what strands to fix and primp, what design needed ending. Her body felt lucid and airy, her heart bounding behind her ribcage. This was beauty and brilliance, this was pure creation of something cherished and prized. Her soul smiled at the sight before her. This...this loom and thread and groaning wood and brilliantly colored fabric was what it meant to be Maghi. This was the piece of her soul that mourned, grieved deeply for the people she lost. So as she wove, she remembered the piece of her people that she had lost, and created for them. She wove for them, and instead of dying, she lived, lived in the treasure that was the Maghi and her sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers. Her blues reflected their sorrows, her greens reflected their memories, her reds reflected their pain, her purples reflected their ghosts.

As she slowed, her body quivered with exhaustion, her bones cracking as she finally changed her position. Her shoulders and arms protested angrily, unused to such work. As Gadrehal stretched her back, her gaze met with the king’s. She did not know how long he had watched her, but his face was unreadable and calm as always.

“Good evening, Gadrehal.”

She slipped from the stool, and curtsied, “My king!”

“It seems you have some experience with a loom,” he gestured towards the cloth now spilling from the wooden structure that separated them. She nodded, hands on the colorful fabric.

“Yes, my king,” her fingers pinched at the blue shimmery cloth, adoring the feel of the silk beneath her palms and fingertips. He, too, ran a hand over the cloth. Gadrehal was aware of Madruil, who shifted in the corner, eyes wide as he stared at Gadrehal’s creation.

“By the Valar, my king, that is the most beautiful piece I have ever laid eyes on.” Madruil glanced at the king, but he studied the designs of her work. “Most expertly rendered, my king.”

Thranduil did not answer immediately, eyes studying each design, noting each stitch and strand, the way the colors blended with each other, the way it danced in the candle light. He was amazed at the artistry before him. He had forgotten the beauty of Maghi design in cloth, their weavers had been most renown in their time. It seemed he had one of them.

“It is, indeed.”

Gadrehal curtsied again, “Thank you, my king.” Gadrehal felt proud, she felt elated but exhausted. She did not know for how long she sat at the loom, her mind left her and she followed the will of her hands. Thranduil barely glanced at Madruil, but he touched the cloth once again,

“this is to be given to me once it has been removed from the loom.”

“Yes, my king,” Madruil replied, having expected the request as soon as he saw the king’s eyes alight when he saw her at the loom. A passing flicker of disappointment crossed Gadrehal's’ face, which went unnoticed by the king, who still focused on the cloth.

When Thranduil looked up, the awe had vanished from his eyes, replaced with the cold look all associated with him.

“This begs the question of what you were doing in the merchant quarters, Gadrehal.”

She had the decency to brighten, her face growing red and her eyes widening. Madruil did not know what she had been doing, but she was caught. Her eyes traveled to the letter which had fallen at her feet when she stood to curtsey. Thranduil followed her gaze, and one eyebrow arched upwards. Her silence filled the room, and Madruil felt it was his time to take his leave. He did not know what was between the Maghi weaver and his king, but he knew it was none of his concern. He would cut away the cloth later, once they had left.

Gadrehal felt the sting of her betrayal deep in her stomach. He would be so disappointed. She shifted under his gaze, and would not meet his eyes. 

“I was lost, my king,” she began, picking up the letter from the ground, “I desired to send a letter and lost my way.”

“A letter to whom?” his voice was rough.

“To King Thorin, my king.” her voice was small, a sparrow’s tune compared to the cry of the eagle. Once again, her stillness took over, and she wished to crawl away, to not feel the angry heat of his gaze.

“This is unacceptable, Gadrehal,” he took a step closer, and snatched the letter from her hand. Anger bubbled inside her, Thorin was her friend, she had every right to send him a letter. He could not control that! But she dared not take the letter back from him. No matter their relationship, he still remained king, and she only a Maghi refugee who gardened for him during the day and kissed him at night.

“The caravan has already left. You really should have given this to them sooner.” he turned and swept from the room, leaving Gadrehal gaping after him. Gathering her senses, she trailed after him.

“My king?” she asked, hesitantly. “You are not displeased with my letter?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, then stopped walking.

“Gadrehal,” he sighed, “if a friendship with...Thorin brings you happiness, I cannot halt such a thing.” He looked at the letter with only mild contempt. “I shall send a currier to the caravan this evening, and the your letter shall reach Thorin with them.”

Gadrehal smiled, her body relaxing, although still aching from her work at the loom. “Thank you, my king!”

His face softened, the strain of the kingdom vanishing from his eyes. He looked longingly at her, in the empty hallway. He said nothing, but leaned to kiss her forehead. He put a hand on her cheek, and she a hand over his, holding his fingers close to her temple. They were warm and soft and smelled of ink and parchment. His lips moved, briefly kissing her own before he pulled away. “I shall see you in my study after moon rise.”

With that he turned away, and walked purposefully down the vacant hallway.

Chapter Text

Thranduil walked steadily next to his silent son, the two alone in one of the main hallways of the royal quarters. Torches flickered yellow against the smooth white walls, and a gray light from the falling snow seeped through the windows. Although it was warm, Thranduil felt the chill from his son.

His son matched him, both wearing silver tunics and high boots, hair braided simply, though Thranduil’s head was weighed with his crown. His hands linked behind his back, he knew he still stood tall over Legolas, who kept his eyes straight in front of him. They had dined together, with the red haired dwarf, Gimili, who seemed to keep his son’s attention more than he could. The pair had grown fond of each other during their time in the Fellowship. War brothers, Thranduil supposed.

Finally, Thranduil had a chance to be with his son, without the meddlesome presence of the dwarf. After their quarrel over Legolas’ presence in the north with the scouts, Legolas had remained broody and left with the caravan to accompany them to the edge of the woodland realm. But...something brought the two back. Thranduil guessed as to what, but he could not be positive of his son’s actions.

After leaving him to wander with the Dunedain so many years ago, the nature of their relationship changed. No longer did Legolas look at him with awe and obey him swiftly, Thranduil saw the question in his eyes, saw the doubt. But let him think what he wants. Thranduil was well aware that this day would come, when the father lost the shine of the hero. It came to them all.

“You sent a letter to the caravan.” Legolas finally spoke. Thranduil was correct then. His son had noticed the letter.

“Yes.” he responded evenly, not risking the glance.

“To Thorin?” Thranduil heard the question in his son’s voice. “What more did you have to say to him?”

Thranduil weighed his answer carefully. So far, the Legolas and Gadrehal had not met, partly by his doing and partly due to her shyness of others. Although the months had offered improvement, and he saw her healing, she still remained too close to a dangerous edge. Sudden movements, sharp noises, confined spaces, and the presence of too many sent her spiraling to the pit her soul barely managed to crawl out of. Twice now, she had ran from the palace and into the woods. She wandered similar paths each time. And he had fetched her from the river after she drifted in the currents. She explained to him in her dream-like state afterwards, that she needed to wash the darkness from her soul. These draughts of madness were becoming increasinly infrequent, for which Thranduil was most pleased. But they both acknowledged that this darkness, at least a piece of it, would always be with her.

But now his son had questions. It was impossible to hide the knowledge of her presence completely from him. Especially now with the whispers of her infiltrating all levels of his kingdom. Some rumors painted her as a ghost that walked the halls of the royal chambers, others a deranged mad-elf that the king kept as a pet. And yet a few touched upon them as lovers. Thranduil knew in part that a piece of each rumor remained to be true, although none grasped the truth entirely.

“Legolas,” Thranduil began, unsure of how to tell his son. A part of him did not know how to explain to him who Gadrehal was. She was not a lover, he had never done more than kiss her, she had yet to offer herself bodily to him. Yet she was not a servant, this much he knew. More a companion, and even...friend of sorts.

“A Maghi elf is under my protection here.” This was the truth, if but a sliver of it. “She was found in the woodland, a slave to Eastern traders.”

Once again, only partial truths.

Legolas glanced at his father, and knew there was more than the king gave away. Should he press further? But Legolas knew that would only shut his father down, and he would retreat. So he only nodded.

“She developed a friendship with Thorin,” Thranduil continued, and hid his scowl. Was this some trend, to befriend dwarves? “She was unable to reach the caravan before they left, so I offered to have a messenger bring the missive to the caravan.”

Legolas hid his shock as his father gave a very uncharacteristic shrug.

“I see.” Legolas responded, curious at the amount of information his father gave. Who was this Maghi? He had heard rumors of her, some horrific. Illyria spoke of the young maiden she tended in the mid months of summer, covered in scars and wounds, a slave to a man of Rhun, whom the king rescued and diligently watched over. This elf-maiden must be one and the same.

He had yet to see her, but that was not odd. He spent as little time in the palace, prefering to explore the Wood and practice his archery with Gimili. He avoided his father. They paused beside his study.

“Will you join me?” Thranduil asked. Legolas wavered. He did not wish to discuss his involvement with the scouting expeditions any further. Or his friendship with Gimili any more. Two sore subjects his father made certain to gripe about.

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas bowed his head in respect. Thranduil was still the king of the woodland realm, and his father, even if they both seemed to forget it every so often.

The study was quiet as always, and the with a brief nod of his head, the fire leapt to life, filling the space with warmth and the quiet crackle of popping embers and wood. A haphazard pile of books lay next to the settee, where two blankets lay draped over the over-stuffed cushions. The golden harp sat next to the books, and upon closer inspection, Legolas noted it was tuned and well used.

Who had played on the harp recently? It certainly wasn’t his father, who wouldn’t lower himself to such a base activity.

Mysteries. Secrets. Hidden truths. What was here that he did not see? It was simpler to track hobbits than it was to see into his father’s heart.

“As you know well now,” Thranduil paused as he pulled papers from underneath a pile of scrolls and letters, “there is to be another council in Erebor on how to honor the wrongs committed by his necromancer to the Maghean peoples.”

Legolas knew full well of this unprecedented council. Shockingly, his father had agreed to attend, and yes, even step foot into the dreaded mountain of Erebor. Legolas secretly planned to accompany Gimili and attend themselves.

“I request your presence.” Legolas started, and with furrowed brows looked hard at his father. That was...unexpected.

Thranduil waved his hand, “You are dwarf-friend.”

That did not answer the question, or give Legolas further comfort.

“It would be an honor to attend the council with you, Ada.” Legolas felt the exact opposite.

“You may bring the dwarf.” Thranduil noted, eyes scanning over a letter, absently pacing about.

“I believe the dwarf would have gone whether you permitted him or not.”

Thranduil only grunted in annoyed agreement. He flipped to another letter, and paced by the settee, where his hand smoothed over the beautifully rendered cloth folded there. It was uncut cloth, still waiting to be sewn into a garment or otherwise. Legolas stared at the pattern, its’ brilliant design and expertly crafted colors, the way it glimmered in the firelight.

The design pulled at his memory.

“When does the council convene?”

“Within a fortnight.” Thranduil answered quickly, moving by the windows closest to the garden. Even with the falling snow and the white drifts, Legolas saw how well groomed it became. A used harp and a well attended garden? Such interesting - and unusual - improvements. He had touched neither since the death of Legolas’ mother. Why now? And did the Maghi have a part in all this?

“Thorin wishes to discuss battle plans.” Thranduil turned a shrewd eye on his son, who watched him carefully now, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace, “He believes we should ready an army and attack the necromancer.”

Thranduil once again passed the settee, hand lingering on the fabric once again, “I must say, I agree with him.”

Thranduil almost - almost - laughed at the shocked expression on his son’s face. Half disbelief, half confusion. His blue eyes widening and mouth opening slightly. It wasn’t often something took his son off guard, but somehow he had managed to do so. But then again, even he found comedy in the situation. Agreeing with the dwarven king over anything until this moment seemed wholly impossible.

To be fair, of course, until now the greedy little king had done nothing of intelligence to agree with. So there was that.

And it was in that moment, Gadrehal stepped through the door, pulling a cloak over her shoulders, the deep green contrasting nicely with her tightly braided hair. At the sight of Thranduil, her face brightened and she gave him a soft smile, a rarity, but a rarity she shared mostly with him. He saw the smile on her face more, now that she had a loom to herself which she spent hours at each morning. Thranduil was beginning to regret giving her the wooden contraption.

“King Thranduil,” she murmured, curtseying. She spied Legolas, and he saw the ease disperse from her. She bowed to him, “My lord Legolas.”

Thranduil was not surprised she knew who he was. They studied each other for a moment, before she stepped away.

“Good afternoon,” Thranduil intoned, wishing he did not feel the need to hide his tenderness for her. Gadrehal kept her eyes low, demure and on the ground, as she clutched the cloak around her body. Surprisingly, Legolas remained silent, yet his eyes were trained on her. She slipped away, keeping to the walls before quickly entering the gardens. Thranduil glanced behind him to watch as she lowered her hood, and stood with her face turned upwards towards the falling snow.

“Is that the Maghi?” Legolas asked, although he knew the answer. He also gleaned something else from the way Thranduil’s body relaxed visibly when she entered, the way his eyes softened as they gazed at her, the way he leaned towards her as she curtsied.

Yet Legolas could not believe his father would bring to bed the elf-maiden. Had she not been a slave? Did she not deserve peace? Not to be forced to lie beneath a king? Legolas felt an ire burn in his chest, even as the heat of the fire coated his legs.

“She comes to me of her own free will.” Thranduil warned, catching a glance of his son’s thoughts.

Legolas nodded curtly, before glancing out the windows. The young elf twirled in the snow, her dark hair and cloak sprinkled with powdery snow flakes. Thranduil followed his son’s gaze, and his heart gave a jolt as the sight of her simple pleasure. She played in the snow like an elf-ling, unaware and unconcerned by the thoughts of others. Her actions were concise as she ran her gloved fingers through the cold white piled on the ground. He could imagine her laughter, imagine the small smile on her chilled lips. She dusted snow off a statue, and then she was out of their line of sight.

“I only desire to help heal her, Legolas.” Thranduil knew he owed his son no explanation, yet he felt compelled to give Legolas one anyway. “She has suffered unimaginably, and it is my duty to assist her as I can.”

Legolas‘ stare was blank, “yes, Ada.” He then gave Thranduil a stiff goodbye salute, arm over his chest, fist over his heart, head bowed. Without another word, his son left.

Thranduil sighed through his nose, disappointed with the ending of the discussion with his son. Legolas had seemed pleased that Thranduil wanted him at the council, but yet...the sight of Gadrehal soured something between them. Did his son truly think he forced Gadrehal to bed with him? Did his own son think him capable of that?

He shook the thoughts from his mind. There lay a chasm between his son and him that he feared would never be breached. It lay heavily on his heart. He had given much to rule and protect his kingdom, but the loss of love from his son was the hardest to bare. He sat at his desk, and removed the crown from his forehead. It was a burden.

Thranduil ordered mulled wine, something to warm his bones, which had suddenly gone to chill. The fire did nothing to warm him, no matter how he commanded the heat to rise. Every so often, he glanced out the window, catching glimpses of Gadrehal as she frolicked, yes frolicked in the snow, pressing her face in the icy white powder. A part of it pleased him that her heart returned, giving her leave to feel such happiness in the purity of the white storm that whirled outside of their warm walls. She enjoyed the snow greatly, and having come from the North, he was not surprised.

He sipped at the wine as he read and wrote, his duties as king never too far gone. Yet when she finally returned to the warmth, her face was bright red with cold and her lips an unhealthy shade of blue as she smiled, eyes shining with intense pleasure. Her eyes roved the room, looking for guests.

“My king,” she curtsied and untied her cloak, leaving it to puddle damply by the fire.

“Gadrehal,” he nodded, his worried glance checking her face and hands. Damp droplets of melted snow hung in her hair, making it shine. She gave him a small smile as she tilted her head, studying him now. With a quick look at the door, she tentatively came to him, and put a cold hand to his face.

“My king, what ails you?” she whispered, and Thranduil closed his eyes. He should not feel this for her, it was wrong. She was not his to feel this way for. Yet he trusted her, knew even as she ached, she desired to comfort him.

Her hand stroked his face, and pushed his long, thick hair over his shoulders.

“Thranduil,” she said his name softly, yet sternly, “let me be a comfort to you as you are to me.”

He wanted to lean into her hand, and sigh, and if just for a moment, release that which burdened him. All these long years he had lived with this alone. She waited for a moment, and then another for him to speak, but he did not. Instead he let himself feel her hand on his cheek, feel her presence. He had begun to discuss, well, inform her of the letters and thoughts of his during their nightly visits. Yet it remained strictly related to the kingdom. This went beyond the kingdom, and into the king.

She did not sigh or protest, but slipped away from him, her fingers trailing his jawline. He heard the clink of glass as she poured herself a goblet of wine.

When had they become so familiar with one another? When did she become so comfort as to call him by his name? Pour herself wine? When did he come to enjoy such familarity with her?

“It is my son, Legolas.” he turned to her, and she returned to his side with a pillow in hand. She threw it on the ground, but before she could sit, he wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her to him.

Gadrehal landed on his lap, a bit ungracefully from the unexpected action. He buried his face in her hair, and took a breath. Was he about to pour his soul to her? It would be fitting, so often she had done it to him. She leaned into him, a hand balancing on his strong chest. It was only right, she thought, to be strong for him as he was for her.

Did he not hold her tightly the night he informed her of the destruction of her clan? Did he not wipe away the tears as he explained the terrors of the necromancer? The destruction of her people? He had followed her out as she ran into the woods, the frozen ground slippery beneath her feet, the icy water of the river burning her ankles as she stood in the tidal pools.

And now, he spoke gently of his son, Legolas, and the strife between them. He spoke of his anger at the horrors committed against her people and his need for revenge against this necromancer towards the north for what he had done. His words were clipped and quiet, he did not offer details, and she did not ask.

When he finally remained silent, Gadrehal lifted her head from his shoulder, and pressed her fingers into his chest. Her eyes locked with his, and she held his gaze. She did not speak, but gently put her lips on his, feeling him shudder beneath her touch. She deepened the kiss, using her tongue to glide over his lips, her body molding to his.

She shifted, to straddle him and the chair protested as she settled in his lap. His body tensed, then relaxed as she her hands wove themselves into his hair, holding his face to hers, bringing her body close to his. His hands smoothed down her shoulders and back, to rest on her waist.

His kiss slowly melted into something ferocious and full of need. He claimed her, his longer fingers pressing into her body, then slowly tracing her thighs under her dress.

“My king...” she moaned, as one hand cupped her breast, a thumb swiftly rubbing of her nipple before continuing up her neck.

“Yes?” she felt the smirk on his lips. She bit her lip and tugged at the skirt of her dress, pulling it until pooled around her waist, her legs exposed.

He hummed, one hand massaging her neck, his other running his fingers up and down her thighs, each passing teasingly going higher and higher. She kissed him with equal ferocity, her body warming and melting and her breath hitched as his hand swiftly graced the apex of her legs. She gulped at the sparks at lit inside her, her heart accelerating.

“Yes or no, Gadrehal?” Gadrehal knew what he meant, and she felt her breath gallop out of her, as she pressed a quick, hard kiss to his lips.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Chapter Text

A smile ghosted his face, and he captured her with another kiss, letting his hands caress her thighs, as she shivered beneath his touch. Her heart pounded inside her, but she felt warm and safe in his arms. With two fluid movements, her girdle was undone and tossed aside, quickly followed by her dress, as he quickly but gently moved it over her head to follow the other to the floor. He hummed in pleasure, her arms wrapping around his neck and his lips meeting hers. His hands went into her hair, pushing out the braid, letting it fall in waves down her back.

He pulled away, briefly, “Better.” His fingers danced through her hair, untangling small knots, letting it fall freely over her shoulders, her back. Her eyes shone in the firelight, her skin pale as she sat naked before him.

It was not that if he had not seen her unclothed before, but this was much different. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen from his kiss, and she was relaxed, willing. Her body radiated her arousal, her desire, and he responded in kind. He kissed her, and kissed her, letting his hands rove about her body, letting them glide over her skin, her breasts, her thighs, and every so often teasing her, letting his fingers touch her core. Which illicited a jolt and squeak that he very much enjoyed.

“Thranduil...” she murmured against his lips, pressing her body closer to his, pushing herself further into his grasp. He answered her with another kiss, sweeping his tongue into her eager mouth. He worked at the clasp of his tunic, and swept it from his shoulders. Her eyes glittered as her hands ran over his bare chest, fingers nimbly running over his smooth skin. Whereas she was littered with scars, he was not, cold and pure like marble.

Her mouth formed a small pout, her lips red as her eyes swept across him.

“Never you mind,” he whispered, his hand tangling in her hair, and gentle pulling her head back. Her eyes fluttered shut, and he lowered his mouth to her throat, kissing the hollow there, her skin hot under his touch. She mewled, and his other hand slipped up her side, passing over the bumps of scars, her body a map of sorrows which he could look over for ages, feeling each curve and valley and river.

His hand came up to cup her breast, his mouth trailing kisses across her collarbone, across her shoulders, then finally swooping downwards. She gasped, her fingers digging into his arms when he finally captured her nipple and licked it. A shudder rippled over his body, and he moved over, kissing the valley between her breasts, then taking her other nipple in his mouth. Her surprised moan of pleasure fueled in him a sense of desire he didn’t know was possible.

He almost growled, wanting desperately to be inside her.

She was beautiful, the firelight flickering over her flushed skin, her scars painting to him a portrait of strength and endurance, her thick hair falling in waves around her round face. Her breath was fast, and he felt the wetness between her legs. Yes, this was his Gadrehal. Let the desire she felt chase away the demons, let the darkness fear the light she radiated now.

Swiftly, he stood up, yet her legs wobbled as she looked up at him, confusion in her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her, while his fingers loosened the leather strings of his pants. He wanted her, and here she finally consented. He wanted to purr under her touch, her fingers tracing his face, slipping through his hair, over his chest and stomach, feathery light.

The line of his pants hung low over his hips when she gently but firmly pushed him away. His arousal was evident, as was hers. She cocked her head, eyes studying each line of muscle, the straight jaw, aquiline nose, his blonde hair messily hanging over his shoulders.

“Gadrehal, do you wish to stop?” he asked, the room suddenly too warm. Had he frightened her?

“No, I just wanted to look at you.” she murmured, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder, slide down his arm, her fingers grazing his own, before she linked their hands. She placed it over the four thick ridges along her side. Scars from bear claws. He fought down the shudder at the thought of how she came to have those.

“Could you still love a body marred such as this one?”

Thranduil lowered his head, his hand cupping her face, “You are radiant in your strength, Gadrehal, and your beauty is a rare gift the Valar let us see only once in an great age of this earth.”

She could not fight the smile that blossomed on her face, and then she tilted her head back, and let loose the most gracious sound he had ever heard. Her laugh. It was more than a tinkle of gems, but  loud and raucous, not the laugh he would have thought her to have. She shook her head, and put an embarrassed hand to her mouth, to hide the laugher. Which proved to be infectious, as soon he was laughing, although he hardly saw what was so comical in his words.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but not from sadness. From mirth. She laughed for a good while, until he finally swept her into his arms, her laughter still dancing in his ears. She buried her face into his neck, and wrapped her arms and legs around him. She was loose and fliud and happy for which there was no greater gift to him. Was this not what he wanted? Was this not why he kissed her, to bring to her happiness once more?

“Oh my king!” she giggled -giggled - “I had no idea you were secretly so soft! What flattery!” There was a twinkle in her eyes he had never seen before. Was she teasing him?

Indeed she was.

He kissed her hard, and laid her down on the pillows in front of the fireplace. It felt warm against their bare skin, as they lay pressed against one another.

“Not all of me...” he murmured, and she felt his hardness. She bit her lip, and lifted her hips, to rub against him. He held back the moan, and kissed her neck, her jaw, one hand propping him up, the other teasing her breast, his thumb swirling around her nipple, making her whimper with pleasure. He took his leisurely time, relishing the way she arched into him. There was no need to rush this. Let her drown in the pleasure, come into it slowly so she knew there was no harm here.

She grasped his face unexpectedly, and brought it to hers, her lips latching onto his and her tongue invading his mouth. She wanted and she was going to take it. Her body trembled with desire, her core warm and pooling with powerful heat. She knew arousal, but never had she felt it before. It’s intensity roared like the fire she lay in front of.

“Please...” she gasped in between kisses, “my king, please...”

Her hands held his face to hers, keeping him close to her trembling body. Her body craved to be filled, full of him. She felt his erection, felt it close to her, felt as it rubbed against her, sending sparks careening through her body, tossing her thoughts from her mind, only be placed with a white-gold pleasure. It pulsed through her body.

“Since you have asked so nicely,” he murmured, kissing her again, but his fingers trailed along her body until they reached her wet and dripping core. She was aroused, quite so.

She gasped again when his fingers touched her, applying pressure to the sensitive nub above her opening. Her eyes met his in shock, the pleasure lighting the honey-brown. As he moved his finger in a simple circle, she closed her eyes, her body shuddered, and once again she lifted her hips. It shocked him how fast, the flush reddened her cheeks, her breath growing heavy and deep, her hands grasping onto the pillows around them.

“Oh...”her body began to tense, her lips bitten between her teeth. His fingers increased in pressure and speed.

“Oh, Thranduil!” Her body convulsed, and eyes shot open, looking to his as the orgasm shook her. Her body loosened measurably, and Thranduil smiled with pride. That wasn’t long at all.

“What was that?” she breathed, her body calming, her face relaxing. He nuzzled her, kissing her neck.

“The peak of pleasure.” he mumbled against her skin, ready, more than ready to join them together. He chuckled as she sighed deeply, her body molding into the pillows.

“May I have another?” she murmured, and he chuckled softly. 

Thranduil kneeled above her, and removed his pants, and her eyes widened at the sight of him, thick and hard. She arched her back, and he saw her glistening center, the orange light playing over her skin, making her glow.

He once again lay his body over hers, and kissed her, their bodies still, only their lips moving against each other. He smiled against their kiss, one arm slipping underneath her, to hold her close to him. With a slow, deliberate movement he entered her. She groaned with his entry, and she felt warm and tight around him. She did not resist, and he let his head drop to the curve of her shoulder. Her heat quickened him, and he did not stop as he began an even rhythm. Her hands traveled up his arms, as he thrust evenly, but gentle into her.

She surprised him, her eyes remained open, and fixated on his face, their deep golden depths watching him. He kissed her, suddenly wary of the emotion that lay behind her eyes, and in fear she would see the emotion behind his. She met his thrust with raised hips, joining him in the even rhythms, before sneaking in a small twirl, rubbing her sensitive area against his pelvis. He raised an eyebrow as the flush crept up her neck and cheeks again.

Oh, yes, she was close again.

“Oh...oh...” she turned her head, closing her eyes, and her nails dug into his skin. She cried out his name as once again she hit her peak, causing him to his as well. His muscles shook as she remained above her, her hands slipping to his wrists, loosely grasping him. Her breathing was harsh, and her body glistened beneath him.

“Gadrehal,” he murmured, lowering himself, their bodies still entwined. His lips pressed against her neck, and he felt her fast pulse. She did not answer, but wrapped her arms around him, bringing him closer. A part of him warned him to move, to leave, to dress himself and return to his private chambers, but he remained immobile, relishing her skin against his, her heat, the cradle of her hips, the breath in his hair. Her fingers traced absent patterns against his back, eyes closed, breathing beginning to even.

For the first time in ages, he fell asleep in the arms of another, naked on the floor, in front of a dying fire.

Chapter Text

When Gadrehal awoke, the fire was mere stubborn embers, glowing among the coals. She was alone in the study, with the gray dawn peeking through the windows. Pillows were cushioned around her, and a blanket was tucked over her naked form. Her dress was folded neatly on the settee, her girdle still pooled on the floor. She was not surprised to see that she was alone, neither was she disappointed.

Her body felt sore, but in a secret way, in her hips and her breasts. She was glad for the moment to herself, to mull over her newest...interaction with the king. They had promptly fallen asleep the evening before, wrapped loosely in each other, warm from the fire and their activity. She almost laughed to herself in the quiet of the early morning, but only rolled over onto her back.

The thick carpet was soft but scratchy against her skin, and her hair was wild about the pillows. She...had not expected to feel what she felt when he bedded her. When she first kissed the king, true, she knew this sort of...of...the natural progression eventually lead to something of this kind. But to feel so deeply about it, to revel in the heat of his passion, or that indeed, he had any passion at all was wholly unexpected!

But a pleasure all the same. To find tenderness and heat hidden by such an icy demeanor. Gadrehal was uncertain of what she had stumbled into, only that she wished to stumble into it again.

With a long stretch, her arms reaching above her head, her body unwound. Quickly she slipped into her dress rekindled the fire, tidied the room and left for her chambers to bathe in little under a few moments. She had no intentions of being caught by a guard or servant naked in the king’s study. Gadrehal full well knew of the talk that had already begun to circulate. She did not desire to add fuel to that rumor.

The halls were empty, clear of any soul about, and the white light reflected off the pearly snow. It lit her rooms brightly, but did not warm them. She felt the chill of winter sun, and shivered. Silently, she wished to be back in the study, wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire, alone with the king, her king. She need not worry about the cold then.

Her bath was warm but quick, and dressing in a thick, green and gold gown of cloth she wove herself, she left her chambers in search of food. She was ravishing. Her thoughts wondered back and forth, dancing between Thranduil and her loom. In many ways, she found her thoughts often too preoccupied to think of her past. Sometimes, she forced her mind to think of that which she lost, and guilt flooded her veins, knowing that she lived when so many did not. But yet...she lived. And she knew, in her heart, as much as it pained her so, that to live a life of grief dishonored them more than to go on.

“Good morning, Master Dwarf,” she curtsied at the red haired dwarf as she came upon him, mingling about a hallway. He looked briefly startled, bushy brows lowering over his ale-brown eyes.

“Morning to you, lady,” he seemed wary, fingers absentmindedly touching a throwing awe at his belt.

“May I be of assistance, master...?”

“Gimili, my lady.” he replied, his voice gruff and a little raspy around the edges. “And it seems these damned halls have me turned about again. I am looking for the food halls.”

Gadrehal gave him a small, tight lipped smile, “I understand this. For these halls turn me about still after many months.”

He still seemed a bit off center, body stiff with apprehension. She looked over his sturdy, square form, no helmet, but wearing his leather breast plate, beads in his red beard.

“I see you bare the emblem of King Thorin, of Erebor.” she titled her head, “are you his kinsman?”

“Only very distantly, my lady,” Gimili answered, hand going to the emblem imprinted in the leather, “do you know of the king under the mountain?”

Here, Gadrehal did smile, “I do indeed, Master Gimili, I count him among the few that are my friends.”

Suddenly, dawning crossed over the rough features of the dwarf’s face, and he laughed, uproariously, “You must be the Lady Gadrehal! The maghi whom he speaks so fondly of!”

Gadrehal curtsied once again, and bowed her head, “It is I, Master Gimili. It is a pleasure to meet one of his kinsman.”

Gimili bowed, “It is I, lady, who am honored to meet one as brave as you.” Gadrehal shifted. Always, always this was how she was to be known. As the one who survived, who lived, who suffered. She was not brave for what she did. She was a coward, remaining still and silent while others suffered. How did they not see that?

“Come, let us find us something to break our fast.” she wanted to change the subject, and started, barefoot, down the hall, towards the dining chambers. Hopefully it was still early enough that they would be alone, and not a feast for the gossiping eyes of the Woodland folk.

Gimili chatted eagerly to her, as it seemed, not many were very friendly to him here. Most Elves avoided him altogether, and she surprised him dearly by her kind words. But he should have guessed she was Maghi, who were friends to all but orcs and goblins.

The hall was deserted, only a few guards and scouts hovering over bowls of porridge and fruit. Gadrehal took a seat across from the dwarf, her eyes devouring her fresh fruit with a hunger that gnawed at her.

“Gimili! I did not see you at practice this morning!” the tall blonde haired Elf strode through the room with purpose, his arm raised as he hailed his friend.

“Bah! I had better things to do, princeling, than to watch you stuff arrows into hay bales!” Gimili roared back, he thumped his axe on the table, making Gadrehal start and jump. Her eyes flickered between the dwarf and the elf she recognized from the king’s chambers yesterday.

He stopped before them, and the smile on his face vanished as he gazed at her. With his blazing blue eyes still on her, Legolas responded, “You became lost again, I take it?”

Gimili grumbled something low, taking a swig of his morning brew, ignoring his friend. Gadrehal finally came to her senses, and stood up, only to quickly curtsy before the son and heir to King Thranduil, “Good morning, my lord.”

Gimili waved a thick hand at her, “Don’t bother, lass.”

“You may stand Gadrehal,” Legolas stared at the elf before him, tiny and dark haired like the Maghi. She did not meet his eye, and whether that be from his father’s doing or not, he felt anger. He had heard her story, in fact, made it his purpose to discover it after leaving his father’s chambers. What he learned burned his heart. She stood before him, still and bowed, but unbroken. Such evil in this world made his stomach churn. Did they destroy the Ring for naught? Only to have such black leak into Middle Earth once more? It seemed so.

“You need not bow before me as you do my father.” he sat next to Gimili, “I am not one to stand on ceremony.”

She sat, warily, glancing at the two across from her, and then to the guards who watched them, and who would no doubt report back to Thranduil.

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, picking at the grapes in her dish. She suddenly wanted to leave, the lightness in her heart overshadowed now. Gadrehal felt his eyes on her, taking in every detail, her flushed face, her downcast eyes. The only one to look at her with such intensity was somewhere in Erebor and the other somewhere in this palace. She did not like his scrutiny.

“Have you enjoyed your stay here, Lady Gadrehal?” Legolas’ voice broke through to her, stopping her slide into her cave.

“Very much so,” she replied softly, hoping she did not flush red as she thought of last evening, Thranduil’s body pressed so closely to hers. She ate a grape, trying to pry her mind into working. Her breath felt like ash in her lungs. Why was she feeling such panic over nothing? It was just a princeling. But yet her brain felt sluggish, and all she could think was to flee. Flee from his gaze, from the questions that lurked in his eyes.

“Gadrehal,” his voice was sharp, “You need not bow to my father.”

Her head snapped up, and she met his gaze. Pity. That is what she saw there. Pity. She was not some lost cur, she did not need his pity or his sympathy. The panic dulled from her anger. How dare he assume that his father act like Samhi? That his father, a king, was no better than a slaver from the east. She did what she did of her own free will, it was her own choice. How dare he look at her in that way, like she - she was some creature, coasting along with the tide.

“My lord,” she felt her arms quiver, and her soul opened wide, sucking in the anger and the resentment and the bitterness, she was grown was she not? She made her own decisions, and she did not need this princeling - who abandoned his father - to speak to her of things he knew nothing of. “It would please me greatly if you did not speak of which you know nothing of.” She seethed, and straightened, her head held high. The panic was lingering, scrambling to grasp her spine and crawl into her mind, blind her, control her. There was no stemming it, was there?

But Legolas...his pity. She did not want anyone’s pity. She did not hear the scathing reply Gimili made as he clapped his friend on the shoulder.

Her feet were fleet, as she returned to her chambers only to grab a cloak, and she was pleased, somewhere inside herself that she did so. Because as she followed her body, letting her legs lead her, she slipped out of the realm, and into the forest with her breath puffing white in front of her.

Chapter Text

Legolas stood in front of his father, who sat in his throne, peering down at his son with a badly hidden scowl. Candles flickered in their sconces, making the shadows dance across the cold stone throne and its king. His staff was perched next to him, and Thranduil’s hands were steepled together in front of smooth face. They were alone.

“Do you wish to speak?” Thranduil finally asked, his eyes were hard, and the last time he looked at his son as he did now was ages past when he broke the king’s favorite bow. He had been a mere elfling then. Legolas remained silent, glaring at his father, who returned the glare. His father personally rode after the elf, who had wandered into the snowy forest in her anger. It was only a short time later he returned with the sullen elf-maiden, who he sent to the healer, Illyria. It was only after Thranduil had been reassured several times did he call for his son.

“What lies between you both?” Legolas was stiff, arms at his sides. Thranduil blinked, then arched an eyebrow, studying his son intensely. He uncrossed his legs, but did not stand.

“What makes you think Legolas I owe you an explanation, when indeed, it is you who needs to explain to me on how you upset Gadrehal?” His voice was level but the storm in his eyes betrayed his anger.

“You should not treat her as you do!” Legolas spat back, irritated with his father, with the games he played.

“And how, pray tell, do you know how I treat her?”

“She is your servant.” Legolas seethed, and rashly wished he could do more to make his father understand, understand why she needed more. To only have her escape slavery to find herself trapped here.

“She is no servant, Legolas.” His father’s gaze swept across the throne room, bouncing over his son, lingering on each doorway. “She is...a companion.”

Legolas had no response. His father did not look as if he had much else to say.

“what did you say to her?” Thranduil prompted, intrigued by his words.

He had never seen Gadrehal angry before. When he found her, sitting by the river, her brows were low over her eyes. She threw pebbles beyond the icy fringes, into the frothy current. She was quite displeased with his son, and after some cajoling, she admitted to her anger with him. With his pity, with his belief he knew better than she for how she should be treated. Or worse, to be wary of him. She scoffed at such a thought. To be wary of her king was absurd!

“I told the Lady Gadrehal she had no need to bow to you. To your whims. And desires.”

Thranduil nodded once, eyes still focused on his son. This is what his son thought of him? His heart burned with such a sting.

“You are dismissed, Legolas.” Thranduil did not bother with veiling pleasantries. He had other matters with which to attend. Legolas was not privy to such, nor did it seem he wanted to be.

Legolas gave a stiff bow, and left without another word. As Legolas prowled back to his quarters, his mood was black and dark. His father’s pride was too much a weight for him to bare, and he desired more than ever to leave the Woodland realm once more. Flee to Fangorn or the Blue mountains, even Thorin was not as stubborn as his own father. The relationship between him and the Maghi elf was strange, and he wished to know why. Why his father felt so strongly? And companion? His father had no companions, only servants and advisers he never listened to.

As Legolas quickly rounded the corner, he slammed into something. And when he looked down he saw the shocked eyes of the Maghi, as she sprawled on the ground. “My Lord Legolas,” she grumbled, quickly getting to her feet.

She looked well, if her hair was a bit damp from a bath and feet bare even in the chill of the hallway. He gave her a terse bow of his head,

“Lady Gadrehal, my most sincere apologies, I did not see you.”

he looked her over once again, eyes lingering on the white scare on her hairline.  She did not respond to him, but took a small step backwards.

“You look well. You are not cold?” Legolas forced himself to be calm, to relax himself so he did not look as frustrated as he felt inside. 

Her eyes hardened, jaw clenching and Legolas realized with some shock she did not like him.

“The cold does not bother me much, my lord.” She held no smile for him, her body stiff and uncomfortable.

“Have I offended you in some way, my lady?” Legolas was not one for games. She was small, now that they stood so close.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered tersely, “I do not need your pity, no matter how well meaning you think it is. Nor do I need you meddling between Thranduil and I, it is my choice. I am sane enough to know...” she lost her bluster, and suddenly her face flushed.

Her eyes met with Legolas’ and she stood a little straighter. “I would thank you kindly, my lord Legolas, if you let us be.” Gadrehal’s eyes flashed angrily, “I am content with the choices I make.”

She gave him a quick curtsy before hurrying on her way, braid thumping against her back, movements precise. Legolas blinked.

Could it be? Was she...did she...was she more than a companion? Legolas felt his heart drop inside his chest. Did she love his father? But now, it remained to be seen, if his father reciprocated such an emotion. He did not think it possible...but something was off from the beginning.

Legolas turned, and headed for the throne room, dismissal or not, their was one last thing he needed to say to his father. The guards did not block him as she pushed open the door to the throne room. Thranduil sat on his throne, leaning forward as he spoke with the captain of the guard. He barely looked up at his son as Legolas entered. Thranduil nodded at something the captain said, and then sat back, nodding again. He waved his hand, and with a backwards glance, the captain left quietly.

“Ada,” Legolas began but at the cool look from his father, he forestalled his question. His father knew what Legolas wished to ask, and knew how she felt. Of course he knew.

“I have no plans to hurt her, if that is what you are so concerned about, Legolas.” Thranduil anticipated the question, “Now I have a meeting of councils, unless you wish to attend, I believe it would be best if you be on your way.”

Legolas could barely believe the pompousness of his father, but after all these years, he was not surprised. He bowed, and he felt more at ease since his discovery of the Maghi. His father did care, indeed, maybe even love the young maiden in some way. Maybe their was hope in the world yet.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal sat curled on her pillows, legs tucked underneath her, head bent towards the fire, hair unbound. Her eyes flew over the page she carefully held in her hands, two more pages lay on her lap.

Thranduil glanced at her once or twice, otherwise his quill rushed over his blank parchment as he wrote yet another missive to Lord Turin. Turin’s concerns grew weekly with the advent of orcs, Urak-hai, and goblins, the threat of the Necromancer all too real to him now. He called for aid frequently, and only Elrond had answered. But Thranduil was not interested in the worries of the Lord Turin, when his worries came from the desire to fend off attacks for his own kingdom. As much as Thranduil wanted revenge for the Maghi, his desire for revenge ended there.

“My king?” her voice called him from his writing, and he glanced up. He had left his robes on the settee again, and his crown lay vacant as well. A goblet of wine stood guard by his ink well, and the fire warmed his face. She held the papers in her hands, her face bright, “I have found the discrepancy in the inventory.”

“Show me.”

She stood swiftly, and placed the three sheets before him, the detailed lists spread before him like tribute. She picked up the quill, and pointed to the barrels of wine.

“These three barrels were written in here,” she lifted the quill and made a point on the third sheet, “when they should be added to this grouping.”

She leaned away, her eyes twinkling with pride. “So no wine is missing, only misplaced, my king.” She smiled, and linked her hands. She nodded, and curtsied, earning a chuckle from hm. Her hair glinted in the light, and she seemed pleased.

Thranduil nodded. “Thank you, Gadrehal.” he murmured, looking at her.

“Come,” he slipped his hand into hers, and pulled her into his lap. He took the quill, and fixed the wrong numbers, one arm deftly wrapping around her waist. She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder. He continued to write, her warmth settling into him, her breath even. He felt the exhaustion in her bones. This was nothing new to him. Whenever she felt the madness, whenever she heard its call and answered, she was always weak afterwards.

“My king,” she whispered, the yawn in her voice audible, “I ask to retire.”

Thranduil nodded, and removed his arm, “You may go.”

She stood sleepily, and bowed her head, “Thank you, my king.”

He watched her go, watched her silently slip away out the door and into the nighttime quiet.

~~~

Gadrehal shot up out of bed, her breath ragged and harsh in her throat. Her lungs burned, her body shook and her skin stung. She gathered the king’s robes to her body, holding them close to her chest as she trembled.

A nightmare, a frightful one at that. It had been some time since she had one, but tonight it was particularly violent.

She heard no noise in the corridor, but the sound of her scream seemed to echo in the vacant room. Her bed coverings were rumpled. The dark was cold around her, and with shaking fingers, she lit a candle. The tiny flame flickered, growing smaller then larger in the draft. Her heart would not slow, and she knew there was no escape from this place. The doors of the realm were shut, and there was no solace to be found in the river this night.

She wrapped the robes around her shoulders, and opened her own door to the darkness. It lay dormant, smooth and inky. No torches were lit, no guards patrolled here. It was only silence she stepped into, her feet bare, and hair disorderly. Gadrehal took a deep breath, feeling it quiver down into her body. The lingering veins of fear still drifted through her, and she felt the chasm opening in her.

The nightmare. Of Samhi. He found her after the bear pits, her body mangling by the jagged claws. She only survived because her brother...she did not remember. The pain had blinded her. But Samhi took her anyway. He saw she was of good stock. Hearty. He wanted to sell her to the Necromancer. But the Necromancer had denied him that. The man in the black hood said she was tainted, that she was too full of darkness for her to be of any use. For only the pure of heart can be twisted into pure evil. Faces flashed through her mind as she wandered the halls, her hands shaking.

She tiptoed around, her feet sinking into the plush carpets. She tried to focus her mind on his face, focus her mind on the sound of his smooth voice. His touch, his kiss, his heat and passion and cold pride. When she found the study, she peered into it, but not even the fire burned. The embers were dark and cold.

How could she find him? Her pulse accelerated. Was she really to do this? To find his chambers, join him, in a place she had never been? But...she needed him. Needed his anchor to keep her from falling, falling into the pit. The darkness she walked through was nothing to the darkness in her.

She turned in a circle, and she fought with her heart. She fought against the tide as it lapped with her, her heart, it called for Thranduil and she squeezed her eyes shut. She did not...she did not....she craved him so. After her night with him, but yet even before then, she felt it. She felt his light in her, and her soul called out for it. Thranduil was her peace.

She hurried her pace, and wrapped in his thick robes, she silently moved towards his chambers. Surprisingly, no guards were posted down this hallway. The chill air swept through, dancing along her feet and legs, she clutched the robes more tightly. And she paused briefly before the doors. They were massive and grandiose, and fit the king perfectly.

She waited, unsure. He cared...but how deeply? Would he approve of her here? One hand grasped the candle, and slowly, she rapped on the door. It made a hollow sound, but soft, and did not echo. There was no moonlight now. Only darkness. A soft groan was her response, and taking her fate into her hands, she slipped into the room.

Her candle flickered dangerously again, and barely lit the wide, tall room she found herself in. A deeper shadow lay in front of her, not canopied but thick and dark.

“Aren’t you the presumptuous one?” Thranduil murmured, drowsily, from the dark bed. He moved, shifted, she heard his body move against silk sheets, blankets moving.

“My...my king,” she rasped, fighting the chasm in her.

“come, Gadrehal,” he whispered, and she nearly collapsed. She blew out the candle, and dropped it.

“King Thranduil,” she crawled into the bed, trying to crunch away the fear. She needed to feel the taste of his name of her lips. She felt his arms as they wrapped around her, pulling her in. His body was warm, hard, smooth. Gadrehal felt his naked skin press against her. She buried her face in his chest, smelling him, letting just his presence bring her back.

“I...I...” she pushed closer to him, “a nightmare, my king.” He did not reply, but his hands ran up and down her back, brushing her hair off her shoulders.

“By rights, I should be cross with you, my dear Gadrehal,” he traced his nose down her cheek, before planting a kiss on her jaw.

Gadrehal shivered.

“Yes, my king, but you won’t,” she responded, letting her hands trail down his chest. Was this wrong? To love a king and yet use him?

‘Oh?” he grunted, her hands brushed against his erection, and he knew she was right. He wasn’t going to be cross with her. Although, she had surprised him. He knew was she needed, or rather, wanted. A part of him rejected it, but a part of him knew he wanted it as well.

He pushed the robe off her shoulders, and then rolled them over, so he lay on his back, she straddling him. Her hands came up to steady herself, planting on his chest.

“My lady...” he cooed, fingers trailing up her side, slipping over her breast, then her neck. She tilted back her head, quivering for a different reason now. Sitting up, Thranduil locked their lips together, while he took off the white shift she wore. Her now naked body pressed against his, and she felt cold, her flesh bumpy beneath his wandering hands.

He left her lips to kiss her neck, her hips beginning to grind against his. She moaned, softly, under her breath, her hands grasping at his shoulders as she rubbed her core against him, it was warm and wet, and he gritted his teeth.

What did she do to him, this Maghi?

He lay back down, and she followed, her hair falling around them, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his wrists to his hands, where she entwined their fingers.

“My king...” she kissed his neck, sucking, biting gently. He moaned, squeezing her fingers back. She pressed down on him with her hips, sighing contentedly. Oh, his body fit into all her cracks. Filled all the empty spaces.

She kissed his lips again, and lifted her hips so he could enter her. He filled her, and she closed her eyes against the sensation.

She sat up, only to thrust down on him. He grunted, and tilted his head back, trying to rein himself in. It would not do for a king to loose total control.

Thranduil reached out, and brushed a hand against her cheek. She began to rock against him, and his hands cradled her breasts. She arched into his touch, and his thumbs grazed her nipples. Her body clenched around him, and he bucked into her, needing her warmth as much as she needed his.

As he toyed with her breasts, smirking at the soft sounds of enjoyment, she rocked faster, relishing the delicious way her body began to tense, a sensation of warmth and pressure building within her, starting at her hips. It coiled in her stomach, growing there. Her breath was fast, loud, and Thranduil could feel her body tightening around him where they were joined.

Her pleasure gladdened him. He reveled in it, and he removed one hand to place a finger into her folds, finding her sensitive spot. She cried out, and she needed to steady herself on his chest as he began to slowing move his finger in a cirle.

“Oh, Thranduil!” she gasped, riding him harder, his hips moving upwards to meet her. He felt the pressure build, in himself and in her. She placed on hand over his on her breast, keeping him steady, keeping them both on the path. Her nails dug into his chest, and her pace increased slightly, his fingers moved faster.

She orgasmed with jolt and a cry, her voice hitching. Her body growing softer, and with one final thrust, Thranduil followed suit. She panted, and collapsed heavily onto him, her cheek resting against his collar bone. How small, how gentle. His breath was heavy, and his arms held her close.

They were silent, warm, and content. He sighed, and brushed her hair away, letting it slip through his fingers. It was dangerous what he felt for her. But at the moment, he did not care.

Chapter Text

Legolas walked into the study a week later, outfitted in a simple green tunic and hose. He left his weapons in his quarters, knowing that Gadrehal felt nervous around the blades and bow. He carried with him a list for travel provisions. They were to leave soon to the coucil held in Erebor, and Thranduil kept Legolas busy with preparations and that ilk. Thranduil mumbled something about the ineptitude of Dwarven hospitality, and sent Legolas on his way.

Both Gadrehal and his father looked up as he entered. A small tablet loom sat on her lap, and her fingers immediately began to work the strands again when she saw him. Her eyes darkening, and her hands flying over the small cloth with precision and dexterity. It truly was amazing to witness, her skill surpassing any in the Woodland realm. Already, traders from Dale snuck in small, badly hidden requests for the cloth she produced.

Thranduil watched him watch Gadrehal for moment. His son had made no further mention of the Maghi since their...incident prior to this. Thranduil was content to leave his son be, Legolas had been...most pleasant since and Thranduil saw no need to disturb the sudden peace that sprung between them. With a sharp turn, Legolas placed a pile of parchment on his desk.

“We have only to saddle the horses, and we are ready to leave.”

The spry fingers slowed, infinitesimally. She took care as she braided two slim threads together, the gold glinting between her nimble hands. Thranduil skimmed the pages in front of him, nodding in agreement.

“We need two more barrels of mead.” Thranduil handed one piece back, “It can be used as a bargaining price with Erebor.”

“Yes, Ada.”

“Is the dwarf counted among my retinue?” Thranduil scanned another sheet, brows furrowed. Legolas bit back the sigh. “He should not be.” Some things never changed with his father. “He needs to be counted in the party.”

Legolas pushed back the list with the names of each guard, bowman, bannerman, and scout. Thranduil did not respond.

“He will ride with me, Ada.” Again, no response as the king’s eyes poured over the lists of provisions, horses, elves, and miscellaneous items.

Legolas glanced over to Gadrehal, her head tilted to the side. Her dress matched the silver and red robes of his father. He caught her yester morning sneeking away from the royal bedchamber, one of his father’s long outer robes, blue and silver and cream draped around her shoulders. Her hair was slightly disheveled, but her face glowed. The guards remained silent as she passed, head bowed, but not in shame. Legolas briefly saw a flushed smile on her lips as she passed. She walked deftly, and knew her way well. It was not her first time then.

Her fingers danced along the small loom, moving the cloth upwards, as she continued her steady work. Yet she was not as quick as before, her attention now divided. Between the loom and her king. Had she not known of the council? Although her eyes were not on them, Legolas knew she watched them.

“If you think I will sleep in the drafty stone halls of Erebor, you are mistaken.” Thranduil passed another sheet to his son.

“I will ask that a tent be sent before us.” Legolas responded, “It would not do well to hinder our speed with unnecessary baggage.”

Thranduil nodded his consent, pleased with his son’s fore-thought.

“Send it up river and then on a barge to Dale.”

“Yes, Ada.”

And with that, Thranduil returned back to his work, his attention no longer on his son. Legolas nodded, and bowed. He glanced once more at Gadrehal, who returned to her usual pace, her eyes lidded and brows lowered. Her mouth was a thin line set on her smooth face. Legolas saw the thoughts bounce about her mind. It seemed the only one privy to her soul was his father, and Legolas knew it was best to leave, and let them speak to whatever it was dwelled inside her.

Her eyes flickered to his, and they were as stony and speechless as ever. Legolas sighed outside the door, and paced away quickly. He wondered, briefly, if they would ever admit to what lay in their hearts to one another.

Thranduil kept his hand steady, his quill quickening over the blank parchment. Another contract between two merchants that wished to pledge their elflings together. A smithy and a healer. Thranduil saw the benefit of such a bonding, and wished them well.

“Do you have something to say, Gadrehal?” he asked, not glancing at her, even though he felt her unease, heard her shift restlessly in that still way she did. Her eyes were on him, and he knew the storm coming.

A little wind in the trees never made the forest fear.

“Where are you going, my king?” The question was innocent enough, but he detected the underlying anxiety in her words. He feared she would not take it well, his absence.

“To Erebor.” He heard her perk up, his hand flourished with his seal at the bottom of the contract. He knew she wrote to Thorin, frequently. More frequently than he would like but she enjoyed his letters. And he could not deny her that small moment of pleasure.

Although he made certain to give her better ones.

“To meet with King Thorin?” she stopped her hands over the loom, and moved around to face him.

“Yes.”

She paused, and bit her lip in thought. The boundaries between them were severely blurred now. Her nights spent in his bed chamber, wrapped in his arms. Her evenings either weaving or playing the harp, sometimes assisting him with matters of state, in his study. Her days were at her loom, although she broke her fast with Gimili, and then dined later privately with the king. She did not know her place with him any longer.

Thranduil glanced at her, and saw her deep in thought. She was debating in her mind, he saw that.

“What for, my king?” Ah, she knew how to coddle him. He could no longer sense where her question lie: from fear or from curiosity for curiosity’s sake.

“A war council.” he answered tersely.

She chewed this over, her body stilling, her hands pressing into the unfinished green and gold fabric she worked upon. It shimmered, the strands catching and holding the light in such a way only she could create. Her eyes refused to meet his. Her finger absentmindedly plucked at a strand, marring the perfect cloth.

“May I attend?” she finally asked, eyes downcast in submission.

Thranduil knew she would want to join. If not for her fear of his absence, but for her desire to see Thorin. But, it seemed, it was neither of these at this moment. There was something else.

“We shall decide if we make war on the Necromancer, Gadrehal.” he explained, his voice losing the edge it usually contained. She barely survived the first council, how would she bare under this weight? When the scouts gave reports of the dead, the sorry state of refugees, the horrors of the orc-raids and camps of Urak-hai using elven slaves, how would she listen without cracking? “This is no place for you.”

She barely moved, but he knew. He knew she was not pleased with his answer. She could be as displeased as she wanted, it made no difference to him. He would not see her there.

“You disagree.” It was not a question.

She took a moment before responding, but she lifted her head, defiantly. This was a first. 

“Yes, my king.” she straighened her shoulders, “such a war is done in defense of my people, and I see it fit to attend on their behalf.”

“That is admirable,” he responded, but remained unmoved, “but you are not attending. You will remain here.”

“My king,” she stood up, the loom falling to the pillows with a soft sound that they both ignored it.

She had never actively defied him before, or disagreed with him. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Where was the quiet elf in the corner, content to be unseen and unheard? She rebelled against the flood in her chest, with the voice in her mind that told her to sit and stay quiet. But she knew...knew deep in her heart that Thranduil may grow cross, but he would never hurt her. She lay safe in his arms for nights now, felt his warmth, drowned in the light he brought to her aching, bleeding soul.

“I must go. It is I who was wronged by these slavers, it was my people brought low by the necromancer, and I should have say.”

She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, and took a deep breath that did not settle her. Thranduil remained silent, jaw tensing with the ire he felt. Defiance was not a trait he took well to, not in his son, not in his bowmen, and most certainly not in his lover.

“No, Gadrehal,” he bit out, his calm demeanor fracturing. She did not raise her voice, she did not weep although he sensed she fought to keep the tears at bay. It was difficult for her to reject his verdict as it was for him to keep his anger out of his voice.

“You cannot keep me here.” she replied, her lips pursed as she tried to keep calm. He did not know if it was panic or anger or sadness. She fought to keep herself together, here, in his study. How could she survive a council such as the one he would attend?

“You forget your place, Gadrehal,” he rose menacingly from his desk, hands planted firmly on the pages beneath him, eyes dark and stormy. “As a denizen of this realm, you obey me in all things.”

She lifted her chin. “You cannot deny my involvement in this! For if it was not for me, you would not be having such a council, King Thranduil!”

“My verdict is final, Gadrehal.” he seethed, standing to his full, impressive height. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

She squared herself, but did not respond. Her nose wrinkled, and a tear slipped out of her eyes.

“My answer is no, Gadrehal.” he said again with finality. “And if you see fit to argue with me, you may leave.”

And with a dismissive wave, he sat down and refused to look at her. She stood, still and silent, fighting the tears and the anger quaking through her. She wanted to scream, for this was worse than her nightmares. To be denied, to be sent away like a child, forgotten, to be told she could not have say in a war that would course through her lands, and possibly take away the love she held dear.

She slipped out of his study, not caring for the streaks of tears that ran down her face. It broke her heart that in anger, in fear, in distress, it was to tears her body fell to. Once she had been strong, and now she was the broken body of someone who had endured. Was sorrow to forever share her bed?

Her fists were clenched at her sides as she strode angrily and stiffly towards the main gates. She needed the stars and the sky and the cool night air, she needed the wind to sweep away this anger, she needed the river to cleanse her. For even as the threat of madness passed, to be caged for too long heated her soul with the threat of dark flames. She could not, would not, remain in this realm for another moment until she could cool that anger, fill that chasm with swift icy river water.

But as she reached the gates, she saw that more guards stood watch. Baedral was one, and he stepped forward to meet her. He bowed low.

“Good evening, my lady.” his tone was one of respect. The other guards bowed their heads to her.

Confused she stepped backwards, looking towards the night sky, the twinkling stars. They beckoned to her. How had she once refused their call? “I wish to walk in the forest.” she said, knowing that her voice wavered.

Two of the guards glanced at each other, and Baedral’s face was one of concern.

“The king has ordered that you shall not leave.” he explained, his voice quiet.

Gadrehal stiffened, her body jolting as if with a shock. Her anger resurfaced, and swirled in her body. The urge to scream boiled within her. With her heart racing in her chest, she nodded and thanked Baedral, before turning on her heel and leaving.

Her dress swished around her legs, sweeping the floor around her. She did not know where to go. She felt trapped, caged, alone. With her taste of freedom, these rages in her were new and frightening. She wanted to lash out, and it frightened her that she could feel such anger.

How dare he deny her? Deny her the council. Deny her the wide open space of the forest and stars. How dare he.

But should she be surprised? He was cold. He was a king. He desired obedience, and she had freely given it. She had never refused him, never pushed him before. But this...this was more important than obedience, then blind servitude. He had never treated her as such before, as a servant.

She shook her head, and turned in a circle. She did not know where she was, but faintly, she heard a dull thumping sound. She followed the noise, only to discover Gimili throwing small axes at a tree stump.

“My lord Gimili,” she called out from a balcony separating them. He looked up at her, and his gruff face smiled.

“My lady Gadrehal!” he picked up an axe and walked over to her, he bowed, but then his eyes peered at her.

“My lady, you seem distraught. What did the princeling do now?”

Gadrehal took a deep breath, and then let out a deeper sigh. Where to begin? A letter to Thorin would not help, but Gimili...was he the right one to speak to? She had relied too much on Thranduil, and now that he had dismissed her, who did she speak to when her darkness called? And such a shadow it was that reared itself in her this night.

“My lord...it is the king,” she began, then paused. Was it right at all to speak of the king in such a manner?

Gimili chuckled, “if you have come to speak ill of the king, my lady, you speak to the right dwarf.” he shook his head, “we harbor no love between one another.”

Gadrehal gave Gimili a weak smile, “That is not hard to discern, master Gimili.”

Gimili laughed heartily, and sat down on a bench, patting the spot next to him, “truer words have not been spoken.”

Gadrehal took a seat, and folded her shaking hands in her lap. It was not, she supposed. She took a deep breath, and spoke quietly, explaining to the red haired dwarf her altercation with the king, and her distress at such heated emotions she felt.

Gimili nodded, listening carefully as she spoke.

“Now, lass,” he began, mulling over her words. “Are ya sure you want to go to this council? Your horrors are enough to bare, do you wish to burden yourself with the horrors of the rest?”

She met his eyes clearly, face strong and calm, “I shall bare the horrors of my people whether I attend or not. The time for cowardice has past, although my people were of peace and diligent work, it is time for me to be the warrior they need. I will not stand idly by, while others make choices for us.” her back was rigid, and a strange light was in her eye, “I will not wait here for verdict of war or not, I will not remain silent any longer in this. I was weak and scarred, but I have endured, Gimili, and for what purpose, but for this?”

Her fingers clutched at her dress, twisting the soft cloth, and she let out a deep breath. Her fire was slowly growing cold, but she was determined. She had once been determined to survive, now she was determined to live. And no longer would she be silent. She had been silent for too long. Thranduil showed her light, and with that light she dispelled her darkness. This council was important to her, for reasons she knew now. Thranduil taught her desire and strength, and with his kindness imbued that within her. She would not stand by, and let him fix all. She too must be strong, she too must act now for her people, to let them be abandoned any longer.

Gimili looked at her, and saw her, saw as she glowed with the heat of her anger. And her desire. Her desire to live, to do more than survive, desire to breathe life back into the world again.

“At times, Elves surprise me, my lady, and you most of all.” She looked at him, her eyebrow raised in question, and Gimili clearly saw the influence Thranduil held on her.

“Thorin spoke of you as meek and mild, in need of care and protection. But here I see a flame in you. Welcome back, lady Gadrehal.”

She blushed and bowed her head. “Thank you, Gimili,” but then she frowned and looked behind her, back into the inner sanctum of the realm, where Thranduil now reside, alone.

“Good evening, Lady Gadrehal.” Legolas stepped forward from across the practice yard, and bowed his head. Gimili watched as she became stone, her eyes flat and empty as she looked at him.

“Good evening, Lord Legolas,” she responded evenly, looking directly at him, her chin raised slightly.

“I beg your leave, but I heard of the...quarrel with the king.”

She did not respond, and Gimili sighed audibly from his friend’s stupidity. The way to her affection was not through ease dropping. She only glared.

“I believe you should attend Erebor’s council.” he started, and she raised an eyebrow skeptically. Oh, so much Thranduil in her.

“And I ask that you allow me to speak to my father on your behalf.” She relaxed somewhat, and her eyes flickered over to Gimili, who watched the exchange with glee.

“Why, my lord?” she asked hesitantly.

“You deserve to attend the council as much as any of us.” Legolas sighed, “I see this, and I ask that you let me make my father see this as well.”

She shifted uneasily, “That is most kind of you.” she shrugged, “If you wish to speak to him, I will not stop you.”

It was all she said, but she cocked her head, studying him. She was surprised, but did not wish him to see it.

Legolas nodded again, knowing he was not going to receive much more than that from her. He quickly made his way to his father’s study, and knew he was going to be in a foul mood. An altercation with Gadrehal was bound to leave him anything but pleased. He knocked, and only received a grunt in reply.

Joy.

He stepped in, and bowed his head. It was best to try to gain a good standing first, before starting whatever argument about Gadrehal that would ensue. Legolas smoothed the papers down, which dictated the caravan of goods. This should please him somewhat.

“If you have come here on Gadrehal’s behalf, my decision has not altered.”

And there went that plan.

“Ada, I believe she should travel to Erebor.” Legolas saw no other option than to dive in. His father saw his purpose, there was no other way than to just be out with it.

“Have you suddenly become her chivalrous champion?” his father all but snarled.

Legolas bristled, exhausted with his father and his cold shell. He obviously felt for Gadrehal, why the charade?

“No, Ada,” Legolas took a step futher into the study, “that is your place. I speak on her behalf because you will not listen to her.”

Thranduil’s head shot up, and he glared dangerously at his son, but said nothing.

“You know as well as I that she belongs there, and has rights to speak her part. These are her people, we cannot speak for them as she can.” Legolas kept speaking, “And even as king, you cannot deny her that.”

“I deny her nothing but pain,” Thranduil spat, “she has seen enough tragedy, she does not need to hear more of it.”

“She knows, she knows that what we speak is of horror, of evil, and of death. Yet she still persists.”

“She does not know what she speaks of.” Thranduil replied evenly.

“Do not doubt her! She has seen her share of evil, but she is strong. You cannot hide her away in here, and think you can shield her from all.”

Thranduil did not respond, but only glared at his son.

“Wherever has this strain of defiance come from, that all seem to question me, hm?” Thranduil growled, more to himself than Legolas.

His son ignored the quip.

“It did not work with me, it will not work with her.” Legolas snapped, annoyed with his father. “You cannot hide the ones you love away, it does not protect them. It will only drive her away.”

And wasn’t he an example of this? Did his father not see that?

Thranduil still remained silent for another moment, watching his son under heavy eyebrows. Neither spoke, only the charged air between them crackled with their anger. Thranduil broke his gaze, and barked,

“Guard!”

Promptly, a helmed guard stepped into the study, and stood at attention. For another moment, the king remained quiet.

“Send for Gadrehal.”

Chapter Text

Gadrehal hesitated outside of the study doors, wringing her hands together nervously. The guards stood motionless behind her, giving her no courage or inkling as to what she might expect once she went inside. Quickly, she attempted to smooth away the wrinkles of her dress, the clamp of her hands twisting the silk. Her heart was in knots, marred like the skirts.

Lifting her head, she clasped her hands together, and nodded, letting the guard open the door for her. She daintily stepped into the warm study, greeted by a frowning Thranduil standing next to his stern son. The two looked at her, with expressions that could not have been more different. But she saw the resemblance now, in the shape of their mouths, their noses, although Legolas stood shorter than his father, his face broader.

Gadrehal curtsied deeply, “King Thranduil, Lord Legolas.” her voice betrayed the fear in her, it shook and fell.

“Lady Gadrehal,” Thranduil replied evenly, voice cool, collected, calm. As always. She stood once more, and squared herself for whatever judgement had been past.

“Legolas believes that you should attend the Erebor Council with us,” Thranduil stated, motioning to his son. “I disagree.”

Gadrehal felt her heart drop, and she glanced at Legolas, whose face was somewhere between annoyance and anger.

“Do you know that which will be discussed?” Thranduil asked, looking intently, but not angrily, at her.

“Yes, my king,” she answered, “You discuss war with the necromancer.” Gadrehal took in a deep breath, and it stung, for they did this now for the honor of her people but also for fear of him, for his reach had grown long, shadows penetrating the southern lands.

“My people are gone, only a mere few of us left, hiding in caves, straggling into the south seeking refugee. And greatly you have given me that here, as Lord Elrond does for others in Imlardis. You speak of war, to defeat this shadowy evil of the north. But yet by doing so you would lay waste to the lands of the Maghi.” Her face hardened, she would not waver beneath his icy gaze. “If I have naught else to say, I shall say this. The time for peace is gone. Such evil has no place in this world, and for too long it has grown unhindered. Go to war, my king, defeat this necromancer and strike down such evil as slavery. It has no place here, and let no others suffer as I have suffered, as the Maghi have suffered.”

She stood proud before him, before the king and heir of the Woodland Realm. No longer would she cower in the corner, if she was to live with darkness, she would do so with pride and strength. No longer would others dictate her being. Not even the King. For she understood, her love for him ran deep, but she could not abandon herself to that either.

“Noble words indeed.” Thranduil mused, he moved around the desk, pacing before her, around her. She felt his heat, watched his jaw clench and unclench. He ignored the prescence of his son, watching her.

“Words that should be heard before this council.” he stated, avoiding her eyes as he walked about the room. She knew this restlessness, few times she had seen it.

Gadrehal closed her eyes in relief, and nearly sagged as the wieght was lifted from her. Finally, he turned towards her again, eyes locking with hers. With a few graceful movements, he came closer.

“You shall join us then, in Erebor,” he finally said, although the downward turn of his mouth told her of his displeasure with such.

“Thank you, my king!” Gadrehal met his eyes again, and tried to smile, but found it difficult under the scrutny of his stormy eyes. She glanced at Legolas, who remained silent and watched them interact. He seemed pleased with himself.

“You shall tell the council that which you said to me here. Then you will leave. You may not attend the full length.”

Gadrehal shifted uncomfortably. She would not argue with this, and nodded solemnly. Her words would be heard, and to her, that was all she desired. To remain silent no longer.

“Yes, my king.” she responded quietly.

She curtsied again, knowing he still felt his ire from her defiance earlier. A heavy silence fell over the study, and Gadrehal was aware of the rising moon over the walls, a thin layer of clouds obscuring the stars from her.

Then, shockingly, she felt his palm as it touched her face. Such a display of affection was unheard from him when others lingered, and her eyes quickly shot to Legolas, who looked equally surprised by the warm gesture.

“It was I who found you,” he murmured, his eyes flashing dark blue as he softly looked at her, his back to his son. “And it is I who shall protect you, Gadrehal. You have my word as king, tuulo' corm a' corm”

His words touched her, made her skin tingle, her heart explode. For he did not speak of duty, of responsibility, of honor. Instead, he spoke to her of love. And that...that she did not foresee.

Legolas cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed by his father’s intense affection for the Maghi, and to witness such a moment. Thranduil did not remove his eyes from Gadrehal, who’s face flushed red at his words.

“Good night, Ada.” Legolas whispered as he left, not waiting for a reply. He did what he needed, and the rest was left to them. Thranduil leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers,

“Gadrehal,” he murmured, hands on her shoulders. Gingerly, she let her hands rest on his arms, eyes closed, breathing soft.

“I do not approve of this.” he mumbled sourly, pulling away, but kept his hands on her shoulders. She moved forward, and nestled into him, her face burying into his chest. He hesitated, for this was unusual.

Although affection often was shared between them, she had never wrapped herself into him like this. For this was not comfort or the exhaustion after coupling. No, this was tenderness and warmth. She held him to hold him, to be close to him for no other reason than to be close.

“Yes, my king,” she whispering into his robes, her body pressed firmly against his. He planted a soft kiss on the crown of her head, her hair smelling of wind and leather.

“You will listen to me as we travel to Dale.” he warned her, although he knew there was no ice to his tone. She nodded, her cheek against his heart. It beat hard and fast.

“Yes, my king.”

“And no wandering without a guard.”

“Of course not, my king.”

Still, they remained standing in each other’s embrace. He pursed his lips, and looked down at her, stifling a smile.

“You have become awfully duteous once more, ai-er,” he smoothed a hand down her hair, relishing its feel. How he enjoyed touching it.

“As always, you are my king.” she responded quietly. And he could smile at her, kiss her lips. How well she knew him. How well she had slipped past his armor and his shields, to nestle in his heart. How well indeed she did this, he did not notice. She lived in his heart, deeply and warmly.

“Hmm,” he let his fingers drift down her back, then back to her neck. Was he always to be a king to her? “nothing more?”

She pulled away, her face turning upwards to his, her face questioning. She titled her head, and studied him. Was he defining the boundaries of their time? Or was he erasing them completely?

“You have my heart, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, do with it what you will.” she replied softly, her hand over his heart, the steady beat of it giving her the courage. Now he knew, although she doubted this was new knowledge. A finger trailed down her face, tapping her chin, then running over her lips.

A mischevious glint appeared in her eyes, and she caught his finger between her teeth. She flicked her tongue over her prize, and he chuckled. He bent down, removed his finger, and gave her a rather chaste kiss.

“Please retire,” he pulled away, leaving Gadrehal confused and wanting. Was he still cross with her? He turned away, heading towards his desk, robes trailing behind him. As she turned to leave, “I shall be in my chambers within the hour, we shall finish this conversation then.”

Hiding her smile, she bowed her head, and left the room, listening as he scribbled over fresh parchment.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal felt her eyes drift shut, her body warm under the fur covers of Thranduil’s wide bed. She let the fire burn low, the shadows deepening around the large room. It was warm, the heat hanging languidly about, and Gadrehal pulled the silk up to her chin. Sleep called to her, clouded her mind, even as she desperately tried to remain awake. It had long been past an hour, and Thranduil had not come. The room felt vacant without his presence. Her hand curled around the edge of the blanket, and she felt sleep crawl up her spine, lull her eyes.

She did not hear the door open, nor the rustle of silk as it fell from him to pool on the floor. She made a small sound of acknowledgement as she felt the bed shift under his weight. His body a source of smooth warmth as he lay next to her.

“Asleep, ai-er?” he murmured, his fingers brushing her face, running through her hair. She sighed against the pleasant feel of him.

“Not quite,” she responded, her voice soft and quiet through the mask of sleep. He chuckled, fingers running across her hair once more. He remained quiet, gently stroking her, eyes soft in the low light, blue and dark and deep, like a hidden tairn in the forest, blue and reflective, with depths that went unseen. She glanced up to his face, she moved her hand closer to his naked chest. He seemed content to stroke her hair, let it slide through his fingers like water. His hand slid down her face, thumb caressing her cheek, then her jaw, before finding her own hand and taking it in his own.

“A heart for a heart,” he whispered, bringing her fingertips to his lips, pressing his lips to each on in turn. It was oddly endearing of him, and she found it both enticing and strange. He was never so...loving with her. Affectionate, yes. Intimate, yes. But this? This was quite new.

“My king?” she asked, perking up slightly. She fought away the sleep.

“It would seem, my lady, that although you have given me your heart, it seems you hold mine.” For a moment, she did not speak. What did he say? Did he truly mean such words?

“You have bewitched me, my lady, and I find I have no desire to lift this spell.” he continued, bending closer to her, his lips mere inches from hers, his breath fluttered across her waiting skin. His eyes moved about her face, searching her reaction. She did not move, she could not move, as her eyes stared into his. But he gave her no time to respond, but locked their lips together.

His hands cradled her face, as she moved to be closer to him. He slipped his hands into her hair, and deepened their kiss. She slipped her arms around his neck, and loved the feel of his unbraided hair. He pulled her closer, one hand sliding down her waist, cupping her hand over her thigh, hitching her leg over his waist. He broke the kiss, and leaned down to dip into the curve of her neck. He took in a deep breath, pausing briefly. She rolled away, to lie on her back, close her eyes, and sigh.

“Lord Thranduil,” she began, her head lolling to one side, to look at him. Her body felt heated, too warm. She desired him, truly. But she also loved him, and to know that behind his the cold, he loved her too, was a gift from the Valar.

“Hush,” he murmured, rolling over so he hovered over her, he pressed a quick kiss to her lips. 

"No more speech,” he said, kissing her again, then swinging his legs so he was completely hovering over now. He kissed her neck, then her collarbone, nipping at the skin there. His bone was strong, and hard, and warm. She arched her hips, and opened her neck to his lips. He nuzzled her, his wandering, stroking, touching, caressing.

She moaned, her hands pressing into his shoulders. He kissed her neck, pressing more across her chest, then down the valley between her breasts. She shivered, and her shoulders rolled. He pressed another kiss to her navel, and she bit her lip, hiding back a small laugh. His hands swept over her breasts, fingers deftly playing with her, teasing her. His mouth went lower and lower, and he felt her watching him. His hands danced over her thighs, touching her core gently. Her body trembled, and melted under his touches. She sighed as his kisses peppered her waist, lowering, lowering...

Her hands clutched tightly at the sheets as his lips pressed against her core, tasting her. She gasped, and lifted her hips, her breath heavy. He licked her swiftly, then looked up her body, meeting her gaze.

“Thranduil...”she moaned, bending her knees, quivering. His answer was another heated kiss to her center. This reaction of hers pleased him, so he continued, pressing his lips firmly into her. She squeaked. His deep rumble of a chuckle vibrated through her, causing her to shiver, her hips undulating. His hands brushed across her hips, across her stomach, brushed against breasts once more, her breath hitching as she kissed her center harder.

“Thranduil...” she pleaded, body convulsing, he felt the pleasure grow inside her, his fingers teasing her nipples, before his tongue gave her center a gentle flick. Her hands reached into his hair, but did not grasp it as he thought. He flicked at her again, and she clutched at his hair, her body shaking. He raised up, and pushed her shift up. She sat up, head tossed backwards, chest heaving with her breath. He tossed aside her shift, took of his trousers, and stared down at her body. He wanted her, wanted her spend every night with him, and every day. She was his queen, and he wanted to spend the rest his eternal days making her feel like one.

He placed a hand over the bear scars, amazed that his long fingers covered its length. She looked up at him, face red with a blush,

“my king, please...” she arched herself upwards, one hand on his shoulder, another buried in the sheets around them. He entered her swiftly, and she hummed her content. He dipped his head once again to her face, kissing her jaw, her lips, her cheeks as he slid in and out of her, watching her pleasure rebuild, her body loosening, then tightening around him.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her body soft and malleable, molding to his. Her heart burned him, it lit the embers of his soul, the one he had hidden away since the battles that killed his father, the mother of his son. He had lost so much, and he had thought to heal her, when instead she healed him. And never saw it. His pace increased, and she responded in tune, her hips meeting his, rubbing against him.

She forcefully brought his lips to hers, capturing him with a raw want he had never seen in her before. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, bringing him closer to her body. She kept kissing him until her body spasmed as she reached her peak. He kept his rhythm, moving away from her mouth as she panted, exhausted. He kissed her again, and again, gathering her into his arms. He wanted - needed - her close. The thought of her traveling to Erebor made him worry, the thought her hurting made him cringe. He would not lose another.

“amin mela lle” he whispered as he reached his own pleasure, burying his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, kissing whatever skin she could find.

“amin mela lle aran” she murmured, letting her body sigh into his. He rolled them over, so she lay on his chest, their legs and sheets tangled. They remained silent, for no words were left to be said. Her body and soul felt full, bright, content. His breathing evened, his skin cooled. Thranduil pulled the blanket up, draping it across her shoulders. Her eyes closed, she felt his arms move over her. She wanted sleep, she was content to lay here for the next age.

“Gadrehal,” he kissed her head, and she felt something cool slip into her palm. Without a word, she pushed to her elbows, to look at the little ring in her hand. It was his. The ring that looked like roots, or swirling branches, a deep silver. She slipped it onto her finger, and found it too big at first, but watched as it slowly, like the roots retracted, shrunk to fit in her finger.

“My king,” she kissed him quickly, before returning to admire the simple, yet powerful gift he gave her. “Thank you,” she lay down again.

His response was silence, and his hands rubbing her back until she fell asleep, locked in his embrace.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal rolled onto her side, her hand slipping into the empty space beside her, searching for the body beside her. The bed was empty, but still warm, and her eyes opened fully. Sunlight poured into the beautiful, large room.

“Thranduil?” she mumbled, grasping at the edge of the blanket. The sun filtered in through the high balcony windows, dabbling on the floor, the bed, the bookcases, squares of brilliant light patterning the room. She noticed a few books piled by the bed, ribbons marking the places where he left off.

“Good morning,” his voice came from a small room beyond the bookcases and tapestries. She curled her legs up, the silk smooth against her legs and torso. He said nothing more, and she shifted over so sunlight poured over her face. She wiggled the ring off her finger, and gazed its texture and roots in her palm. It was a symbol, of sorts, she knew. But was it something that others recognized his claim over her? Or something...else entirely? It was a very intimate gesture, of that she was certain.

She held the ring in her palm, and closed her hand, the feel hard and harsh. She slipped from the bed, seeking out her shift and dress. He had piled them on a small table, folded neatly. She put the ring on her finger, and unfolded the shift.

“Where are you going?” he asked, coming from the sitting room just beyond her vision. He stood shirtless, with a long blue silk robe gracing his broad shoulders. One eyebrow was cocked, a piece of fruit in his hands.

“Back to my quarters, my king,” she clutched the shift to her naked body, hiding herself behind the soft fabric. He chuckled, and strolled over to her, body loose and fluid. He dropped off the fruit on a nearby table, and tugged at the shift.

“No, you are not.” he said, tugging at the shift, but not removing it. He seemed very calm, very collected. She admired him, his skin so smooth and white and lovely. He leaned down to kiss her, at the corner of her mouth.

“You have yet to break your fast,” he said, he titled his head, one hand running across her shoulder, down her arm, linking their hands together. One arm held the shift across her body.

“May I dress, my king?” she asked, fingers burying themselves into the creamy fabric she held. His sitting room was a grandiose as his bedroom, decorated with shields and books and tapestries as old as the earth. The high ceiling was painted with stars, matching the map of the Valar, the deep blue paint looked velvety.

“If I were to say no?” he glanced at her, before relaxing in a wide cushioned chair. She shifted from foot to foot, unsure of how to respond. She felt uneasy. He waved a hand at her, and turned his head away. She hastily threw the shift on, and smoothed it over her hips. She sat across from him, and took a steaming cup of tea in her hands. There was a place setting for her, and a small, simple breakfast. Was this as it was each morning? The tea was dark. He bit into an apple, and crossed his legs regally, watching her intently. She felt the silence heavily on her shoulders, and she wished the tea would wash it away. He had never kept her there, in the mornings. Before he let her leave, watching as she walked out the door.

“My king...” she gulped, and took another sip of hot tea. It did not help the bundle of nerves in her stomach.

“Yes, Gadrehal?” he prompted, a soft smile played on his lips. He was as calm as daylight. He cocked his head at her, took another bite of the apple, and still kept his eyes on her.

“Last evening,” she began, but paused. What was she asking? Was she prepared for his answer?

“Yes, last evening?” His smile was small, more smirk than anything. His eyes...glittered. Was he playing with her? So there was a soft side to him after all. Gadrehal was torn between playing along with him, but her desire for truth outweighed that.

“Why?” she took the ring and put it on the table. He glanced at the ring, then at her. He grew still, and his face calm.

“Must you ask?” he murmured, picking up the ring and peering at it. It had shrunk, and seemed so small in his hands now. Gadrehal bowed her head. Did she need to ask? This was...quite a turn of events. He put the ring back on the table.

“Have no doubts, mela.” he told her, looking at her in the eyes again. After a moment’s pause, she picked up the ring, and replaced it back on her finger. He seemed pleased. More than pleased. She believed his love to be true for her. Why else offer such a gift? Yet still, she worried. Would he change his mind? 

They ate in silence, the morning light drifting by them, the sitting room warm from a fire, embers lighting the sconces on the walls, glinting off the smooth stone. Tea steamed from a pot, wafting up to touch her face as she poured more into her cup. He paged through a book on the table, lazily flipping through the pages.

As he stood up, she did as well.

“When do we leave for Erebor, my king?” she asked, watching as his shoulder twitched ever so slightly underneath his robes. She followed him, even though this situation was not one he wished to speak of. He took a moment before answering.

“Shortly,” he replied, opening a chest and pulling out a green tunic. Gadrehal found her dress, and slipped it on. He offered no more information. His morning routine was simpler and quieter than she imagined. She finished tying her girdle. He walked over to her, and untied it, and pinching it between his fingers before letting to drop to the floor.

“You wear that no longer.” he took her hand in his, his thumb rubbing over the ring, “not while you wear this.” He stalked away from her, and she was amazed, but yet not surprised, at how fast his mood turned. He was playful with her, not but so shortly ago, and now ire turned inside him.

“I wish you would not go to Erebor,” he held up a hand so she would not speak, and she obeyed, remaining silent, watching his back. “The journey may not be safe. Orcs have come from the north. The necromancer is wary, he sends his minions into our lands. We do not know what we shall encounter on the way.” He moved in front of the balcony which over looked the garden, the snow blindingly white, icicles dripping from the overhang. The ice caught the light, glinting and shining beyond the windows. She sat down, and let her skirts smooth over her legs.

“I cannot tell you falsely, for the path is dark before us. You cannot fight, you have no skill with a blade or bow,” he continued, he meandered by a rack in the corner his hands running over two Elven blades. “You will be a burden to my guard.” She held back her flinch. She did not want to admit to the truth of his words. She could not fight, she could not defend herself, fend off orcs.

“We plan for war, Gadrehal,” he glanced over his shoulder at her, but then turned away to stare out the windows, his hands clasped behind his back. “Our reports from the north bring no joyful news, only grief and pain. I would shield you from such.”

Gadrehal held her head high, knowing he did not see her, instead his eyes turned to the lands beyond. The trip to Erebor...would be dangerous, and the council a shadow in her heart. Yet she knew no shadow could steal her soul any longer. Once more she sat before a loom to create, she had a lush garden to dig in hands into, and an elven king as a golden lover, shadows lingered insider, yes she knew, but she was alone no longer.

“My king,” she spoke calmly, “I understand your fears.” She paused once more, and he turned to face her, face lifted high, “and your doubts. I see why you worry, but my king, you must let me do this.” She stood up, and walked over to him, with one deep breath, she took his hands in hers. Her hands were so small, his so large, with long fingers and a wide palm.

“You have cared for me, and saved my soul from drowning in the shadows I carry with me. But, I cannot hide forever, Thranduil, I must do my part to honor their memory. I must lay them to rest, so that I may be free.”

His face revealed nothing that he felt or thought as he gazed at her. The sunlight caught in his golden hair, as always unbraided.

“You will remain in my sight at all times.” It was the only confirmation she was to receive from him, and she smiled. She rushed in quickly, and wrapped her arms around him.

“Thank you, my king!” she kissed his cheek quickly, before pulling away. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, barely. Gadrehal smiled, and gave him a curtsey. He shook his head.

“My lady, don’t think a curtsey will always get what you want.”

He smirked, and she stood up, and pressed her lips to his, firmly, heatedly. Her hands pressed down his chest, feeling the muscles underneath the silken tunic. His hands came to her hips,and she molded her body to his, deepening her kiss, running her tongue over his lips. Then she pulled away, and he scowled down at her. She stood just out of arm’s reach. She curtsied again, and that rare mischievous glint appeared in her eye.

“Never would I think such, my king.” her smile was soft, and Thranduil had half a mind to command her back into his bed. But duty called, and the sun would set soon enough. He was an elf, time was ever on his side.

He chuckled, and shook his head. He bent down, and hovered his face close to hers. She leaned in to kiss him, but he pulled away. With his hand on her back, Thranduil turned her around, and followed with a kiss to her neck.

“Off with you now, my lady.”

Her laughter lingered with him long after she had gone.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal stood outside in the snow, the humid breath of the horses and elven guards misting in the air around her. A thick cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, soft gloves were pulled tightly over her fingers. Horses pawed at the snow, digging to the soggy earth beneath, and guards milled about, tugging at leather straps, tightening baggage and checking the sharpness of blades.

Gadrehal put a hand to the horse that was to be hers, a well mannered mare with gray and white markings, tall and strong of leg. Her tail swished, and her large head nudged at Gadrehal’s side. The horse, at least, was eager to set out.

Her cowl was down, and the flakes of snow blown off the branches fell into her hair, white against her dark. Her boots were tall and constricting, she hated the way they felt on her feet. She wore breeches and a long tunic of green and silver, the royal colors.

“Do you require some assistance, my lady?” Legolas sidled up to her, his face open and friendly, blue eyes twinkling. Gadrehal peered behind him, hoping for Gimili. Since convincing his father to permit her presence in Erebor, he had worn a half smile and a smirk in his eyes whenever he saw her. She believed they were not ill mannered, but somewhere he was laughing. It unnerved that she didn’t know at what.

“If you please, my lord.” she said quietly, grasping at the decorated reins of her horse. She eyed him warily, uncertain of his intentions. Not so long ago he had warned her away from Thranduil, and then suddenly, he was arguing for her to attend him at the council in Erebor. He seemed more openly friendly with her, attempting conversation, visiting her at the loom, asking after her at supper. His friendliness made her wary.

What did he want? He had noticed the ring on her finger, but failed to make mention of it to her. Thranduil, it seemed, was in on whatever joke Legolas was playing. But neither seemed to find it important to inform her. So, she did not mention it, neither did they. Yet she remained ever vigilant against the two. Her trust only went so far.

Legolas bowed his head, “it would be a pleasure, my lady.”

He interlocked his fingers, and bent over. “Place your foot in my hands, and I will lift you.”

Gadrehal buried her hands into the mare’s mane, and did as he instructed. Legolas lifted her with ease, and she swung her leg over the back of the horse, settling into the simple, smooth saddle. She felt taller, and looked down at Legolas.

“Is that how you assist, Lord Gimili, into a saddle?” she asked, partly out of curiosity, partly out the desire to distract the silence and his laughing eyes.

“Pfft!” Gimili spat, sidling up to them, axe in hand, another strapped to his back, and two more on his belt. “No one tosses a dwarf, and no one lifts them like some court jester!”

Gadrehal held back her chuckle, but smiled down at the red headed dwarf who she claimed as friend.

“I meant no offense, my lord.” she apologized, still smiling. “But how do you find yourself on the back of a horse?”

Gimili grumbled something under his breath, and without answering, stalked off, armored hands clutching at his axe. When she looked at Legolas, he laughed, watching his friend disappeared around a grouping of horses. He looked back at her, eyes alight.

“I lift him, and do not let him tell you otherwise.”

Gadrehal laughed heartily, “I will not then!”

She shifted again on the horse, as the mare pawed at the snow, snorted, and tossed her great head. “Do not be so stiff,” Legolas corrected, then he squinted at her boot, then with brows over his eyes, he looked up at her.

“I see you have a blade.” he tapped her leg, and Gadrehal stiffened under his touch. She was perturbed by the fact that he saw it, she thought she had hidden it rather well. He draped the edge of her cloak over her leg, “I think my father would be displeased to see you with this.”

Gadrehal stared him, and tugged her cloak down farther. She was having...doubts about this journey. Stepping beyond the borders of the king, even with the misty morning light, set a cold sliver of panic racing through her veins until it nestled in her heart. Not since she had arrived had she been beyond the borders of the kingdom, and now, the warnings of her king filtered through mind, over and over. She thought putting the dagger into her boot would help, but instead she felt worse. A knot in her stomach formed, filling her up uncomfortably. She hadn’t eaten, too much weighed on her.

“Why?” she asked, trying to fight down her nerves, stamp out the fear she felt.

“Do you know how to use the dagger you carry?” Gadrehal knew the answer to that, and so did he. Truthfully, she did not know what she hid it, decided to bring it. It had seemed like a precaution, but indeed, it did not make her feel safer at all. Now, she only felt foolish. A red tint colored her face.

“I believe the sharp ends faces away from me.” Legolas chuckled, and leaned against the horse’s flanks. The mare nickered, and stamped her foot again. Legolas looked beyond the horses, then back at her.

His hair was braided away from his face, and he wore light armor, green leather shaped like scales. His Lothlorien bow was strung on her back, and his quiver full. She had heard tales of his prowess with the bow, and the two white knives he carried as well. He wore vambraces marked with the royal seal. Gimili wore heavy mail under his boiled leather tunic.

“My father believes if you cannot wield a blade properly, you should not wear one.” he warned her.

She nodded, and looked up, just as Thranduil exited the grand gates. He also wore simple armor, and his long black cloak billowed behind him. He stepped with purpose, and his eyes locked with hers. His face was unreadable. Yet she knew. Knew he felt a fluttering of nervousness as well.

“Thank you, Legolas.” she murmured, breaking eye contact with her king. The king’s son gave her a curt nod, and left.

She yanked on the reins, and the mare protested. Gadrehal had only ridden a few times in her short life, and this horse was too big for her, too tall, too muscled. She patted the horse’s neck, and squeezed her legs. Thranduil came to stand next to her, and his hand rested on her thigh. He gazed into her face, until she looked at him.

“Be strong, Gadrehal.” he whispered, and she removed one hand to place it atop his. She took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Always, my king.” He gave her a small smile, and then with ease, climbed on top of his own black horse. It was bred for war, wide of chest and strong legs. He wore long vambraces, and both his swords were attached to him, their smooth elven make glittering in the sunlight peeping through the trees. He wore a simple circlet, and gloves, hair brighter against the dark of his raiment. He stood straight, regal and proud.

Legolas and Gimili trotted up next to her, so now she was between her king and his son, with Gimili riding behind him. They were dressed not for war, but not for a wholesome visit either. Gadrehal felt a mockery between them, small and incompetent. She kept her head high, and hoped that would encounter no evils along their way.

Thranduil directed his horse closer to her, the massive beast dwarfing her and her own tall mare. He took her hand, and his finger rubbed over the ring she wore beneath the glove. “Remember what I have told you.” he whispered, before dropping her hand and wheeling around.

His banner man came to the fore front, lifting the elegant silk flag that was to proceed the party. Three bowman followed on quick, sure footed horses, and with little fan fair, the party left.

~~~

They rode silently throughout the morning, passing through the tall trees and their snowy boughs, the light piercing the white crystals that lay on the branches and ground. The horses plod through the mud, turning the path into a river of brown and dirtied snow.

Gadrehal’s back ached from sitting in the saddle, her legs sore from where they rugged against the horse. They were all silent. No one spoke, the camaraderie of the guards fell away once the king arrived. It had been so since. Even the forest fell to such as they slowly made their way past.

Thranduil was still, and never moved, his eyesight always forward. But Gadrehal did not doubt that he watched her still. Her horse nickered, and her ears flicked backwards. She stopped her gait, and pawed the ground. Angered, she hopped backwards.

Gadrehal tugged uselessly on the reins. Both Legolas and Thranduil fought to control their horses, and turn around towards Gadrehal. Her eyes were wide, as she frantically attempted to calm the mare down, but the mare only became more frenzied.

Soldiers and guardsman came to a stop, some rushing to assist her, while others drew their bows and swords.

“My king!” she called out, but her eyes still focused on her horse, beginning to turn about, and twist. Gadrehal’s heart began to beat harshly, her grip tightening on the reins with no avail, unsteady but trying to remain upright. Thranduil kicked at his horse, who wheeled around and lifted back on its hind legs, its voice loud.

Legolas unsheathed his white knives, while Gimili dropped heavily from the back of the horse, axe in hand.

“Ada!” Legolas yelled, just as a gamble of orcs and wargs dashed into the fray, screaming wildly.

Gadrehal shrieked as she saw the horrid little creatures swarm into the path around them, the turn in the path hidden from view before them, as wargs snarled and snapped at the horses. The bannerman stabbed the pole of the flag through the skull of warg, the orc sliding forward into his knife.

Gadrehal could see as the azure sky opened up just too far ahead, as the path lead onto the edge of a cliff, which dropped off dangerously beyond. She was in the middle, surrounded by elves, her king, and a roaring Gimili as he launched himself onto the warg, burying his axe into its face. The Elves, although viscous and cruel in their efficiency, soon realized they were out numbered exponentially.

Gadrehal’s horse continued to buck, and she barely managed to duck a black arrow as it whistled past her head. She wanted to call out to Thranduil, but her voice was lost in her throat, and she watched as he swung his silver blade down at a foolish orc who dared to come too close. Elven archers crowded around her, their bows singing with arrows, and their knives glinting sharply in the light. As a warg jumped over the orcs and into the fray too close to her, she screamed again as it dug its claws into a nearby archer, blood covering its jowls.

“Gadrehal!” someone screamed her name, but the battle was too loud, the clink of armor, the twng of a bow, and the screams of orcs and Elves filled her ears, and like a fire, her panic and her memories engulfed her. Tears brimmed her eyes, and dulled her vision. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and she kicked at her horse, desperate to get away. Everything was too close, pressing in on her, or pressing in her chest.

Did Thranduil not say it would be dangerous?

An elf threw himself in front of her, “Lady Gadrehal!” he tugged at her reins, but was distracted by a trio of orcs, slathering and slobbering, yellow eyes gleaming as they came for them. Gadrehal and her horse backed up, pressed against a boulder of some kind, only an Elven guard between her and the lascivious orcs prowling towards.

“Hand over, the she-elf,” one hissed, raising a black iron sword. Gadrehal had difficulty hearing, the battle drowning her, pressing her to the precipice. With a sharp screech, an arrow embedded itself through the body of one orcs. All were distracted as Legolas entered the fray closest to her, but only brought more orcs with him.

Gadrehal fought within herself to take control, to wrestle the mind-numbing panic away, and focus. She needed to escape, but who knew how many orcs lay waiting in the trees beyond? Her fingers stumbled over the knot at her throat, struggling to remove her cloak. With a frustrated cry, she pulled the cloak off and hung it over the saddle horn, and fell off her horse. The lack of weight made her horse buck once again -

 -Thranduil saw the mare buck, shrieking in that manner that only horses can, and the cloak billow out behind. It was oddly shaped, and fear ran through the king. Was she hit? Why did she fall over the horses like such?

The horse bolted towards the cliff, hooves pounding against the ground, making for the bend in the road. Thranduil went to rush after the horse, but found his way blocked by more of the disgusting little creatures. He withdrew his second sword, and slashed through any stupid enough to come close. Vile beasts. When he looked up, it was only to see a gaggle of wargs tearing at the horse, the cloak torn and ragged, but empty of Gadrehal.

He saw a flash dart beyond the trees, making for the same route as the horse. His distraction earned him a slash on the arm, and he reciprocated with a slash through the chest, both his swords delving deep into the orc flesh. He fought harder, grunting, as he killed his way to the edge of the skirmish.

Two wargs and an orc had her corner at the edge, a small gilded dagger was in her hand, her fingers white as she clutched. She crouched low, and the fear was evident on her face.

“Legolas!” Thranduil yelled, his voice loud over the din. And for a moment, they all stood still. Gadrehal’s face hardened, and she stabbed at the orcs, who stood closest to her. And in the span of a moment, an arrow went through one of the wargs, it wailed as it fell, and Gadrehal spun on her heel and dove over the cliff.

~~~

Gadrehal hit the water hard, the pressure of foam and bubbles pushed against her as she fell through the murky blue. Very little light pierced through the waves. She did not feel weightless as she did in the river, but instead she felt heavy, like rocks were in her bones. Her head felt stuffed, and it took her a moment of sinking before she kicked her legs, her arms swinging through the water to pull her upwards.

Bubbles hit her as something else, big and cumbersome, fell into the water around her, close enough that she felt the air as it lefts its lungs. An arrow flitted through the water close to her. Yet she still swam upwards, and when her head breeched the surface, she look up to the cliff, high above her, where three orcs now shot arrows at her bobbing head.

A snarl drew her attention, and only a mere arms length away, a wounded warg fought to stay above the water. She panted as she began to swim to the water’s edge, a thin strip of land that lead the way towards Erebor. She could see the high lonely mountain so close. She did not know if she could run the distance, but she could try.

The warg continued to howl, in pain or victory, she knew not. But Gadrehal found she was the better swimmer, in this case, and that orcs were poor shots. The sounds of battle were fainter, but still lingered. Her skin felt chill, and the waves of the water lapped against her body, dragging her. The warg stopped snarling, and began to whine.

She began to tread water, and her heart grew cold as a band of orcs came rushing along the small beach, brandishing weapons and shields. Gadrehal let out a cry, which was swallowed by water as she dipped under the chill blue lake. But when she resurfaced, another sight greeted her.

With a roar, a group of dwarven warriors came rushing through the forest.

~~~

Thorin had seen her jump from the cliff, and it stunned him momentarily as he watched her legs kicked uselessly in the air, her hair billowing out from behind her, arms raised. She disappeared into the water, only to bob up next to a warg several moments later. He pushed the rest of his band harder to reach the piece of land, if to welcome her back. It was then he heard the orcs, and knew there was still something left to fight.

With a roar, he began to run, and his warriors followed angrily behind him. When he reached the orcs, they seemed more stunned than afraid, and immediately switched their attention from her to them. His sword, Orcist, felled many orcs before the vile things had time to think to run. Wargs snarled, orcs yelled, but none could stand the heat of his blade or the axe of Dwalin or the bow of Kili. The band of orcs had not a chance, and all fell bloody before them.

And when Thorin looked up, it was Fili who assisted the lady Gadrehal from the water, her face white and cold, her eyes wide with fear. Thorin rushed over, and she could not stand, but remained, shakily on her knees, even as pebbles cut through her breeches.

“Thorin?” he voice was no more than a rasp, and with a happy noise from her, Thorin walked to her and wrapped his arms around her. She seemed healthier than he remembered, her bones softened by flesh. Fili placed a warm hand on her shoulder, as she began to sob. Thorin knew war was not for her, but she still acted bravely, as well as she could muster.

“My lady Gadrehal,” Thorin let go, and gave her a good long look. It seemed Thranduil did not let her waste away. Her letters mentioned the king only in passing. Tears streamed from her eyes, but she looked up at Fili, and grasped his hand,

“I used it!” her voice had a child-like quality, bordering on hysteria, “I used the dagger, I killed an orc!”

Thorin saw the edge she now teetered on now, but instead of water beneath, it was fear and darkness of the soul which she would fall. Fili glanced at his uncle, and smiled down at the young elven woman whom he called friend,

“Did I not say you were most brave among Elves?” Fili put his free hand on her shoulder, and Thorin gave a great laugh. “This is cause for song and drink!”

Thorin knew her pain, knew the darkness, and knew that it was not stern words to say to her, but celebration. Joy. For he saw now the lines of worry that were gone from her face, and that behind her fading fear there lay something calm beneath. And not the calm of madness, but calm of content. It had been long before he saw that in himself, reflected in his burglar.

The sound of hooves stampeding drew their attention, and Kili drew his bow and Dwalin stood in front of the king and his damp guest with axe raised.

Thranduil and company flew down the beach, the king in a mighty hurry. Legolas and other guards followed behind, but Thranduil pushed his horse to the brink. Blood splattered against his armor, and he gingerly held his arm to his chest.

He flung himself from the horse before it stopped, and stormed closer to Gadrehal. Thranduil ignored Dwalin, the young brown haired dwarf, and barely glanced at Thorin who made to put himself between the elven king and the very frightened elven maiden.

She looked up as the king, and her face was blank. And then Thranduil pulled her into his arms, and crushed Gadrehal to his chest, burying his face into hair, and breathing in deeply.

"A'maelamin” he whispered, holding her fast to him, and she began to weep again. He shut his eyes, and held her close, forgetting the pain in his arm, and let his heart calm. The he held her away from him, his eyes hard,

“What were you thinking?” he questioned, a finger wiping away a tear. Thorin cleared his throat, and Thranduil sighed, but ignored it. Gadrehal shook her head, for she had no words left to say. No words at all. But instead she pushed back into his embrace, and Thranduil shut his eyes. To have lost her...

He could not think such things.

“Ada,” Legolas prodded, but Thranduil only gave his son a stern look, “Ada, we must leave this place.”

“The boy is right, Thranduil,” Thorin watched the interaction with curiosity. What now lay between the two? “We must return to Erebor.”

Thranduil finally looked away from her, and at Thorin. He nodded solemnly, but still held Gadrehal, who still cried, to his chest. Her fingers clutched at him, and he could feel the fast beat of her heart.

Once again, she had survived. And it had little to do with him.

Chapter Text

With a scowl plastered to his face, Thranduil watched as Legolas helped Gadrehal down from his horse. Thorin and company had taken their war ponies, and ridden back to Erebor with fresh speed. Only the blonde haired dwarf and the angry bald one decided to accompany them. Kili had spoken quietly to Gadrehal, who still shook and pale face made his heart squeeze inside his chest.Legolas and Gimili stood around her, his son’s hand on her shoulder, speaking to her softly. Gimili nodded.

Now they made camp in the wide, rocky valley between Dale and the massive stone gates of Erebor. Once, they had fought a battle here, but that was long ago, the dead had been cleared and buried, only their memories remained. His Elves were weary, and although, he was lucky to say none died, there were wounded. His arm throbbed, but he walked about, seeking out those with injuries.

His banner man ordered men from Dale to set up the king’s tent, the thick ash poles sturdy as they were hammered into the ground. The dull ache in his head matched the swing and thud of the hammers. Horses whinnied, and stamped their feet. They were in need of attention as well.

“My king,” an archer scurried up to him, and stood tall, saluting him, “Thorin sends healers and supplies to replace that which we have lost.”

Thranduil only nodded, bending down to inspect a jagged wound across the chest of a footman. His face was white, the blood drained from around his eyes, giving the poor elf a hollowed look.

“These three,” Thranduil waved at three incapacitated elves lying on cots in the open, “need the healers most.”

“My king,” the archer protested, “you are wounded as well.”

Thranduil kept walking, his stride long. His clean hand, the one not sticky with his own blood, fingered a small, dwarven dagger, gilded and sharp, that he casually unburdened from the neck of a dead orc. The archer followed, but Thranduil took in the lost stores, the injuried elves and horses. Anything to keep his mind from Gadrehal and the pain in his arm. Yet this journey had already met ruin before the council even began. This did not bode well. Bad omens, it was.

Most of the uninjured Elves began to set up camp, care for the horses, while two emmissaries had run off to Erebor and Dale. His small band was not completely at a loss, but still, the orc attack demolished more than Thranduil was pleased to see. Yet his soldiers fought valiently, and his son was safe, his love was safe. There were no dead.

“King Thranduil,” the voice was rough and harsh, but held a higher note than he expected. Turning he saw - rarity of all rarities - a female dwarf. She was squat and square as dwarves tend to go. Her flaxen hair was braided elaborately, and another dwarf accompanied her.

“I have been informed of your injuries,” she pointed to a stool nearby, “you can sit there.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, who was she to order him around? He turned away, and inspected a few ripped leather bags full of food stores.

“You can either sit yourself, or myself and Legolas can assist you.” her voice was harsher now with a tinge of impatience. Thranduil could not hide his scowl, as he turned back towards the impertienent little creature.

“Do not speak to me as if I am some mere soldier.” he hissed, narrowing his eyes, “I have duties to attend which may be beyond your meager understanding, but not mine.”

He lifted his head, and his patience was frayed. “There is another,” Thranduil waved in the direction of Gadrehal, “Gadrehal, she fell into the lake. She needs attending.”

The female dwarf laughed heartily, and shook her head. “They told me you were arrogant.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened, and the urge to slice off her head was tempting. But he was old, and as a king, he could not fall into such fits of fury. But still, it was tempting. Very tempting.

“The young lass has already been taken to Erebor, to be housed and tended by King Thorin.”

Thranduil blinked slowly, and lifted his head, searching for her in the sea of movement. And he saw now, she was no where to be seen. She was indeed gone. Legolas tended to his own horses and Thranduil’s. Gimili and the blonde dwarf were gone. Then he looked down at the smirking dwarven healer,

“What?!”

His exclamation cracked through the busy elves and dwarves and men, making all in the general vicinity stand still, afraid of the boiling anger now seen in the king’s eyes. His voice was loud and harsh, and his good hand was clenched into a fist. She blinked at him, face blank beneath her small wispy beard and braids.

“Poor thing was shaking like a leaf, and Thorin decided since no one here to seemed to care enough about her welfare, she was taken to Erebor. Healers are with her now, I presume.”

Thranduil felt his jaw clench, his arm throbbed, and now he found that another king was caring for her. Yet, he had a duty to his soldiers. But did he not have a duty to her? He groaned, and sat on the stool, shoving his arm out for the healer to inspect. She clucked, and probed the wound. His eyelids sunk low, and he tried to steady his breathing. The wound on his arm hurt, burned actually. But it did not compare to the ache in his chest. Thorin cared for her. Thorin. He wanted to march into Erebor, scoop her up, and bring her back to his tent and hold her until she stopped shaking. But, if he had done that before stalking off once they arrived, she would not be in the heart of Erebor, cared for by the Dwarven king. His soldiers needed him. Where did his duty lie then? Had he not said she would be a burden on his guards? Had he not told her she held no place here?

He scowled, and looked towards the towering Dwarven statues kneeling by the great iron gates. Somewhere, she was ensconced in that kingdom, with attendants and healers cooing over her. But even from here, he knew her fear.

“I have better things to do than sit here all evening, healer.” Thranduil grumbled, glancing at the dwarf again, who went about measuring out various herbs. She made no motion that she heard him, or really any notion she cared.

“My name is Dis, I am the king’s sister. Some respect would be welcome.”

She looked up at the Elven king, before returning to her administration of the green and gray herbs. Thranduil leaned back, peering down at the dwarf. This was ridiculous. She treated him like a temperamental child, and had the arrogance to lecture him on respect? Nonsense.

“I know you worry about your soldiers.” she gave him a long look, “And Gadrehal. But griping at me will do you no good. The less you scowl at me the less time we’ll have to enjoy each other’s company.”

Thranduil turned his head slightly, and clamped his fingers shut, no matter the pain it caused in his arm.

~~~

Gadrehal let Fili and Kili fuss over her hair like children, as they bickered over what beads to braid in, and how many intricate woven designs they could give her. The fire roared in an enormous hearth in Thorin’s private chambers, the thick tapestries full of warm colors. The light was darker, more wholesome, less sunlight and more glowing shadows.

Thorin’s servants had bathed her, dipping her into a hot bath and scrubbing away the chill and the anxiety. They had tried to remove the ring from her hand, but she refused, holding her hand to her chest. Although their eyes widened as they saw her scars, they remained silent. Thorin had waited patiently outside, and gave her thick woolen clothes to wear.

Her tunic was dark blue and trimmed with soft fur, her breeches of leather and cotton. The brothers smiled and fretted over her, and now she felt their deft fingers in her hair. She was surprised to find them so intense over her. Thorin leaned on the mantle, armor gone, hair down around his shoulders.

“Where is Balin, my lord?” Gadrehal murmured, the heat of the fire lulling her to sleep. Her mind felt sluggish, her body heavy.

“He oversees the conditions of the council. He currently sends stores of food to...Thranduil.” Thorin poured goblets with thick red wine. The thick stone walls were clean, smooth and dark.

“Where is King Thranduil?” she asked, accepting the goblet of mulled wine. Her hands no longer shook, but her fingers reacted slower than she wanted. Her body felt stiff and far away.

“My lady?” Kili asked, his hand on her shoulder, worried chocolate eyes peering down at her. She glanced up at him, legs shifting under the blanket draped across her lap. She gave him a weak smile, hands twitching at the stem of the golden chalice in her hand. The two were so sweet to her. He gave her warm smile, and patted her.

“I’m off to Tauriel,” he bowed to his uncle and left, whistling. Gadrehal felt exhausted.

“Fili, leave us.” Thorin ordered, and his nephew nodded. Gadrehal turned over her shoulder, one hand feeling the long, complicated braids, the quiet tinkle of beads in her ear.

“Thank you, Fili, the braids are a delight.”

Fili bowed low to her, his smile quick but his eyes sad. “It was an honor, my lady.”

The wooden door shut quietly behind him, and she closed her eyes against the soreness, the exhaustion, against the quickening of darkness inside her.

“How do you fare, my lady Gadrehal?” Thorin’s voice was soft, gruff. It was deep as the forest rivers, deep as this mountain she sat inside.

“I wish to sleep, my lord.” she took a sip of the warm liquid, and sighed. The brief thought that she should show more gratitude to the king flitted through her head, but it was difficult, difficult to think, to move, to breath. A rock weighed in her stomach, and it was curled about with fear. The harsh energy that had kept her moving, and swimming, and upright on the ride to Erebor was gone, leaving her empty with this rock.

“And so you shall.” Thorin nodded, “you have sleeping quarters close to mine, and any desire is yours. Soon we shall dine, you must eat before sleep.” His orders were calm. She trusted his judgment, he had done this far more than she.

She remained quiet, sipping at the soporific wine, letting the heat melt into her bones. Her body wanted rest. Today had been taxing, and her mind had been silent as she was handed from healer to healer since arriving in Erebor. Now it fought to reawaken. Her thoughts sprung to her king, to her lover. His blood had soaked onto her tunic, and she wailed frightfully when she saw it. Thorin needed to reassure her of his wellness before she stop shaking enough to dress.

“Where is Thranduil?” she asked again.

Thorin did not answer, but instead took out a long pipe and placed a smidgeon of smoke weed into the bowl. He lit the pipe, and took in a deep breath. Gadrehal waited, eyes glancing at the ring on her finger. Her body was too exhausted to protest, but she knew to never press a king. The smoke smelled sweetly, the color a misty blue as it wafted upwards, disappearing as drifted.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and before an answer was given, it opened. A stout female dwarf took a step in, her lips pursed in a scowl, and she leveled her gaze at Thorin. The dwarven woman had thick blonde hair, two chin braids with purple and silver beads hung from her. Her dress was neatly pressed, with her healing satchel on a wide leather belt, she had two knives on either side of her body. She glanced at Gadrehal, before once more looking at Thorin.

“Hello, Dis. Your sons are not here.” Thorin replied, a bemused look on his face as he saw his sister’s scowl.

“She has a visitor.” the dwarf quipped, and before anymore could be said, Thranduil strode into the room.

His cloak was gone, and his arm bandaged. The dirt was gone from his face, and he looked the regal, unaffected self. He ignored the short dwarf, and barely glanced at Thorin.

“Thranduil!” Gadrehal sighed, and stood up, her arms opening to him. He did not hesitate as he enveloped her, bringing her close to his chest. One hand came to her head, and he kissed her forehead. He took in a deep breath, smelling the sweet scent of mountain lavender in her hair.

“You are well, mela?” he asked, holding her out at arm’s length to inspect her.

“You need sleep.” he commanded, eyebrows coming together, a small furrow forming between his eyes. He had changed into a thick black tunic, lined with silver with a brooch at his neck. His hand brushed her cheek gently, eyes softening, but the worry returned as he saw her tightly drawn lips, hollow eyes. Her hand came to rest above his heart, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she felt his heart beat, steady and sure underneath her fingertips.

“I am well, my king.” she replied, softly. His finger touched the fur of her collar, and he fought down his scowl. Thorin had dressed her carefully, warmly. It irked him that it was the dwarven king to care for her needs, when it should have been him. What was done was done, it seemed. Nevertheless, he was annoyed.

“Is there something I should know?” Thorin’s voice cut sharply through the moment, and Gadrehal dislodged herself from Thranduil’s embrace, although she was loathe to do so. Her face was red with a blush. She bowed her head, and made to speak.

“I believe it is none of your concern, Thorin,” Thranduil seethed. Gadrehal glanced back at her king, exasperated. The two glared at each other.

“Well, if you two are done, I think refreshment is in order and then sleep.” Dis put herself between the two kings, and rolled her eyes. She smiled warmly up to Gadrehal, and took the small hand in her strong one.

“My son has spoken often and adoringly of you, my lady. Come, you need some hot food, not a pair of hot headed kings.” She shot Thorin a look, but completely ignored the flabbergasted Thranduil, whose face was somewhere between shock, disbelief, and pure anger.

Meekly, Gadrehal followed Dis, her beads and axes and belts tinkled as she walked out Thorin’s majestic sitting room and into a wide open hallway. The sound of fires and voices and wind filled the vacant space, and Dis’ boots made a harsh thumping sound as she walked. She held Gadrehal’s hand tightly, and paid no mind as the two fuming kings followed.

“There we are, I see your senses have returned to you.” she said, more to the two that followed than Gadrehal, who squeezed her hand back. It was rough and warm, and Dis knew where she was going.

“Now Fili and Kili will be most upset if we don’t invite them, I think.” Dis said more to herself and the silence that followed them. Thranduil made no sound as he walked behind them, whereas Thorin’s harsh footsteps echoed in the hall. They passed doors and other dwarves, who bowed and murmured greetings at they passed the royal group. Gadrehal fult a numbness inside her, a sensory overload as huge cut pillars rose around her, the trapped noise of a kingdom under a mountain blanketed her. The light here was darker, the shadows flickering in the sharp corners.

“The line of Durin is very awestruck of you, Maghi,” Dis stated, turning into a wider hallway. Gadrehal looked at Dis, who looked back at her, eyebrows raised. “Fili insists that you like him the most.”

Indistinct shouting could be heard, and the bright waving light of a fire illuminated the hall from an open door towards the end. Tapestries moved in the breeze.

“My braids were better!” the voice was clearer,

“How? You barely have a beard to practice on!”

The sound of wrestling, the soft thuds of bodies hitting the floor and any poor piece of furniture filled the silence. Dis sighed audibly, and let go of her hand. Other voices joined in with laughter, calling out to the two wrestlers, encouraging them, some warning.

“Shall you handle this, Thorin? Or shall I?”

“What is going on?” Thranduil stepped forward, body stiff, and placed a hand on Gadrehal’s shoulder. Her fingers brushed his.

“Just my sons,” Dis sighed. Gadrehal shifted, the shouts - although good natured - caused her to panic. Too soon. She remembered the shouting of the battle, of the orcs that attacked them, the sounds of wounded Elves and the screams of injured horses. The howl of the wargs. She trembled, and turned into Thranduil’s embrace.

“Oh no,” Dis tugged at Gadrehal, and firmly took her hand, and pulled. Gadrehal was a mere doll, her body too limp to obey her, her mind to exhausted to give orders. Thranduil did not tug her back to him, but let Dis lead her down the hall. Her hair soaking in the orange light. Thorin watched as his sister lead Gadrehal into the room.

“Does she always speak this way?” Thranduil asked quietly, amazed at the amount of recalcitrance in one dwarf.

Thorin let out a breath of a chuckle and nodded, “Every damned day.”

Thranduil kept the sigh to himself, and followed Gadrehal. He found her sitting on a low cushioned stool, with the two young brothers around her. Other dwarves milled about the room, jugs and mugs of ale on every available surface.

“I’m sorry, Gadrehal, we did not wish to scare you.” Kili apologized, and Fili nodded.

“We had no idea, truly.”

“Do you like the braids?” Fili asked, smiling broadly. Gadrehal smiled, one hand fingering a small, thin braid that ended with an intricate knot, three silver beads dangled beneath.

“Oh, yes.” she replied.

Fili hit Kili in the arm, “I told you she liked mine better.”

Before any more harm could be done, Thorin entered, and barked, “Boys!”

The two stood at attention, staring at their king and uncle. Thorin shook his head, and glared at his nephews, and heirs. They were unbelievable at times. Thranduil was in the doorway, and let his eyes roam about the large, square room. There was an over turned bench, and plenty of racks on the walls for weapons. Shields hung above the fireplace, glinting with the warm, vivacious light. A soft, but well worn rug, adorned the floor. Some of the dwarves slipped away through other doors, leaving the king and his nephews with the elven maiden and Thranduil.

Dis, Kili, and Fili crowded around Gadrehal, the boys looking upon her with friendship and admiration. She seemed calmer. Dis still held her hand, and Gadrehal wrapped her fingers around the healer’s. Her shoulders were round and relax beneath the tunic, her trembling gone. He felt her ease in his heart. Was this what her soul called for? She spoke quietly to Dis, her lips soft as she spoke. The next step in her healing, perhaps? The faces of those who loved her, who cared for her? To have left her alone in the Woodland would have been a mistake.

She looked up at him, her body relaxing. He saw her fatigue, but he also saw how this company chased away the fear in her.

“Thranduil,” in her contentment she used his given name, but he did not mind. To see her so at ease was enough. He could give her this, if he could not care for her in the way she had needed. He came forward, standing tall above them all. The two brothers eyed him darkly, they had not forgotten their original greetings.

“yes, mela?” He asked, ignoring the brats.

“dortha neva amin.” She murmured, and he came closer, sweeping towards her. His sword hit his leg, and his hand landed on her shoulder. She leaned her head on his arm, breathing in deeply. The talk swirled around them, as Kili and Fili spoke with Thorin. Dis watching the interactions of the two.

“Shall we dine?” Dis finally called out, clapping her hands. “There is a small repast for us waiting in the private dining quarters. I do believe Tauriel, Legolas, and others await our company. It would be rude to keep them as such!”

Dis marched towards the door, and out. Thorin grumbled, and Thranduil helped Gadrehal stand. His hand wrapped around hers. There was no point, any longer, in keeping it secret, to hide Gadrehal and his love for her. His fingers held hers tightly, and she seemed surprised that he did not drop her hand. He went further, and linked their arms.

“My lady,” he whispered.

Thorin watched them, his eyes lingering on the ring on her finger. She smiled at Thorin, her eyes bright. The fear was gone, the darkness once again placed upon its shelf in her soul.

Thranduil held her hand tightly, keeping her close to him. She was strong, his Gadrehal. She had always been strong, and he had seen it the very first day when she tried to thank him where she barely stood. He would never forget, that even in her silence, she had endured and survived. This he had always known, and it was for this he loved her.

“My lady Gadrehal,” Thorin tilted his head, keeping pace with the elven king and the Maghi. “When last we met, it was with a heavy heart I saw in your great despair.”

Thranduil glanced down at the other king, listening to the words he spoke to her.

“But it is now, that I see, I had naught to fear for you. You are strong, my lady, and the darkness flees from you now.”

Thorin opened the door to the dining chamber. It was full of light and laughter, the sweet and hearty aroma of food wafted to them. Plates and culterly clinked as it was passed and moved.

“I welcome you to Erebor, with warmth and good wishes. I am glad to see you so well.”

Gadrehal smiled, and let go of Thranduil. She bent down and hugged Thorin. She stood up, and gave him a deep curtsy.

“It has been your friendship, my lord, that aided me in my darkness moments.” she bowed her head.

Thorin nodded, and felt, if anything, some part of the darkness in the world had been diminished. As much as he loathed the elven king, he had least brought some light into her soul.

“Come, sit, and eat.” Thorin ushered them into the dining chamber, where they were greeted with a loud, celebratory cry.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal stirred, restless in the darkness of her quarters. The stone walls kept in the chill, and the fire had long smoldered into hot ash and blackness. Thick fur trimmed woolen quilts covered the bed, goose down pillows were tossed about. Thranduil used two of them, sleeping soundly next to her, one leg tossed across hers. He always slept with such abandon, and after the fuss he made about sleeping inside the mountain kingdom, she was surprised he slept at all.

Instead, it was her who lay awake, trying to remain still and silent in the wee hours of the morning. Her legs ached from riding and swimming, her muscles sore and sensitive. It it was too difficult to lay still, nothing felt comfortable, her body protesting if she moved or did not. Her mouth was too dry, her body too full of aches, and her mind too loud for sleep to come. She closed her eyes, held them tightly shut, willing her body to fall back into slumber, even if it was fitful.

Her eyes opened to the dark again, and watched the shadows waver. Thranduil sighed, and shifted, moving away from her. She rolled over to watch him, feel the heat of his body, the blonde of his hair barely visible in the absolutely darkness. It was never this dark in the woodland realm, the windows bringing in moonlight even in the deepest of the night. It was not so in Erebor.

With a soft sigh, Gadrehal rolled out of the bed, her feet hitting the chilly stone floor, sending shivers up her spine. She looked over her shoulder at the sleeping king, who took no notice of her absence. She grabbed his robe, and swung it over her shoulders. It dwarfed her, the sleeves ending past her hands. She tied it closed, and padded quietly out of their bedroom.

Once again she paused, waiting for him to move or call out, but nothing came. He still slept. Although odd, he had become attuned to her sleeping next to him and usually woke if she left the bed, but with the wound and eventful day, his exhaustion ran deep. She found one the enchanted crystals the dwarves were so found of using for light, and slipped it into a pocket in the robe. The rooms were dark as pitch, and she stood, still and listening, for another moment longer. Even the air did not move, the scent of fresh embers tickled her nose, and she pictured in her mind where she was.

Her fingers wrapped around the crystal in her pocket, and stealing her mind, pushing away the fear, she left the guest quarters Thorin gave her and the king. The hallway was dimly lit around her, and eerily silent after the constant buzz of activity from earlier. Now all slept it seemed, but her. Deserted as the stone passages were, she felt at ease as she silently padded about. The dwarves had such a magnificent way of carving the steps and walls that the maze around her was like walking through the forest, wide and winding. Tapestries fluttered, and she found it surprisingly warm. But Thorin had mentioned at their feast earlier that the enormous kilns and smelters were always lit, and thus their heat pervaded the kingdom, night and day.

As she passed through, her stomach began to feel empty, and her tongue felt heavy and dry in her mouth. She had eaten little at the feast, no matter how much Thranduil and Thorin filled her golden plate with sumptious food. She knew it had been a mistake to miss the meal, but her mind was still so overwhelmed with Dis and the brothers and the food and laughter. Her body shut down when too much came her way. And now, she regretted that decision.

She turned down the next hallway, and began to pick her way towards the royal kitchens, which she hoped would be empty. She did not desire to explain her presence there to Thorin or her own sleeping king. And as she grew closer, she saw a red glow under the door, it flickered as shadows crossed before it. She bit her lip, and her stomach grumbled softly.

The door opened.

And Legolas popped his head out, and smiled broadly as he saw her.

“My lady Gadrehal!” he motioned for her to come forward, “please join us!” He offered his head to her, and warily, Gadrehal took it.

He had been added to her ever growing list of those who fretted over her. He gently pulled her forward, and guided her through the door. She was greeted loudly by Fili and Kili and Gimili. A red haired elf maiden sitting demurely on a high stool smiled at her.

“Tea?” she asked. Gadrehal nodded silently, as Legolas pulled out a stool for her. The large cooking hearth was behind her, the fire warming her back and legs. The elf maiden handed her a small mug of steaming tea, the green leaves still floating around the surface. Gadrehal held the warm ceramic in both hands, letting it seep into her chilly skin.

“What are you doing wandering about my lady?” Gimili asked, refilling his wooden tankard from a barrel in the corner.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she mumbled a reply, breathing in the steam and the aroma of sweet bread.

“Are you hungry?” Legolas asked, offering her a plate of fresh breads. Gadrehal smiled in gratitude as she took a slice, it was soft and warm.

“I do not believe we have met, my lady.” the red haired elf smiled broadly, dressed in a blue tunic that matched Kili’s. She gave Gadrehal a small bow, one hand on her back, the other on her heart. She wore a brown leather belt with an elven short sword. “I am Tauriel.”

Gadrehal nodded and finished chewing her slice of bread, it filled her empty stomach, and she craved more. She slipped from the stool, and gave a small curtsey, clutching her mug of tea and bowing her head, brown hair slipping over her shoulders.

“I am Gadrehal,”

Tauriel’s smile widened, and she gave Legolas a knowing look.

“So you are the Gadrehal.”

Gadrehal plopped back onto the stool, and took a long sip of tea, ignoring the sting on her tongue from the heat. The back of the robes felt warm against her lower back and shoulders, along her neck. Although she felt slightly drowsy, the heat warmed her aching body nicely, relaxing the tense and overworked muscles.

“I do not understand your inflection.” Gadrehal responded, glancing at Legolas and Gimili.

“I have heard much about you,” Tauriel informed her, moving her own seat to be closer to Gadrehal. She stiffened as Tauriel touched her hand, and Legolas watched as Gadrehal studied his friend. Her face was blank, but not serene.

“You mean to say you have heard of me in relation with the king.” Gadrehal’s voice held no malice or ill content. And, in many ways, Gadrehal was not wrong. Her relationship with his father was a frequent topic of rumor and conversation, here and back in the Woodland realm. True, the king had..dalliances with elf maidens throughout the centuries. But nothing had come close to touching what he had with the elf sitting in front of him now. He was not surprised that Gadrehal knew this. She seemed to know more than she let on. She was quiet, but observant.

“Bah!” Fili exclaimed, cutting himself more of a thick dark bread, “who cares about that king?”

“I told Tauriel all about your little stunt today,” Gimili wagged a finger at her, then took a long drink. He belched, and his cheeks turned as red as his beard, “jumping off the cliff like that!”

“It was foolish,” Gadrehal mumbled, her eyes downcast.

“It was the bravest thing I heard all day!” Fili thumped his fist on the table, “stabbing the orc in his neck,” he made a slashing motion, followed by an exaggerated spin, “and then,” he jumped and squatted, “into the lake you went.”

“You should have seen it Tauriel,” Kili turned to the elf, and took her hand, his thumb rubbing her palm. “She was bobbing in the water, a Warg swimming after her, arrows buzzing around her head, and she just calmly swam towards the shore.”

Gadrehal laughed as Kili mimicked her short strokes,

“It was not as calmly as it seemed, Master Kili!”

Legolas passed Gadrehal more bread, who took is graciously. Tarueil gazed adoringly at Kili for a moment before turning back to Gadrehal.

“Only kind words have been spoken of you.” she reassured her, “They are quite smitten, as is their uncle.”

Gadrehal felt herself blush as she focused on eating her newest slice of bread and cheese, that Legolas, it seemed, consistently supplied her with.

“As is my father,” Legolas smirked, and leaned against the thick wooden block of a table, covered in flour and raisins and a myriad of cooking utensils. Gadrehal looked away, but Legolas laughed.

“Tis not a secret!” Gimili told her, nodding and smiling. “Never thought I’d see the day when that pompous bag of silk found it in him.”

Legolas nudged Gimili with his foot and gave him a stern look that Gimili studiously ignored, and the dwarf threw a slice of bread at his friend. “See? Now I wasted a decent slice of bread on ya, you overgrown elfling.” the dwarf grumbled, making a show of slathering another piece with butter and cheese.

Gadrehal hid her chuckle behind a slip of tea, but Tauriel gave her another small smile. “Sometimes I think Legolas has never grown.” Tauriel murmured conspiratorially, a twinkle in her eye. Gadrehal shot a quick look to Legolas who said something to the brothers and Gimili.

“And I pray to the Valar I never do!” he shot back at Tauriel. The quick and easy banter gave away the fast friendship between the five around her, their laughter a delight to her.

“I loathe the day another Thranduil begins to walk around,” Fili griped, opening a small oven and removing two more loaves of brown seed bread and placing them carefully on the table. “A frightening thought indeed!” T

he smell made Gadrehal’s mouth water.

“He is not as bad as you make him seem.” Gadrehal ventured, holding her mug out for more tea as Tauriel poured. Gimili barked out a harsh laugh, and shook his head.

“He likes you,” Gimili stated flatly.

“More like adores you.” Legolas offered. Gadrehal felt her face grow hot again.

“My father has never liked anyone.”

“He is a bit of a grouch.” Kili added, “he has never forgiven me for putting Yule lights on his deer that one time.”

“It’s an elk,” Tauriel and Legolas corrected simultaneously.

“Which always made me wonder why Thorin and Thranduil never got along.” Fili wondered aloud, “I have never seen a pair more stubborn and grumpy.” He turned back towards the ground, smiling behind his blonde bear, beads tinkling.

Legolas lowered his voice, “Ack, those dwarves are too dirty, they might get grime on my beautiful silver robe,” Legolas flipped his hair over his shoulder dramatically.

“I have gotten dirt on his robes before,” Gadrehal interjected, her eyebrows lowering, “and he did not mind then.”

“Eh, these elves, so prissy.” Kili puffed out his chest, and strutted over to stand before Legolas, “Too shiny and breakable. Where is the master burglar?” Kili made a show off parading around the kitchen. Gadrehal tried to choke down her laugh, and tea caught in her throat.

“My kingdom is so vast,” Legolas sighed, waving his hand a similar manner as his father, “Where is my wine and my elk?”

Gadrehal covered her mouth with her hand, laughing behind her fingers. A small worm of guilt sat in the back of her mind, but she could not help but laugh at the exaggerated actions of Legolas and Kili.

“Why do you not fawn over me, my lady?” Legolas gave her a mock look, pouting. “To the dungeons with her!” Gimili laughed as Legolas brandished a long baguette in place for his father’s staff.

“You know nothing, Thranduil!” Kili strutted over to stand before Gadrehal, his hands on his hips, chin stuck out in an act of defiance, even as he barely kept his laughter in.

“I shall protect this lady! Because I must shelter and nurture anything that is remotely small and likes to garden!”

“Kili -” Fili murmured and Tauriel stood up.

“You little dwarf king, bow before me for I am old and like my wine!” Legolas felt the laughter bubble up inside his chest as he tried to wipe any expression from his face, his head raised high, waving an empty goblet around.

“I fail to see how wine has anything to do with passing judgment, Legolas.” Thranduil’s voice was harsh, and cut through the merriment like an axe in full swing. Legolas closed his eyes, and his shoulder went stiff.

“It seems we have mummers, not heirs.” Thorin’s voice was equally as harsh as the two stepped through the door, faces drawn tightly. Gadrehal got to her feet, mouth gaping and she curtsied. Fili and Kili stepped from around the table, and bowed stiffly to their uncle.

“We meant no harm, Thorin.” Kili explained, looking his uncle in the eye, and not backing away. Thorin’s face did not change as he glanced over at his nephew, and then Tauriel, and then lastly at Gadrehal.

“What are you doing out of bed, Gadrehal?” Thranduil asked, looking a bit more exhausted and strained.

“My king, I...” she stopped, and took a step backwards, she looked at Legolas, then Gimili, “I could not sleep. I was restless.” She paused, taking in a breath, the bread weighing heavily in her stomach.

“She was hungry, my lord.” Tauriel interjected, coming to stand next to Gadrehal.

“I did not ask you Tauriel,” Thranduil snapped, “There is no need to answer for her, when she has a capable enough voice.”

Gadrehal flinched at the whip crack of his words, and stepped closer to Tauriel, her shoulder brushing against her arm. Gadrehal fought down her instinctive reaction to raised voices, her mind immediately returning the days of Samhi and how he screamed at her. Although she looked upon her king, the hardness of his voice immediately pushed her back.

“My king, it is true.” Gadrehal murmured, her muscles screaming as her body tensed.

“Ada, we only jest.” Legolas finally turned on his father, and stood between Gadrehal and Thranduil.

“Do not mock us, boy” Thorin growled, with a rough movement, he motioned for Gimili to leave. The red haired dwarf bowed, and snuck away, leaving the royals to battle amongst themselves.

“I do not appreciate being laughed at, Legolas.” But his eyes traveled to Gadrehal, they were hard and unforgiving.

“My lord, there is no harm.” Gadrehal stepped forward, but then hesitated. She looked down, and shuffled on her bare feet. “It was only for laughter.”

Thranduil’s face remained impassive, but Legolas saw Thorin’s face soften.

“You do like wine, Thranduil.” a smile ghosted across Thorin’s face, “and in fact, if it weren’t for those empty barrels, we might still be stuck in your dungeons.” Legolas watched his father’s face, smooth and composed as always, but now with a tight jaw and a small vein throbbing over his eye. He looked down at Thorin. Gadrehal watched Thranduil wrangle with the urge to hit the dwarf king.

“Do not speak of this, when it was your own stubbornness that landed you in the dungeons. I was patient, I was content to wait,” Thranduil seethed, bending down into Thorin’s face.

“You had no right demand jewels from me!” Thorin narrowed his eyes and suddenly the old argument was alighted anew, and the two kings griped at each other.

Tauriel sighed and rolled her eyes. Gadrehal watched as the two kings spat insults at each other, and she looked at Legolas and Tauriel, who looked weary and bored. This was obviously not the first occasion for this age old argument to take place. Gadrehal felt weary herself. Her panic had died down, but her body still ached, her mind felt too heavy to think, and all she wanted to peace. Really, all she wanted to begin with was a to be alone and a piece of bread. Somehow an angry Thranduil had landed in her lap instead.

“My king,” she gingerly stepped forward, and crossed her arms, bunching the silk fabric of the robe. Thranduil spun to look at her, and Gadrehal stood on her toes to reach up and give him a small kiss on his cheek. He froze.

“Do not think that will lessen my ire with you.” he whispered harshly. She nodded, accepting his anger.

“Yes, my king.” she replied solemnly, she linked her hand into his. He glanced down at their linked hands, and scowled at her as he squeezed her fingers.

“Come to bed with me?” she murmured softly, tugging gently. He gazed down at her, then shot his son an angered look. Legolas remained motionless, but he knew any punishment to be doled out was much less severe if Gadrehal hadn’t worked whatever magic she held over him. Even Tauriel seemed more relaxed.

Thorin shot his two nephews a look, “my chambers, tomorrow.” With a passing glance at Tauriel, he huffed and crossed his heavily muscled arms over his white night tunic. He ignored Thranduil as he stormed away, but most his fury was spent on the pompous blonde king currently melting under the gaze of his own beloved.

Gadrehal left soon after the dwarven king, Thranduil keeping in step with her, torn between his wounded pride and the soft pressure of her hand in his.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal tugged at his hand as she lead her quiet way back to their guest quarters, the ends of his robe brushing the floor. It was too long, too wide, too big for her petite frame. Her hair was mildly dissheveled and cast around her shoulders. Her hand was warm and firm in his.

With a forward lunge, Thranduil swooped her up, and hung her over his shoulder. She squeaked, and her hands clutched at his sleeping tunic. One hand held her legs, and the other softly pressed against her lower back.

“This is less than ideal, Thranduil,” she murmured, her breath rushing out of her with every step of his. She groaned, and her fingers tightened.

“Then walk faster.” he responded quickly, his stride long and even. She grumbled, and thumped her head against his back. He patted her, and she sighed deeply, her breath stirring the fabric of his tunic. The halls rushed by, but Gadrehal squeezed her eyes shut, his shoulder cutting into her stomach. Although, he barely noticed her weight, his hands held her in place.

When they reached their chambers, he plopped her down on the soft bed, and she bounced on the soft feathery mattress. He stood above her, hands on his hips, and glared down at her. He did not look pleased. She curled on her side, and gave him a soft smile.

His mouth twitched, and he leaned down, face mere inches from hers. He went to speak but gave him a quick kiss instead. Then another kiss on his jaw. He grumbled, but then her hands grasped his face, and pulled him down. He toppled onto the bed, his arms holding him above her. She giggled as she peppered kisses on his face, his lips, his necks.

“Please do not be too angry with me, my king,” she purred, one hand running through his hair, and another trailing down his chest, passing over his hip. His reaction was immediate, and only for a passing moment, unwanted.

He pressed into her, and she lifted her hips, grinding into him, her mouth capturing his possessively. He felt his anger dissipate, and his shoulders soften as her fingers danced under his tunic. She hummed as she tugged on his lip, and he responded by pushing his robe off her shoulders. He stood, and scooped her up, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.

He leaned her against her against a wall, and buried his face into the crook of her neck. He bit and sucked at the sensitive skin, and she wiggled against him, moaning, her breath slipping out of her. His hands pressed into her back, his lips pressed against her neck, his erection pressed against the wonderfully warm space between her thighs, and he felt desire burn through him.

“My lady,” his kissed his way to her jaw, then to the soft area behind her ear that he knew she particularly enjoyed, “I am quite angry,” he moved to cup her bottom, and shift her closer to him. His lips ghosted over her skin, he felt her blush, her night shift bunched around her waist.

“Yes, my king,” she breathed, voice soft as the kisses he littered across every inch of skin his mouth could find.

“Quite angry,” he reiterated, one hand leaving her legs and moving to her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she arched into his touch.

“I can see that, my king,” she whispered, moaning deeply as his lips kissed their way from the valley between her breasts to her nipple. He lifted his head, and gazed at her, his eyes alight with lust and passion, his lips red from kissing her.

“Do not test me, Gadrehal.” Her hand slipped between their bodies, and she grasped his hardness, gently, rubbing him. He gritted his teeth, and let his head drop to her chest.

With one swift movement, he turned them around and sat her on an empty desk, her legs stilled wrapped around his waist, one hand in her hair and the other massaging her breast. He wanted her, and wanted her to know it. He managed to disrobe himself, and he stood naked before her. She was panting, her body flushed and warm.

He kissed his way down her body, lingering on her stomach, thighs, before one more delving between her legs. She yelped when his tongue touched her. One hand slid up her body, and when it reached the valley between her breasts, he pushed her down and held her still. He kissed her again, tongue running around the nub of pleasure, she moaned and her hips swiveled, her whimpers making his blood run hot. He licked at her, then pulled back, giving a quick kiss to her inner thigh.

“Gadrehal,” he whispered, gentling biting at her thigh. Her answer with a low whimper, “do not anger me like that again.”

“Y-yes, Thranduil,” she whispered, her breath hitching, her fingers grasping at the empty desk. He put his mouth to her again, tasting the sweet wetness, and let two fingers of his free hand slip inside her. She cried out, and tried to sit up. He pushed her back down, chuckling, and finding a rhythm. Her breathy sighs gave him the cue he needed, and he quickened his pace. When she reached the apex of her pleasure, she yelped and her voice went up an octave. He smiled, before kissing her thigh, leaving her limp and panting, her eyes closed as she bit her lip. He stood up, and kissed her navel, then the space between her breasts, and finally her lips.

“Thranduil...” she murmured, her hands holding his face as she gently kissed him back. He kissed her neck, and eased her off the desk, before turning him around. She was pliant to his whims, and leaned forward. One hand lifted the shift, moving it away from her waist, and fisting the soft cream fabric, the other held her hips as he slid into her. She made a soft mewling sound, and his face dipped to her shoulder again, kissing her back, the nape of her neck under her sweet smelling hair. His thrusted deeply, over and over, kissing her, murmuring to her, holding her close to his chest. When his hand slammed to the desk as he increased his pace, hers covered it, clutching at his long fingers.

“Thranduil,” she gasped, her body moving fluidly with his. He arched over her, and his other hand flattened against her stomach, pressing her into him. She moaned, and he kissed her shoulder. He reached his apex with a grunt, and his arms immediately wrapping around her.

She seemed to loose herself, her body softening and her hands grasping at his arms, her head rolling into his chest. He nuzzled her, and sighed. He felt exhaustion hit him hard.

“Come, my king, to bed.” He did not respond, but moved away from her. She turned around and let her arms drift around his middle.

“Ah, my lady, what do you do to me?” he murmured, ushering them both towards the waiting bed.

They collapsed together, tangling into each other’s arms. And even though he knew dawn was fast approaching, Thranduil let her nestle into him, her body melting in the heat of his embrace. He took in a deep breath, and felt the aches and anger of his body fade from him. As much as his wound pride had protested at the sight of her laughing at his son’s foolhardy mimic of him, he could not help but enjoy the sound of her laugh. He could not help but love her and let his soul ease at her presence.

He had always thought it was he meant to heal her, but now he saw how much she returned it. Her breath was soft and cool, her hair mingled with his. He gave her a quick kiss to the forehead, before fading into a soft slumber himself. Tomorrow was a day he dreaded, and wished the hours to be long before he woke.

Chapter Text

Thranduil felt himself ease as he watched Gadrehal, accompanied by Tauriel, leave the council chamber. He sat with Elrond and Haldir, Legolas beside the emissary from Lothlorien. Only Glorfidel was present, his lord, Turin, off fighting in the north. The legions of Urak-hai have attacked, and their onslaught was relentless.

Thorin sat proudly at the head of the chamber, elegantly dressed, and playing the part of the king very well. His nephews were nowhere in sight, and Balin sat on the right of the king. Dain beside him. King Elessar along with King Eomer buffered the Elves from the dwarves, but even Thranduil noted it was not needed. They were all within agreement, it was merely strategy.

Gadrehal gave her words, but did not condone war. She spoke evenly of the evils done by the traders of Rhun, but worse the deeds of the Necromancer. Thranduil wanted to stand with her, hold her hand as her voice cracked, speaking of the horrors she herself witnessed. As much as she wanted the Necromancer vanquished, she could not see any more lives lost.

Her words moved him, but Thranduil could not so easily stand by. There was a blood debt owed, and he planned to collect. He tilted his chin upwards.

“We are all agreed.” he said, the doors closing behind his beloved with a sharp crack. Heads nodded.

“The Eorlings will protect the south, but shall send fifty spearman.” Eomer offered, his golden brow gleaming with his crown. Thorin nodded. The room was heavy with smoke from the ceremonial torches on the wall. A large fire flickered and snapped in a round fire pit in the middle of the room, and those invited to attend the council sat around it. 

“We must protect our homelands, maundering orcs have come south. In failed attempts to sway us.” The dwarven king spoke, his voice even and matter of fact. Yet one thick fist held the pommel of Orcrist.

“They only fuel our anger!” Dain banged his fist on the chair, “They aim to take from us! Let them feel the heat of our fury.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. As much as he agreed, no need for such displdisays. Thranduil was once again in his black tunic, silver broach, and small entwined circlet. He had no staff, but only one of his swords hung at his hip. He glanced at Elrond, who gave him a look. Thranduil ignored it.

“No need for such...spectacles, Dain.” Thranduil scoffed, “I believe we are all agreement here on what must be done.”

“Oh, like you are one to talk, Thranduil?” Dain spat back. From the corner of his eye, Thranduil watched Elessar put his head into his hand and Eomer scrub his face with both leather roughed hands. Haldir held back his annoyed sigh. Thorin looked amused.

Balin cleared his throat, drawing the attention to himself, “I believe what King Thranduil means to say, less theatrics and let us begin on a war council. Let us not waste time bickering” he gave a pointed look to Dain, then another Thranduil, who raised one eyebrow elegantly. “And more time on devising a plan. Time is of the essence. Already much has been lost, and I dare say, let no more be.”

Murmurs of agreement filtered throughout the room. “So, to begin, we need troops, supplies, commanders, and weapons....”

~~

Gadrehal paced around her quarters, Dis and Tauriel watching her closely. She had bounced from tears to wringing hands to sitting so still they were unsure if she was lost in her mind or not. She refused food, refused to put anything on her feet, refused to speak. Tauriel had seen, many times, the affects of war. She had seen the darkness that leeches onto the souls of those in battle, and stays with them until they flee to the halls of the Valar. But never had she seen such darkness as was in Gadrehal’s soul.

Yet, Tauriel was not surprised. If what she was told of the horror this poor Maghi went through at the hands of the Rhun trader, she was more shocked at how well she handled day to day activity. 

But Thranduil played a hand in that, didn’t he?

“I need to be outside.” Gadrehal stated as she silently slipped through the doors, catching the two off guard. Dis jumped up, bustling after the quick footed elf. Tauriel strode behind them. She placed a hand on Dis’ shoulder,

“Do not make any sudden movements, do not touch her, and do not raise your voice.” Tauriel warned as they followed behind Gadrehal.

Dis shot a disdainful look at Tauriel. It seemed only two individuals could make them sit in the same room: her son and Gadrehal.

“It is battle sickness.” Tauriel explained, hoping that might help.

“I know what battle sickness is, girl,” Dis snapped, “why do you think I’m a healer? To stitch up babies?”

Tauriel did not respond, but the more they wandered around the complex corridors of Erebor, the more agitated Gadrehal became. Her breath hiccuped, and her shoulders shook. Gadrehal spun around to face her two companions,

“Take me outside. I can’t be in here.” she begged, putting her hands into Tauriel’s and her face twisted into a grimace of sorrow. “Please, please.”

Tauriel suspected what she needed was Thranduil and whatever stubborn comfort he offered her. But instead, Tauriel merely nodded and gently brought Gadrehal to her side, slipping her arm into hers. Her dress brushed the smooth stone hallway. Tauriel's won tunic and hose in the dark green she favored contrasted drastically with the small elf, currently holding to her arm with a strength born out of madness and desperation. 

Tauriel watched Gadrehal speak at the council, her words at first strong and sure, but as she spoke of the reprehensible horrors of the Necromancer, her composure cracked around her. Whatever wall she was building between her past and now crumbled. And no one was surprised. To have survived what she spoke of was a feat of strength they all admired. To speak of it in front of kings and lords was to pick at the mortar and tear it down.

Tauriel happily escorted her from the council chambers and into her sitting room. Dis waited, but Gadrehal was in the throes of a battle of the soul. She lay in between the vestiges of the past which blackened her soul and the light of the present. It was a war she would rage for years to come, Tauriel knew. Battle sickness as she had, had never been seen. So, if Tauriel could give her a small reprieve through sunlight, then she would do just that for the young Maghi.

As Dis knocked on the unadorned double doors, she heard shuffling from behind them. Gadrehal clutched at Tauriel’s hands, her breath rough and uneven. Her eyes looked strained, her mouth a thin line on her face. It was rare, but battle sickness sometimes manifested in physical pain. Gadrehal shivered, and her body quaked with whatever pain she felt inside. She clung to something inside her as to not fall into the pit.

And then Bilbo appeared, opening the door and smiling. “In time for tea!” he chirped, but upon spotting Gadrehal he looked displeased, frowning.

“What happened to this one? Come in, come in.” he ushered them into his bright warm library turned sitting room. He shut the door. But Gadrehal had collapsed and curled up in a wide streak of sunlight with soft groan.

“Am I missing something?” He put his hands in his waist coat pockets and walked around, albeit stiffly. He had grown old in the long years in Erebor, and by some trick of the elves had remained a live long ere the normal years of hobbits. Tauriel did not ask, and Thorin did not speak of it. His curly hair had grown white, and his face and middle softened with age.

“May we take her into your garden? Dis asked, not bothering with nicities. Bilbo glanced at the small elf, and had a inkling of who she was. He picked up his pipe from the table, and did not bother looking at the dwarf and the Silven elf. 

“Tsk, tsk,” he plodded over to her, and patted her shoulder. “Come, mistress weaver, I believe it is gardens you like? I have winter roses in bloom, although much of the rest is bare.”

Gadrehal nodded numbly and stood up, following the small curly haired creature before her. Bilbo smiled, and stuck out a foot. He wiggled his hairy toes.

“bare foot is better.” Gadrehal gave him a wan smile, and Tauriel watched as he took her hand and lead her out onto the beautiful terraced gardens Thorin built for him. Dis looked at Tauriel, and moved away to pour herself some tea.

“Poor thing.” Dis mumbled, shaking her head. “I see this, and I wonder how she made it here in one piece. She can stab an orc but cannot talk about her own past?”

“Battle sickness affects us in many ways.” Tauriel shot a look to Dis, before watching Gadrehal sit next to Bilbo. The hobbit, to his credit, pointed out the landscape with his long pipe, motioned to his roses, and remained very serene in the face of such a display of darkness.

“It is more than battle sickness.” Dis countered, “she has a touch of madness about her.” Dis sighed unhappily and sipped at her tea.

Tauriel had nothing to say to that. She sat down on a cushioned bench, looking around at Bilbo’s room, full of books and warm books and maps. Sting was hung above the fireplace, shining brilliantly as always.

“I too had a difficult time adjusting after the Battle of the five armies, you must know,” she heard Bilbo tell, he took a puff of his pipe, blowing smoke into the wind. “Blood and battle are hard on a heart,” he nodded. He patted Gadrehal’s hand as she stared out over the mountain and the wilds between here and the lake and the great city of Dale.

“Yes, Master Bilbo,” she replied, voice wispy and soft. Her eyes roved over the terrain, and Bilbo suddenly felt that if he let her, she would go bounding off down the side of the mountain.

“There is only so much room for pain before you are split open and all you feel comes leaking out. I cannot control it, these urges, these memories. They string me to the past like a yoke on a horse, and no matter the light that shines through to the darkness, still they linger.”

Bilbo took a long drag on his pipe, and then exhaled the smoke in a ring. He remained silent, then waved his pipe towards the sunlit lands around them.

“Then let them linger. The more you try to forget the greater the hold they have on you.” he gestured towards the great dark splotch of forest so many leagues away, “we may cut down trees in the forest, but they will always return with a vengeance. If you ignore your memories, their vines and weeds will only overrun your garden, choking out any happiness you have now.”

Gadrehal did not move, did not respond, but only tilted her face towards the sunlight. She lost some of her tension, and sat in the sunlight for many long moments. The sky stretched out beyond and above them, endlessly dancing with rays of sunlight and long fingers of white clouds. Although a winter breeze blew over the lands, it ruffled her hair and dress, still she saw mesmerized by his words or the world, Bilbo did not know. She sat very still, and he could almost sense her disquiet, her soul climbing from whatever place it sunk her to. 

“Do not fret, I shall return.” She gave him a simple smile, and before Bilbo could utter another word, she was up and over the wall.

Tauriel ran outside and watched her fleeing form hop over boulders and rocks, her bare feet making more progress than Tauriel thought possible. Dis joined them as Tauriel prepared to dash after her, watching Gadrehal’s dress flutter about her.

“Thorin warned me she did this.”

“Run off?” Tauriel questioned.

“Yes.”

“And you did not feel the need to tell me when she desired to be out of the mountain?”

Dis shrugged, “No.”

And then she turned back to return to the warmth of the sitting room. Bilbo watched her disappear, his eyes were not as good as they once were. Tauriel stood long, watching her charge run through the grassy knolls. Even after she disappeared, Tauriel waited.

“Will she come back?” Bilbo asked, looking at his friend of many years. Tauriel looked over her shoulder at him, saw his worried face, and softened her own look. She nodded, although she did not know truly if she would return. There was a sharp knock on the door, and Bilbo hurried to check.

Tauriel knew who entered the chambers before she saw him. She had done her best to avoid the king who once sheltered her. But it seemed fate had another idea. He joined her on her terrace, but seemed more nonplussed at Gadrehal’s absence than she would have thought.

Thranduil stood tall, hands behind his back, studiously ignoring Dis’ complaints at his presence, and peered over the edge of the wall. His golden hair soaked in the sunlight, and his smooth face showed as much of his thoughts as a marble statue.

“When did she leave?” he asked plainly.

“About two hours ago,” Tauriel replied, pointedly not adding a title of respect. He said nothing. His eyes seemed to follow some trail that Tauriel did not see.

With a graceful jump, the king himself was over the wall and then leisurely making his way down the side of the mountain.

“Careful now! We would hate to see you dirty your boots my lord!” Dis called out, scowling. He made no reply but continued to stroll downwards.

Chapter Text

There were no paths on the western side of the mountain, the orange light of the fading sun lit up the crags and the rocks, the grass mostly dead and brown, which crunched under his booted feet. Her trail was easy to follow to his trained eye. She was barefoot, which irked him, as it always did. It was winter, did she realize how dangerous the chill was to her? Foolish.

He wove around rocks, his pace steady. He was certain enough to make enough noise - although it was difficult for him, as an elf he walked rather silently. But he realized spooking her while in such a state was not wise either. His cloak was draped over his arm, and his sword bounced against his leg as he trod over the rocky terrain. The sun was almost warm on his face, but the crisp wind pushed his hair over his shoulders. Whatever was she doing out here? The mountain must be waring on her, as he feared. Trapped inside such a confined stony space could not be good for her.

He kept the scowl from his face, following her tracks with ease. She was not very good at covering them. The elf left more destruction than a hungry bear crashing about the brush.

When he found her, she was sprawled on a rocky ledge, skirt pushed up to her thighs, and legs draped over the side. Her arms were laid out, and her face was turned to the side. The wind made her hair whip around her shoulders and head. Her eyes were closed, but wild winter flowers - Valar knows where she found them - were tangled in her unbound hair and clutched in her hands. She was wild and untamable, silent as the tree grows, steady and sure. And she was as silent as his forest, wasn’t she? He could never control her, never stop her. Her steady, silent companionship....

What could have been a lump formed in his throat, but he ignored it and continued to walk towards her. Her breathing was even, and the flame of the sunset illuminated her.

“Gadrehal,” he called softly, and her fingers twitched, but she made no sign she heard him, in truth he was almost certain she was asleep. He squatted above her head, and his fingers carressed away hair from her serene face. But the wind crashed into them here on this ledge, and he saw the valley open before him.

Ah. The scene was magnificent. So far above, he could see beyond to the edges of his kingdom, the river a glistening dark streak cutting through the darker green forest. The city of Dale rose at the far end of the valley, perched above the smooth blue waters of the Long Lake. The sun hit the roofs of the city, making them glow, the sharp streaks of glinting light off the clear glass of high windows. The world was at her feet here, the wind singing to her through the valleys and the rocks. His untamable love sleeping peacefully in a place many would fear to tread. How was it here she felt no tremors? On the edge of such wilderness, such vastness?

“My people grew in the wild,” Startled, he looked down at her. So in touch with the land before him he did not hear her stir. She smiled at him, eyes clear and bright.

“We were wild flowers among the grasses, sleeping under the moon and stars. We had no halls of splendor such as yours, we made no weapons as in Gondolin.” Once again her eyes closed, but Thranduil did not speak. He brushed the stray strands of hair from her cheek, and her fingers danced on the back of his hand before ghosting away. She rarely spoke of her people, of the time before. This was a gem she gave him, more precious the golden jewels that Thorin hoarded deep within the mountain.

She sat up unexpectedly, her fingers crushing the flowers she held. Their dark purple petals stained her fingers, and she sighed deeply through her nose. She tilted her head back, her hair almost touching the ground.

“We wove, we sang,” and she bounced to her feet, standing dangerously close to the edge, and she raised her arms above her head, “we danced and cooked. We...we read and wrote and dipped pens into ink and wrote down the histories of the world around us. We climbed trees and made flowers bloom. We did nothing important in this great world except live in it.”

“I grew in the wild, Thranduil.” she threw the flowers into the wind, watching as they floated away and down, catching and falling on the rocks beyond her feet. “And it is the wild in me that rebels in such places. Here is the last place I shall find of my home, here on the edge of the wilds. In the rivers that are all rivers and in the wind that is all wind of the world.”

She peered down, arms out to give her balance, and Thranduil fought down the urge to grab her and bring her away from the edge. Yet he knew, she needed to speak. It was his duty to listen, not lord over her, in this instance. For a good king knows when to heed the words of his people, and when to command.

When she looked at him, there was a flush to her face and a gleam in her eyes. Nothing mischevious, not the light he saw in her when they joined themselves, or the rare times she teased him. This was the light of the wild, the untamed spirit of the Maghi who danced around the northern forests and mountains, only taking shelter in the deepest of winters, who skipped through fields with little cares, who climbed trees and sang songs to the clouds. This was a glimpse of the carefree elf from when she was young.

He touched her shoulder, and she turned around, her smile small, half crazed, half soft. He cupped her face, and leaned down to kiss her. Her lips were chapped, but yielding. She pulled away reluctantly.

“I shall stand on a precipice until the end of my days, my king,” she murmured, her hands slipping into his hair.

She felt the golden burning rays of sunlight on her chilled neck, on her feet. The rocks were rough underneath her, pebbles digging into her skin, keeping her focused on the ground beneath her, around her. The wind tugged at her dress, her hair, slapping against her bare hands and cheeks. Here the wind was as cold as Fornost in the autumn, when the Maghi gathered for the Solstice festival, with ripe bonfires and deep songs, never ending laughter and the flap of thickly woven tapestries and blankets. The aromas of sweet bread and sizzling stag lingered with the smell of mountain lavender and junipers. The rhythm of the dances beat away in her heart, her legs remained still even as her mind remembered the steps to each dance, her hands feeling the silken strands of Thranduil’s hair even as they longed for those of her family, as they spun around a fire, the stars fading in the grand roar of the fires.

“Then let me stand with you,” he brought her closer, folding her tightly into his arms, letting the wind rush around them, the sun falling coldly on them. She murmured contentedly, and he felt her pain subside. The wild in her subdued, for now. She pulled back, and stood on her toes to kiss him. It was soft, and she tasted of the wind around her, her face red and her hair windswept. The mountain air did her well, if the darkness beneath them did not. He pushed her hair behind her ears, and gave her a small smile of his own.

“Come, let us be away from this wind.” he urged, giving her a gentle tug in the direction of Bilbo’s terraced gardens. She took a small step away from the ledge, but looked behind her, looked towards the great expanse of land and grass and winter desolation that lay at her feet.

“Bilbo told me to not run from my memories.” she looked back at him, and her eyes were wide and helpless. Thranduil considered this.

“I believe Bilbo is wise.”

“But my memories hurt me. Like pebbles under my feet.” she looked down, and Thranduil quirked an eyebrow. He kept his admonishment voiceless.

“They will always sting, Gadrehal.” he spoke softly, “but not always so strongly.”

She pursed her lips, and shivered. Her grasp on the wild was lost now, and Thranduil knew it was time to bring her inside. Whether that meant slinging her over his shoulder or walking her remained to be seen.

She began walking up the mountainside, her head bent. She drifted inside herself, feeling the war that waged in her heart and her mind. Even with the light of Thranduil, she felt the drifting, listless sadness creep on her. She rationalized that the events of the last two days played a key role in this. The overwhelming fear of the battle with the orcs, the adrenaline of the jump and swim, the intense emotions of the council. These weighed so heavily with her, and her heart felt bruised and exhausted. The wind had helped drive away this darkness, for where there was no river, there was always wind.

And Thranduil had come to her. She was not surprised but still did not expect such a visit. He loathed this mountain and the dwarves. But he had listened to her as she waded through the memories of laughter, which stung at her. A thousand bees swarmed inside her soul, each one not a memory of darkness but a remembrance of fires and the smiles of those she loved. The darkness she could defeat with her lover and king, she was not afraid of the darkness any longer. It was the memories of what she lost that pained her now. Why was this so?

He draped his cloak over her shoulders, and rubbed it smooth. “You may not keep this one.” he griped, frowning, “You are a thief, mela. I cannot have new robes made as fast as you steal them from me,”

She smiled, planted a kiss on his cheek, and began to climb up the rocks, instead of walking around them.

“Then do not wrap me in them, and I will have no excuse to take them with me.”

He scowled after her fleeing figure, and lengthened his stride to catch up her. For someone so small, she moved quickly. Her nimble feet scouring the ground faster than he originally gave her credit for.

“We lived outside the mountains, not in them!” she called, perched on a rock and smiling at him, answering the question he did not ask. She was wavering between the memories and the sorrow, the guilt and the madness.

He reached her, and swept her into his arms again. He needed to keep her link with the present strong, that was the key to all this. She may go away from a while, but she needed a strong enough reason to come back. He was that reason.

He kissed her, deeply, feeling the shadow begin to creep up their legs, the wind growing harsher with the coming of night. She trembled in his arms, and pulled away.

“Under the stars, my king?” her smile was infectious and he laughed, shaking his head.

“No, Gadrehal,” he guided them up the slope, holding her hand tightly in his. At her dismayed look, he chuckled again.

“In the summertime, when we are home.”

She did not respond, but her pace picked up, matching his own. Well, he matched hers. They walked up the mountain in silence, he looked the part of a wraith, a shadow in the mountain in his black dress, as the sun dipped and went to sleep beyond the edge of the world.

When they finally reached the gardens, he lifted himself over, and then reached down for her. She grasped his hands, and he gently pulled her up. Thorin, Bilbo, and Tauriel waited for them, Bilbo smoking his pipe, feet swinging from the bench. Thorin looked displeased, glaring at the small elf, who wrapped herself deeper into the cloak. Thranduil put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her in place, watching the dwarven king’s reaction. Gadrehal seemed oblivious, snuggling into the warmth of his thick black cloak. Thranduil made a mental note to add another onto his seamstress’s list.

“Ah! A pleasure to see you again, my lady!” Bilbo was the first to speak, and Thranduil finally saw how old he looked. “Some tea to warm you?”

He held out his hand to her, and she gratefully took it, the hobbit leading her inside, to a fire and a warm drink.

“You did not tell her?” Thorin questioned. Thranduil looked down at the shorter king but made no reply.

“Well, why not?” Thorin’s temper was frayed. When he first learned from Dis that Gadrehal was wandering off on his mountain somewhere, he almost sent out a search party for her. But then he was informed that Thranduil went out in search for her, and he almost exploded. He didn’t need that damned elf finding his hidden doors, even if he had no way of entering them.

Thranduil needed to tell Gadrehal their decision. And soon. They left in less than a fortnight.

“I will tell her when I see fit.”

“This is not just your decision.” Thorin seethed, “I will tell her then.”

“As her king, I will be the one, not you.”

“This is not about kingship,” Tauriel interrupted, “you should tell for she is...your beloved. She needs not the cold words of a king.”

Thranduil’s cold glare could freeze stone, and his fist clenched. But quickly, Thranduil glanced through the glass doors and saw the elderly hobbit and Gadrehal begin to walk towards them. Thorin spoke first.

“Tell her.”

“Do not think you can command me. When I think it is best, I will tell her.” Thranduil hissed. But it was too late.

“What is you wish to tell me?” her question was innocent enough, but she had trapped him. In a small way she knew it. Tauriel and Thorin gave Thranduil looks that he want to strangle off their smug faces.

“The council came to a decision.” he told her simply, “We leave in ten days time for war with the Necromancer.”

She stopped mid chew of a cracker of some kind. Bilbo looked into her blank face, and patted her hand.

“Thorin and I will lead the armies -”

“You are leaving?” she asked.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. “Do not interrupt me.” he chastised, “Thorin and I will lead the armies of the Woodland Realm and Erebor unto the regions of Fornost, find and destroy the Necromancer.”

Gadrehal looked at Thorin and then at Thranduil, her face a vision of helplessness. “Why must you go? You are kings, your place-” a sob choked her words.

“My place is with my people, with my warriors. I would not send them to die for something I would not.” Thorin told her gently. Bilbo took hold of her shaking hand. Her eyes grew wild and frantic.

“You...you will fight?” she stared into Thranduil’s face. Thranduil only nodded.

“I will come with you.” she stated, lunging forward and taking Thranduil’s hand.

“You will not.” he answered her, anger edging into his voice. “You will stay here.”

“You will not leave me behind to fight my battle!” she yelled, her eyes narrowing and she dropped his hand. She was hovering somewhere between anger and fear.

“This is not your battle any longer. The Necromancer threatens all of us now, and this is a fight to protect our homelands, to prevent such evil from marching south.” Tauriel intervened, her voice even and calm, always the pillar in the storm. Gadrehal glowered at Thranduil,

“You cannot make this choice for me.”

“I am your king, Gadrehal.” Thranduil replied, “You will do as commanded.”

Gadrehal stood taller, shoulders back, and did not break his gaze, her eyes blazing with anger. “I will go with you, Thranduil. You cannot command me to remain behind when it is my homeland you will march through. I will not stay silently behind” her voice cracked, “when my beloved goes to war.”

“You will remain here, as I have decreed it. I am your king first, Gadrehal, and you will listen to me. You will stay here until I return to fetch you.”

Gadrehal took a step back, eyes wide, her breath shaky. Thorin and Tauriel tensed, waiting for the screaming match that seemed to be coming. Instead, she set her jaw, and threw off the cloak. Immediately her skin prickled with cold. She curtsied deeply, but only in mock respect.

“I am forever and always your most obedient servant,” her voice slithered over the word, voice hard and dead as stone, “and will await your return, my king.” Her eyes were dark as she looked up at him, face impassive. Thranduil’s face was as blank as her words.

Then she stood and with head held high, left them all in the cold night air of a dead garden.

Chapter Text

Thranduil fought the urge to pace around his tent, and forced himself to remain seated and still on the chair. Although an energy made his fingers wish to dance. The tent was quiet, even the soft words of soldiers and guards muffled by the thick red fabric. Carpets lay on the ground, shielding him from the cold, and several brazier full of coals lit up the grand space.

Yet the chill still remained, and his black cloak lay sprawled on the untouched bed. Gadrehal was missing. She had been missing for the entirety of the night now. The shadows of the mountain made it nearly impossible to search for her until dawn. After she had stormed off, he and Thorin began to yell at one another. Again. Until Bilbo interrupted them and stiffly informed them to continue their battle of wills elsewhere. They had, and once finished, Thrandiul returned first to the guest quarters they slept in the night before. It was vacant. Next, he went to Thorin’s chambers. He and Dis had seen her. Neither had the brothers. His steps were too quick as he exited the great doors of Erebor, his guards barely managing to keep pace with him. She was not in the elven camp either. Legolas had not seen her, but seemed amused by her adventure on the mountain.

A tension grew among them all as Thranduil slowly realized she was gone. Vanished somewhere. The Dwarven guards swore none slipped past them at the gateway, that even the dark they would have known. Thranduil did not believe a word they said. Incompetent fools. Thorin had woken every available soldier, and set a search throughout the mountain kingdom. Still, she remained unfound.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the warm light around him, ignoring the cold that seeped into his fingers. She was so impertinent. Why must she always run away?

“I don’t give a bloody damn if the precious king is asleep!” Dis voice cut through his head, and made him grit his teeth. The last individual he wanted to speak with was that brazen, crude dwarves relative of Thorin's. The flap of the tent was shoved away harshly, and Dis, accompanied by Kili, strode in, both with deep frowns on their faces. Dis openly glared at him, arms crossed over her chest. She glanced at the small gilded dagger on the chest beside the bed, before looking into his face.

“We found her.” she stated harshly. Thranduil stood up, but did not move closer as he watched her expression go from one of anger to one of bemused cynicism. He had experienced this rush of relief only a few times before in his long years, and it was not an emotion he was accustomed to.

“Where is she?” he demanded, and the young dwarf scoffed, shaking his head. Dis elbowed him, then returned to her defensive stance. She was dressed in a sooty tunic, and coal dust was smeared across her chin and hands. Thranduil caught a very faint whiff of dragon.

“Where is she?” Thranduil practically growled.

“Oh, she is in the heart of the mountain, and refuses to come out.” Dis finally answered, her face twisted into something between sympathy and annoyance. “She says if this is where you want her, then this is where she stays.”

Thranduil turned away, and took in several breaths to calm the racing fear in his heart. He paced, his steps quiet and long. Exhaustion tugged at him, and his mind ached. "Why did you leave her there?"

Dis raised an eyebrow, and sucked in a breath, her eyes traveling over the opulence of his tent, the rich thick carpets, white wood chests, and plush bed. Her mouth twisted, and she cocked out her hip. Finally, her deep eyes met his again, "Because she wanted to stay where she was." Dis shrugged, but it was pure showmanship, "I make a point of listening to what the girl wants." She gave Thranduil a pointed look, and he scowled. But he choose not to take her bait.  

“Where is this place you speak?” he asked, grabbing a goblet and taking a long drag of the wine. It burned his throat as he swallowed, but the thick taste distracted him from the strangeness he felt in his chest. He felt his composure cracking. What did she do to him, this elf?

But what did he do to her? She needed to remain in Erebor. Both Thorin and he agreed it was the safest place for her, farthest away from the Necromancer. He needed her in the mountain, surrounded by solid stone and rock that would not burn. He needed to know she was where she was safest. And where they could watch her. Thranduil knew that she would want to follow him. He knew deeply that she would not let him go to war without some sort...of scene. The indomitable streak in her, which kept her alive for so long, prevented her from letting him go without a fight. He admired this in her. Except when she did this.

“The heart of the mountain is where the gold is kept, but still holds many broken rooms and towers from where Smaug did his worst. She refuses to leave this place.” Dis explained, her fingers tapped the axe at her belt, and betrayed her own worry and weariness. Kili looked at his mother, and nudged her reassuringly. They had all fallen for this young, strange elf-maiden, with her quiet resilience. Thranduil mulled over the idea of her in some dusty dank hole smelling of dragon and darkness. He did not like it. 

“Take me to her.” he commanded, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. The desire to see her was overwhelming.

“No.” Dis said firmly, with a quick shake of her head. Even the tinkle of her beads sounded fatigued. 

“No?” Thranduil repeated, bending low into Dis’ face, his eyes narrowed. His whole body tensed with a blind fury. How dare she deny him access to Gadrehal? “I am a king, you do not refuse me.”

Dis stretched upwards, her face coming closer to the perfect Elven one. “You are no king of mine.” Thranduil stood up, his face in a grimace.

“She does not want to see you, my lord.” Kili answered, stepping forward, although he had no desire to treat this elf with any respect. Or to talk to this elf at all. A battle of wills or weapons between his mother and the elven king would not help matters. His richly woven tent seemed too close, the air hot with anger and tension. The colors soaked in the light of the embers, the shadows flickering in the corners. “Legolas is with her. She tells him she desires to be alone.”

“She will speak to Legolas?” Thranduil asked.

“She is angry, my lord.” once again Kili replied, sensing the stiff anger from his mother, who could do no more than stare furiously at Thranduil. He shifted nervously “She says she will remain in the mountain, but wishes to be left alone.”

“She is hiding.” Dis finally cut in. Thranduil’s temper flared brilliantly again. Hiding? Why does she always hide? She pouted and stormed away whenever she became upset. It was most frustrating to him.

“Take me to her.” Thranduil seethed, dropping his goblet onto a near by chest.

“No.” Dis snapped, "she wants to be left alone.” Dis’ voice was strained, her fists were clenched.

Guards murmured outside, there was the faint sound of rustling, voices whispering in the darkness. Thranduil paid them no heed.

“I do not care what she thinks she wants. She needs to be fed, cleaned, and to sleep.” Thranduil informed them, his words level, even if he did not feel that. Why did she want to remain someplace cold and dark and damp?

“Are you so dense that you do not understand?” Dis spat, stepping closer to the elven king. Her eyes flashed with a fury she did not bother to stamp out. Thranduil glanced at her, shocked at her outburst. He cocked his head, but made no reply. Her outburst did not deserve a response. 

“How do you think she survived, you oaf!” Dis turned around, and threw up her hands. Kili moved out of her way, just in time for Legolas to slip into the tent. His shoulders were tense, and soot covered his boots.

“She- she hid! She hid inside herself, that is how she survived slavery, but cowering inside the darkness of her own soul. That’s how she survives! That is all she knows. When she is afraid, she runs, she hides. Whether that is hiding in the river, on a cleft in the mountain or the heart of it, she hides. She is upset, it has become her natural instinct to hide.” And with a frustrated grunt, she stopped her tirade.

Thranduil blinked, and then glanced at his son. Who obviously felt similarly to Dis.

“She is right,” Legolas nodded towards Dis. “She is asleep now, and I will revisit her in the morning. Alone.”

Thranduil barely nodded. He had no response to this. Hiding. Yes. It made sense to him, although he had never seen it as such. Yet, Dis made a valid argument. She no longer could retreat inside herself, but in her battle sickness, it manifested in a physical form. She wasn’t hiding from him necessarily, but hiding from her anger with him.

He sighed, and turned away from them. This whole venture was a disaster. It was too much for her. He wanted to protect her from this, but instead he walked her right into a den of snakes. His jaw clenched. Thranduil felt them waiting, but he had no use for them anymore. He had no desire to be reprimanded for the right decision. If she wanted to hide from it, then so be it. The decision wasn’t changing.

He dismissed them with a wave, to which Dis' response was some colorful Dwarven cursing. Legolas hesitated, but Thranduil barely looked over his shoulder. “leave me.”

"She is quite angry with you, Ada." Thranduil tensed again with Legolas' blatant disregard for his command.

"So I have been informed, Legolas." Thranduil griped.

"She believes you are not listening to her." Legolas continued, "King or no king, the decision to remain at Erebor or the Woodland realm was hers to make." 

Thranduil drained his goblet, and ignored his son. He had enough lecturing for one evening. For a lifetime. "She wanted to follow me to Fornost." 

Legolas sighed, and shook his head. "Then you needed to explain to her -calmly - why that was not possible. Not make her decisions for her. Don't you think she had enough of that?" 

Thranduil whirled around, "Leave, Legolas. Do not think to inform on how to keep my subjects safe. For an era I have watched over the Greenwood, and have kept us safe. This is no different." 

"She is not a subject, she is your melda and you should have more faith in her than you do." 

"Leave." Thranduil warned, not bothering to heed his son's words. And with nothing more, Legolas slipped out of the tent. 

The silence fell heavily around him, and he threw the cloak to the ground. He twisted a ring on his finger, and began to pace. He kept thinking of her somewhere deep in the mountain, alone and in the dark, curled in the heart of that wretched mountain that has always caused problems. From the greed of Thrain to the dragon, to the battle of five armies. And now this.

With an aggravated sigh, he sat on the bed and put his face in hands. He never had such moments of doubt when it came to ruling his kingdom, but trying to understand the mind of one small Maghi seemed to be beyond him.

Chapter Text

Legolas crouched on the wide square landing, his fingers twisting a long lean arrow incessantly. His bow and quiver lay unattended a few steps above him. The enormous shadowy hall below, around, and stretching in front of him glittered with loose gems, fragments of armor and weapons, and the occasional bronze fire pits. Long before her arrival here, most of the precious gold, gems, and Smaug’s hoard was removed, and placed elsewhere. Yet the random silver goblet, broken spear shaft, and odd golden coin or two littered the cracked and dusty floor.

Small store rooms branched off the main length of the hall, but even with his perceptive eyes, these doorways were barely more than deeper shadows. The heart of the mountain was warm, the air humid and slightly musty. The staircases were still covered with layers of soot from the furnaces, only a track of footprints marring the perfectly collected years of dust. The high ceiling absorbed the light, and was coated in darkness. The thick marble pillars disappearing high above him. Yet even with the illusion of space this great hall gave, he still felt trapped.

“Gadrehal?” he called gently. His soft voice echoed and echoed, eventually it too was lost to some unknown corner of the mountain. Nothing stirred, the soft fires flickered as they always did, the shadows remained still and silent, unyielding.

In just a short time she had become an expert at navigating this ancient deep place. If she did not want to be found that day, she hid so well she would not be found. She revealed herself only when she so desired.

Gimili and Dis did not believe it was done through spite. Dis explained to him the effects of battle sickness. A darkness in the soul after severe...trauma. It did not manifest itself often in Elves or Dwarves, but for one born in such a peaceful culture as the Maghi, it only seemed natural she would suffer from it. Legolas felt she did not need anymore suffering in her life, but then again she loved his father.

The silence weighed on him. He had been waiting most of the morning, perched still as the stone the hall was carved from. There had been no sign of her for a day now, and a part of them all worried. No one knew precisely what lay in these passages. Once Thorin regained Erebor, one of his first tasks was to clear this place. It had not been touched since. The memory -and stench - of the dragon still lingered in this place, tainting it. These fires were the first light seen in these halls for decades.

And now, she wandered about barefoot, dressed in a dirty shift, sometimes humming, sometimes creeping, watching, and thinking. But truthfully, none truly knew what she did here. She refused Thorin, whispered to Dis, ignored Balin most of the time (who also played a part in this plan to keep her here), and usually sat with him and Gimili to eat. She had grown thin and pale, her hair unbound, and sullen.

She missed Thranduil, but no one dared to mention his name. He had not attempted to find her, and sent no messages to her either. He had become miserable and unbearable, and Legolas gladly spent his time in the heart of the mountain, even if it was mostly silence and solitude.

The soft sound of a shutting door was a crack of thunder in such a quiet, empty place, and Legolas glanced over his shoulder to watch a tall, cloaked elf slip down the steps. The cloak stirred the soot, but it was barely noticable on the black silk.

His father towered over him, and stood stiff and still on the step above the landing. Legolas turned away, and the barest shift of the shadows farther down the hall caught his attention. He watched for a moment longer, ignoring Thranduil. Then he straightened, and took in the necessary breath to deal with his king.

“I’m surprised the guards let you come here.”

“They did not.” was the reply. Legolas did not need to look at his father to know the smirk on his face.

“Then how did you get past them?”

The rare, amused chuckle did make Legolas turn around, and see his father give him a small, lopsided smile.

“Longer legs.” Thranduil tapped his thigh, his lips quirking into a smile again.

It almost reminded Legolas of all those millennia ago when his father laughed and raced his elfling self through the forest. Almost.

“She won’t talk to you.” Legolas responded, “she’s still upset, as far I know.”

The embers in the fire pits seemed to dim, sink into themselves. They were spaced evenly halfway done the hall, no farther than that. Their murky pools of orange light barely touched one another, and they never seemed to be brighter than a low dim. It left the hall not in darkness, but a gray light that pervaded almost everything but the walls.

Thranduil stared into the hall, brows lowered over his eyes. He wore his black tunic again, the brooch holding his cloak to his shoulders. No sword adorned his belt, and no ornate crown sat on his head. He seemed grim now that he finally saw the size of the maze before him. The shadows hid her well. He was not surprised at how well she grew to live in the gloomy rooms before him. It reflected the shadows that always lurked in her, and now she embraced them. Let them give her thought. He had waited long enough before coming to speak to her.

“You have not seen her today, I take it?” Thranduil asked, despising everyone moment he was down in this soot covered dungeon. And cringing at the thought of how long Gadrehal had wandered about this dank place.

“No.” Legolas whispered, catching a glimpse of faint movement in the shadows. It was barely a whiff of movement, no more than a wind in the dark.

“Why now?” Legolas asked after a moment of pause. Thranduil continued to remain still, sensing the caution he needed. He did not look at his son, and his lips barely moved when he spoke.

“We leave in two days time.” But he spoke to the elf somewhere lurking in the shadows. Neither had any inkling if she was near enough to hear the words, but Legolas felt his father’s need to see her. There was no response, and in some ways, Legolas knew his father’s disappointment at Gadrehal not running from the shadows and into his arms, her begging his forgiveness and sending him well on his way.

They were both too stubborn for such. Neither one would bend before the other.

The movement was quick, but Legolas caught it. His father was still, but yet, he believed Thranduil saw it as well. She clung to the shadows, but she was drawn to his voice.

Thranduil stepped lightly, but he descended the stairs with grace. As he reached the bottom, he swept the cloak off his shoulders, folded it neatly and lay it on the ground. Then, with some hesitation, he took a small gilded and dwarven dagger and placed it on top of the cloak. He backed away, and did not wait. He walked up the stairs, past his son, and out of the mountain without a look behind him.

Legolas waited, his breath caught somewhere inside him. In the span of three blinks, Gadrehal emerged. He first saw her hand as she gripped the corner of a pillar, and then her face, screwed into an angry and sorrowful grimace. She ran towards the cloak and dagger, and fell to her knees.

“They leave so soon?” Tears made tracks through the soot on her cheeks, but her voice was steady. Legolas rushed down the stairs to her, and knelt down.

“I have lost track of the sun and the moon,” she murmured, holding the cloak to her body. She crushed the fabric between her hands, pressing it to her chest and neck. She looked disheveled. “Do you really leave so soon, Legolas?”

Legolas nodded, and picked up the dagger. It was more ceremonial than anything, gold with a sharp blade, small.

“This is your dagger,” he held it out to her. He realized this was as close as his father came to an apology. She took it carefully, and examined it. As her fingers tightened around the hilt, Legolas knew she realized it as well.

Her tears renewed, dripping off her chin, soaking into the thick silk cloak cradled on her lap.

“We leave at the rise of the sun in two days. We head north.” he looked into her eyes, saw a rich clarity there that he had not seen before. She took in a deep breath, and stood up. She looked around her, and peered into the darkness.

“You understand why he wants you remain here in Erebor? Why both of them do?” he asked her, gingerly. They all avoided this subject with her. She squeezed her eyes shut, and bowed her head. Her knuckles were white from where she clutched the cloak. She nodded.

“Yes.” her voice seemed small. But then her face grew hard, and she backed away, like the darkness was her cloak. Her eyes grew distant, and the shadows seemed to gravitate to her as he anger reignited in her heart.

“But I will not become a slave again. To a king or otherwise. Too long did I bend for the wills of others. Never again. Never.” the fury in her voice shook him. There was an intense flame glowing inside her. She knew what she wanted, and she had finally reached the point where she could decide it.

Legolas watched her for a moment, her voice was not loud, she did not yell. Yet the anger in her, at her past, at the deeds done to her people and to her, it was alive and real.

“Then you must tell him that.” Legolas told her. And her face softened, the anger fled from her. Her body grew limp, and her hands loosened on the cloak. Her body trembled, and she nodded. Then, she turned away and disappeared once more into the shadows.

~~~

Thranduil surveyed the last of the war wagons as they were hitched to horses. A blur of Elves and dwarves as they scrambled to say their good byes and finish adorning their armor. A line of pink and lavender light lit above the far horizon, a brisk wind bushed against Thranduil as he walked through the elven lines.

Soldiers murmured to him in passing, tightening the leather straps of harnesses and quivers. Some sharpened blades, checked arrows, flicked bow strings. Horses stamped their hooves, feeling the nervous energy permeating the air around them. But beyond the soft sounds of business, it was still and quiet. No bells tolled for them, no women called out their farewells.

He nodded in response, swords strapped to him, dressed in black and his armor. He moved deftly, precisely, stoically. In only a few short moments, they would leave for the lands around Fornost. She had not emerged from the heart of the mountain. She sent no message to him by any means. It was so no consolation to him that she had accepted the cloak and dagger. He was leaving her.

Legolas lead his horse over, looking grim and quiet as usual. Gimili was by his side, axe in hand. Only Tauriel and Kili would remain at Erebor, with a handful of soldiers. Both heirs to the throne of Erebor were not permitted to go to war. They learned a valuable lesson during the battle with Azog. Thranduil knew he held no sway over his own son, and heir. Legolas would go fight where freedom was in question.

His son’s leather armor was scarred, the leather rough from use and wear. His bow was on his back, his white blades on his hips.  He was prepared for war, yet again.

“Ada,” Legolas nodded, but his eyes flickered to beyond him. Thranduil tensed and turned around.

Gadrehal was wrapped in the silver cloak he had once long ago wrapped her in. Her hair was unbound, combed and smooth. She looked thinner to him. But her placid face betrayed no emotion. She met his gaze fiercely, and in her hands she clasped a small dagger.

“King Thranduil,” she curtsied deeply, and when she looked up at him, her lips trembled. The urge to sweep her into his arms and crush her to him burned in him. To see her look at him like this...was painful.

“Lady Gadrehal.” She tentatively stepped forward, knowing that more eyes turned towards them. Her disappearance into the heart of the mountain had spread wildly through the ranks. They all knew of his relationship with her, and thus an apex to their argument was much awaited.

She held out the dagger to him. “I will await you here, until you return to me.”

He took the offering. The dagger was of little use to him, but he tucked it on his belt all the same. She dropped her hand before he could hold it, and they stood, just staring at each other.

Thranduil knew empty promises of him returning to her were just that, empty. He knew too well the unpredictability of war and battle, that any being that bled had a chance as any other to die at the hands of their enemies. He had never felt the need to placate the worries of others before, but standing before her, Thranduil wanted nothing more than to tell her his return was eminent.

Instead, he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her. She did not resist, in fact, her arms circled his waist and she buried her face into his chest, breathing in. Her hands pressed firmly into his back.

“Come back to me, Thranduil,” she whispered, and he planted a soft kiss on her head, closing his eyes. They held each other for a moment, and then for another, but too quickly it was over. She pulled away, stepping back.

“Do not keep me waiting.” her smirk was purely for his benefit.

He reached out, brushed a hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes against his touch, relishing the last fleeting gesture. She did not reach out to grab hold of his hand when it left her cheek. She did not cry or whimper as he swung onto the saddle of his horse. She did not move as the army swelled around her. She did not run after him as he left.

She remained silent and still, speechless and motionless, watching long after they had gone from sight.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal’s face was wind burnt and red as she scurried past the gate guards, who barely acknowledged her now. So often did she come and go into the wide, low valley. Her dress tugged at her legs as her pace quickened, leaving the darkening sky behind her. She clutched at the black cloak smothering her shoulders, thin fingers pressing it closed.

“There you are!” Dis voice was thunderous in the wide Hall of Kings, booming around the rafters and Gadrehal swore the tapestries twitched with the sound of her. She stopped, and waited for Dis to come to her.

Dis wore her favored leather breeches, her beard and hair recently washed and braided, smelling faintly of rose scented oils. Her belt was vacant of her usual tools, even the axe forgone on this rare occassion. Gadrehal inclined her head in greeting, her fingers and body still numb with the winter chill. Dis gave her a mighty disapproving look.

“Down by the lake again, I see.”

“Yes,” Gadrehal replied, her frozen hair brushing against her face. The warmth of the mountain stung her exposed skin as it began to thaw. Dis narrowed her eyes, and shook her head.

“Foolish elfling. It’s the deep of winter! You’ll catch a cold and pass away, and I’ll never hear the end of it from either of them.”

If Gadrehal’s face wasn’t already bright red from the whipping wind, she would have flushed with color. Instead, she bowed her head demurely, knowing what Dis spoke of was truth.

“That won’t stop you, will it?” Dis griped, beginning to walk towards the royal quarters where they slept and ate. Gadrehal kept pace with the stubby legged dwarf. Even with Thranduil’s massive, thick cloak, the cold of winter slipped in, biting her skin even under layers of warm clothing.

“No, Dis.” Gadrehal replied softly, still keeping the cloak securely around her.

Dis grunted, and remained sullen, walking fast and with purpose. Her beads clinked together, her steps heavy, where Gadrehal was a silent shadow, drifting between the shapeless light of torches. Any dwarves they past nodded their respects, but remained as quiet as Dis and did not stop to speak with them.

“You slipped past Tauriel again.” Dis accused, her eyes flicking up to the Maghi elf. Gadrehal’s small smile was enough of an affirmation to Dis, who did not bother to hide her short guffaw of laughter and her own delighted smile.

“Good work, Maghi.” Dis whispered as they climbed the step stairs to the dining chamber. It would once again be murmurs and not laughter to greet them. Balin and Kili would be waiting, as would the elf Tauriel and Bilbo. Their small meals were held mostly in silence, Balin often filling in the quiet with useless, pointless reports.

It had been three weeks since the armies of Erebor and Woodland realm left. And twenty-one days chasing after Gadrehal as she slipped past guards, Tauriel, and doors alike, to wander about the hillsides, the dales, and ravines, usually standing guard by the lake, waiting for the return of her king and beloved. She had managed -through some feat of magic - to waylay one of the messenger ravens. Luckily for all of them it contained only a brief message concerning the lays of the land. Tauriel had ranted and raved for hours to a completely pacified Gadrehal, who made no sign of regret or shame. In fact, Dis saw some of that dreadful king of hers lining her eyes.

No, she had proved that no one would keep her from news of the war, no matter the brutality it conveyed. Dis admired her stubbornness in a way. She believed in some ways it was pure stubbornness that kept her from slipping into the dark pits of her soul once she was rescued from slavery.

“There you are!” Tauriel’s voice was a crack in the dark as she bolted towards them, rushing up the stairs, hand on her sword, bow bouncing against her back. She wore her scouting armor, with green tunic and boots. Gadrehal stopped, and watched her friend sped towards her. The relief battled with anger in her eyes as she looked at the Maghi, and she was breathless from exasperation. Tauriel glanced at Dis, but saw only an enigmatic face.

“Was she at the lake again?”

Neither responded for a few moments, Gadrehal’s jaw aching from the force of preventing her teeth from chattering. Warmth was slow in coming, but yet she felt drowsy, her limbs sluggish and heavy.

“Yes.” Dis told the red haired elf her son persisted on loving. Tauriel’s sigh was long and frustrated, her eyes narrowing and her mouth pressing into a small line.

“We have told you not to go to the lake unaccompanied.” Tauriel reprimanded, “There are bands of orcs roaming about the hills and I do not have time to worry about your foolishness.”

Gadrehal huffed, “Then do not cage me in the mountain.”

“We are not caging you in here, Gadrehal,” Tauriel replied, with the weariness of one who has repeated her words for an argument waged too many times. Gadrehal wrinkled her nose, and spun on her heel to prance up the stairs to disappear into the dining chambers. Tauriel pressed two fingers into her temple.

“Why do you not accompany her to the lake yourself then?” Dis asked innocently enough. Yet when Tauriel opened her eyes, she saw the face did not match the innocence of the question.

“You know full well she should not pass the borders of Dale, let alone wander about the lake. We do not have the numbers to spare her a guard to pine for Thranduil wherever she wishes. She can pine for him well enough in Bilbo’s garden.”

Dis hummed, nodding. The two began walking leisurely up the stairs.

“This is true, Tauriel, but if I recall correctly - remember I am old and my memory fails me at times - but did you inform Thranduil to not command her as she was a servant?”

Dis pulled up short, and grabbed Tauriel’s arm. “The more you place restrictions on her, the more she will rebel. She does not take kindly to the word ‘no’. She will not be treated like a child, and this is how you are treating her. Hiding the messages from her, keeping her in the dark concerning the battles. The more you rein her in, the more she will run from you. If Thranduil - Valar knows how he enjoys his orders - cannot control her, what makes you think you can?”

“It is for her safety.” Tauriel argued.

Dis rolled her eyes. "The Maghi is stronger than any of you give her credit for. Look at her! She is not fragile. She survived horrors akin to war, she did not break then. She will not break now. Give her faith where faith is due.”

And with that, Dis entered into the dining chamber, leaving an exhausted and distraught Tauriel in the corridor.

~~~

Thranduil raised his arm, and sliced through the orc’s neck with speed, the blade spinning deftly in his hand to cut the arm of a charging goblin. It squealed in pain, but he released the miserable creature from its miserable existence with a follow of his second sword. He was dirty, muddied from head to toe, his armor scratched and dented.

Arrows from enemies and allies alike whizzed past him as he headed further into the thick of the fighting. Orcs fell to the fury of his blades, his anger fueling him long after his body began to tire. For even elves reach a limit.

The lands about his lay in ruin, mud running thick with the blood of all. Yet he kept his grip, his skill with the blades evident as enemies perished before him. A Urak-hai of immense proportions leered in front of him, his scimitar slick with blood. His heavily booted feet took a few perilous steps, he gnashed his teeth. Thranduil kept his face calm, but he desired to charge this beast and run it through, cutting him to ribbons.

Each battle drew him closer to the Necromancer, but also delayed his progress.

The scimitar came at him with a speed he did not expect from such a muscled creature. It shook his arm as he raised his sword to block the attack. He cut low with his free blade, slicing at the legs. It moved away, but just as Thranduil followed his newly freed sword, he watched the Urak-hai jerk, once, twice, and thrice. An arrow protruding from its throat.

Legolas fitted another arrow to his bow, and let it fly. Thranduil nodded to his son, just as the roar of a cave troll echoed through the field.

~~~

Tauriel picked up her pace once Bilbo had informed her that Gadrehal had hopped over the wall, and lazily made her way down the mountain. Gadrehal knew the mountain as well as Thorin now, and Tauriel did not know what she feared more. Gadrehal’s knowledge of the mountain wilds or informing Thorin concerning such knowledge.

Gadrehal calmly told Tauriel she would continue her wanderings, escort or no. At times Kili had accompanied her, but his duties kept him in the mountain. He was now the voice of Erebor with Thorin and Fili’s absence. It was left to Tauriel to watch over the most precious gem of Thranduil’s court, honored by Thorin, and survivor the worst story Tauriel had the disadvantage to hear in her long years.

And the young Maghi persisted in waiting for her king by the tip of the lake, in full view of the winter wind and any possible orc. Tauriel knew that keeping her inside the mountain at all times was a fruitless effort. Just as Tauriel locked her doors each evening, she was still found walking in the heart of the mountain in the mornings. She was an enigma, but mostly, she was stubborn.

No one ordered her to do anything, certainly not Tauriel. She gritted her teeth as she bounded past the gate guards, and into the sparkling clear winter sunlight. Tauriel caught the smudge of a long figure dashing across the valley, the black cloak flapping behind her in the wind.

“Groa, a horse if you please.” Tauriel despised the edge to her voice.

The dwarf hurried to the stables, while Tauriel continued to stare at the fleeing Gadrehal, who was no more than a dot on horizon. She was surprisingly quick on her feet.

“My lady Tauriel?” the Dale messanger panted as he ran up the draw bridge and to the gate way, where Tauriel waited for the the horse. She felt a warm, worried rush fill her throat as she motioned for the man to speak.

“Orcs, my lady, orcs have been spotted marching up the western side of the lake.”

Tauriel had promised herself she would never micmic her love in his dreadful habit of cursing in dwarvish. Well, sometimes, promises were meant to be broken.

~~~

Gadrehal knew something was off when the ravens did not swoop down to meet her as they normally did as she made her roost on top of the rock that jutted out over the lake. The small, soundless waves pushed against the jagged stone and she dipped her fingers into the icy water. It stung her skin, and she looked over of the wide, long lake.

The trees remained still, bare branches dark against one another, tangled and gnarled. She sniffed the air, and looked into the gray sky for signs of her black feathered friends. Nothing stirred, and an odd musty stench floated on the breeze.

She slunk low onto the weathered rock, pressing her body flat. Moving slowly, she pulled the cloak out across the rock, hoping to disappear. She waited.

No ravens came. The wind stirred the water, and the branches rattled and scratched, the grass twitched. The gray clouds lowered in the sky, threatening snow. The lake was still, and farther down she saw the outlines of the ruins of Lake Town, the graying brittle bones of the dragon, Smaug the only remnants of the great fiery battle between the legendary Bard and the hulking scaly beast. The curved ribs struck the empty space with a silent roar, a reminder of the pain and loss of shaky wooden town. Now, once as those of Laketown looked to the ruins of Dale with a heavy sigh and a pain in their heart, the men of Dale looked upon the bones with a heavy sigh and a pride in their eyes.

She looked at the bones with a vacant expression, not caring for the dragon, but rather the three ferries full of orcs. Two more groups waited along the shoreline, huddled low to the ground, gray shadows of winter. The ferries moved swiftly, the powerful arms of a legion of orcs rowing the ferries towards the end of the lake.

Gadrehal did not want to say she was trapped, but she was definitely in a predicament. Thranduil would be displeased. They were close enough to hit her with an arrow if she were to move and run. Yet they were to surely discover her if she remained on the rock. She bit her lip, and looked at the ferries again.

The orcs sat low, skimming quickly over the still lake. It was a clever plan. The two small groups of bait on the western shoreline, gathering attention. The distant bounding of hooves caught her attention. Naturally, Tauriel and Kili would lead them to the small band of orcs, dispatch them and leave Dale and Erebor free for the attack.

Clever.

Gadrehal felt a trickle of fear scamper down her spine, and she pressed her forehead to the rough rock. It chafed her hands and chin. She could run...and potentially die. Or she could remain where she was...and potentially die. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, banging against her lungs, and suddenly the air hurt.

She had a small hunting dagger she pilfered from the heart of the mountain as well as an unfinished mithril tunic. It only covered her chest, an uneven finish around the shoulders, and with makeshift leather straps she held it onto her body. She realized it would do little good against a band of armored orcs. Sweat blossomed on her neck, freezing against her skin. Gadrehal‘s brain whirred, but her body was paralyzed. Indecsion gnawed at her, and she followed the galloping horses of her friends as they dove into the fray. They would not see the ferries until it was too late. The bones of the dragon and the rotten wooden remains of Lake Town offered the perfect coverage.

As she clawed at the rock, the soft swoop of raven’s wings brushed her face. She turned her head, and there, a single large raven cawed. He flapped his wings, and lifted his shiny black beak into the sky.

The clouds stirred, they moved with a swirl, shifting and parting.

She glanced back the bird, and a jolt of energy burst inside her. Just as she had during the journey to Erebor, crouching on the cliff, when her mind went blank and she followed the motions of her body, energy and fear and the instinct of fierce survival scorching through her veins, she pushed away from the rock and took a chance.

A cry rose from behind her and she knew the orcs spotted her. Her feet did not slip or waver as she leapt from the rock, landing gracefully on the brown, dead grass. The raven flew by her shoulder, its raucous caws urging her on. An arrow narrowly missed her thigh. Her legs screamed from the exertion, her body protesting but she ignored it all.

And then as if graced by the stars themselves, the screech of the eagles echoed over the valley. She did not look behind her, but kept her eyes forward. She reached down, down, down and replaced pain with pain, the wind whipped at her face, her hair tangled around her neck and the cloak caught between her legs. But of all the darkness she felt in her, the thought of losing her last grip on life kept her moving.

The raven followed her, dipping over one shoulder and then the next. As she ran up the incline, the city of Dale rising above her, glittering even in the gray light of a winter’s day. The bells tolled loudly the threat of danger. The wind too loud in her ears for her to catch anything but the thunderous bong of the bells and the feral screech of the eagles behind her.

The loose rocks jarred her legs, her feet, her body. Dale was too far, too far...

The taloned feet gently enclosed around her, and in a sinle moment was above the ground. An arrow shot through the cloak, ripping her dress between her legs and she yelped.

Below her dangling legs, the grass and the rocks began to fade. When she looked up, she saw only the broad feathery body and wide brown wings stretching out and parting the misty clouds. Damp clung to her face, her body in a protective embrace of an eagle. The raven flapped its wings furiously, cawing and calling, wanting to keep pace with the majestic bird that carried her.

They circled around the lake, and she watched as three more of the great eagles of Manwe decimated the orcs. They dipped and snapped, wings beating a ferious wind, tipping over more ferries she had not seen. Their broken, shadowy bodies lay mangled along the shore line. Tauriel and Kili entered the new fray, slaying the wretched creatures while they scampered away from the onslaught of talons, beaks, and wings. Gadrehal felt her body tremble, and a tears formed in her eyes.

Relief was a flood in her body, and she felt equally exhausted and delighted. The wind was colder this far above the ground, and a small part of her mind warned her to be afraid. But she could not. she could not be afraid of flying.

~~~

Thranduil sat astride his horse, a head of a column of highly trained Woodlawn archers and spearman. The lands around them were desolate and destroyed, the trees broken and burned, charred black relics of a once great and bountiful land. Warning signs in the form of headless bodies swung from the few trees left rooted.

The air felt heavy, thick with smoke and the stench of the rotting bodies. Even the carrion birds deserted this place. Clouds hung low, blocking the light of the sun and the stars. All joy had been sucked from the land, the grass dried and dead from constant fires, the trampling of booted and armored feet wearing away the dirt, leaving twisting, muddied roads.

“Ada!” The call was followed by the whizz of an arrow flying by his face. A hidden orc fell from a fir tree. It’s strangled cry was cut off by the snarl and roar of orcs and goblins as they poured into the path, emerging from behind stones.

“Ambush!” Gimili roared, laughing as he dashed quickly into the fray, his axe constantly dirtied with the blood of wargs and goblins alike. Thranduil pulled out his sword, and immediately plunged it into the chest of an orc stupid enough to get too close to him.

~~~

The eagle circled the mountain four times, before deciding to land on the edge of a cliff, its great wings swooping down. He dropped her onto the soft grassy bed, and the valley and Dale and the lake stretched on and on beneath her. Up this far on the mountain, it was almost the same as flying. It was all so small and far away. With the grass beneath her hands and feet, her raven asleep inside her cloak, her breath left her. The river was a dark, winding line cutting through the black forest kingdom of Thranduil. And somewhere, far far beyond all of that, he fought a war, in her name. The eagle ruffled its feathers, and stood over her. It seemed larger now that she sat under it, and heat radiated from the massive body. The last three joined them, surrounding her with a silent regard, sentinels of Middle Earth and the skies. The one who carried her shifted and screeched. The Maghi were not gifted such as the Sinadrian Elves, and she did not understand the speech of birds. Yet there was no mistaking the intent of this great being. He had been sent here by someone equally great.

She moved from under the shadow of the eagle, and bowed deeply to him.

“Thank you, great one.” She lay her hand on the feathery breast, and felt the steady beat of his heart. He inclined his head, and nudged her gently. Her heart thrummed, her body hummed with exhaustion and excitement and fear. Emotions warred inside her, but the thrill of flight robed her with a gentle happiness that she had not felt since Thranduil left.

To float amongst the gray misty clouds and the feel the dew of the air cling to her face and hands, to be so close to the stars that you could almost feel the warmth of their light. Her body eased with the memory of such a flight. She wanted so desperately to tell Thranduil, to let him share in this joy with her. But she remembered, he was not here.

The wind their wings created as the eagles took to flight once again almost knocked her over. Gadrehal felt too tired to think, and the grassy knoll they left her on was tempting to her. She had tapped into the darkness today, used it to keep her alive. She chose life over fear, over panic. Looking below she saw the weary soldiers returning, their horses small specks on the valley far far beneath her feet. With a weary sigh, she began to climb down.

The end of this war could not come soon enough.

Chapter Text

Tauriel watches the tiny crystal flakes fall hastily through the whipping wind. The mounds of drifting snow swept up the sides of the garden, and spilled over the stone wall. A white haze even limited her own Elvish eyesight, and no matter how she gazed into horizon, all she was the gray-white darkness of the snow. It had been two weeks since the incident with the orcs, and two days since the beginning of this late winter snow storm. Even in the deepest bits of Erebor a chill was felt, and all the fires were set, blazing and orange, snapping with heat. Blankets were removed from chest and shaken out, piled on beds. Communal meals became common place with the lack of trade from Dale, and the warmth of other bodies added to the cheer and novelty of such a storm.

Bilbo had his fire roaring as usual, furry feet propped on a cushioned stool and a book open in his lap. His waistcoat was purple, one finger casually running underneath the line he was reading. A steaming of mug tea sat on a short wooden table next to his elbow. Tauriel glanced beyond his nest by the fire to the space cleared for a loom that Gadrehal fluttered over.

The loom was of moderate size, clean pine wood and firm strands of wool criss crossing over it. Since the orcs, she had taken to remaining in doors, wandering aimlessly through the halls and pestering the gate guards for news. She tried unsuccessfully to distract messengers, and steal whatever missives they happened to carry. Bombur and Balin had to shoo her away from the forges far too often now.

Yet the addition of her raven added to her mystery and prestige, and many began to accept her presence instead of ignore it. The blue-black raven that had accompanied her during her flight with the eagles remained with her now, perched on her shoulder, rubbing its beak against her hair or flying just above her head. It was a pesky thing to Tauriel, as it always cawed noisily whenever most came too near. But ravens were sacred to the dwarves, and it caused a sensation when she began walking around with it.

Now, dwarves of all kinds in the mountain left tiny little trinkets for her and the bird. Silver beads, small amulets, pieces of silk cloth and in the rare case, tiny weapons were left by her chamber doors, piled neatly each morning. The dwarves murmured of her being blest by the Valar, Eu, and the great dwarven spirit of Aule, sending his chosen bird to protect her. Many even went as far to believe it was Gadrehal who called the eagles to protect Dale and Erebor.

Tauriel rolled her eyes at these outlandish statements, but Gadrehal seemed pleased with the new state of affairs. She cooed over all her little gifts as they broke their fast, having Kili braid the new beads into her hair. He added the amulets to a long leather tong, which she had taken to wearing around her waist. Valar knows the fit Thranduil will have when he sees them.

The raven bit at the beads and amulets, pushing the ones in hair with his beak. Gadrehal often held out her hand, offering the bird a bead or two, watching as it ruffled its feathers and chose one for its own, flying off to hide them somewhere in the far off places of the mountain that no being without wings could find. Tauriel did not know who adored who more: the bird or Gadrehal. The two inseparable.

Kili began to find it amusing to toss nuts into the air, and laughing as the raven swooped in and caught the food mid-flight. Gadrehal doted over the winged beast, and it her. Tauriel smirked when she thought of the reunion between her and the king. She did not see the prideful Thranduil taking kindly to sharing her affections with anything, much less a bird.

Yet Tauriel found, even with the pest, she was glad to finally keep Gadrehal where she could be protected. Now the young Maghi spent much of her days pouring over the loom, which Bilbo kept in his sitting room for her. Quietly, her fingers scurried over the thick strands of died wool, brows lowered over her eyes, mouth a thin line. She plucked away, weaving and weaving.

“Gadrehal, tea?” Bilbo murmured, briefly looking up from his book. His eyes drooped a bit, and Tauriel felt the dear hobbit was soon to sleep. Gadrehal did not respond immediately, delicately slipping two copper threads in between another blue and gold one. Her tiny fingers moving magically over the thick tapestry she wove. In a very short amount of time, she had woven four other large sections. The raven hopped on its perch over her chair, its wings stretching gracefully around her. She glanced up, and twitched her nose.

“Yes, please.”

Bilbo nodded, hopping off his chair and reaching for the kettle.

“You have been long at the loom, my dear. Good weaving today?”

Gadrehal stretched, raising her arms above her head, her tunic bunching around her shoulders. The royal blue and silver colors made her thick hair look darker, even braided away from her face as it was. She only nodded, yawning, before cocking her head, eyes studying the piece before her.

Tauriel once heard of the wonders of Maghi weavers, their art with thread, color, and fabric once renown for its beauty, skill, and magic. Thranduil once coveted their silks for most of his wardrobe, and the ancient hangings that filled the Hall of Kings were of Maghi make. Watching Gadrehal as she hovered over her creation, her fingers a blur as the birthed colors and texture Tauriel never dreamed of seeing, was watching a recreation of the Valar themselves. Ever silent, she spent hours upon hours dancing with threads in her hands.

“It is beautiful.” Tauriel whispered, stepping closer, but out of range of the croaking bird. It tilted its glossy head, one black eye watching her. Gadrehal ran the flat of her palm over the scene she created.

“For Thorin.” she replied, squinting her eyes and picking at a thread. She was very peculiar about the loom and the threads, quite meticulous.

Bilbo waddled over with a cup of tea, blowing the steam away as he handed it to her. She stood up fluidly, cup between her hands. They were chapped and raw from the cold and strands snapping at her fingertips all day. She did not elaborate, and no one pressed her further.

There was a quick knock, and Dis slipped in, carrying a full tray of hot roasted foods. Kili was behind her with a jug of ale, new beads twinkling in his hair. The mother and son carefully placed the food on a long table, Dis clapping her hands. “Food for the famished, eh?”

She began uncovering dishes, the room filling with the aroma of braised meats and the crackling wood fire in the hearth. Bilbo almost yelped with joy, as the little hobbit was always hungry.

“Another day of weaving, I see?” Dis gave the almost complete tapestry piece with some admiration. Kili wandered over to inspect it, distracting the raven with a handful of un-cracked walnuts. The raven squawked greedily, delving into the pile left on the mantle. Gadrehal stepped aside, letting both Dis and Kili study her recent work, her hands clasped together in front of her. She watched them closely.

“How is it you do this with only wool?” Kili murmured, his fingers twitching to touch, but knowing better than to do such a thing. Gadrehal made no reply, but picked up her tea. She moved to the window, watching the gray light dissipate, the snow still falling, piling against the glass.

“Long ago, my mother gave me a dress of Maghean silk.” Dis’ face grew soft, the lines leaving her eyes and the corners of her mouth, she seemed lost. “It was plum with gold stitching. When Smaug attacked, twas the dress I wore,” she looked up suddenly, watching Gadrehal’s back, “and it did not burn, so strong was the make. It sits in my chest, too singed for wearing.”

Gadrehal looked over her shoulder, “We had magics of our own.”

“Clearly.” Dis looked at the tapestry again, marveling at the beauty found at the fingertips of the damned.

~~~

Thranduil took another long drag of his wine, the thick taste washing away the ash that lingered in his throat. They no longer bothered setting up tents, it took too much precious time for such an unnecessary commodity. Elrond, Legolas, Gimili, and Thorin sat around him, their armor rent, their faces smudged with dirt. Thranduil felt that he would never be clean again.

His swords were on his lap as he wiped a cloth over the blades, cleaning the day’s blood from the shining metal. Legolas worked studiously on restringing his bow. A small blue-flamed fire burned low to the ground between them, smooth stones ringed around it. The chill dark night had descended, leaving the survivors of the day in groups of exhausted, war weary warriors, too numb to mourn their dead or sing songs of their valor.

Another late evening ambush. Which was still better than the one that woke them from their fitful slumber two nights ago. Strangely, they were saved from slaughter when a murder of angry ravens - of all the damnable beasts - swept into the forest, disturbing the orcs that quietly slunk the midnight shadows. Thorin had not stopped praising Aule, insisting it was the great one himself descending to aid them on their quest.

The attacks were more frequent now, more desperate. They were growing close to the Necromancer, and he slowly lost lands as Thranduil and Thorin’s armies swept closer. The Eorlings and Gondorians covered the lands to the east, catching and annihilating any foul abominations from sweeping up and catching them from behind. They were only a day’s march from the center of Fornost.

“Ada,” Legolas murmured, and Thranduil looked up to see his son’s head motion towards a nearby tree. There a large, black raven watched him, beady eye staring at the Elven king. It remained still, watching, waiting, observing them all.

“It seems Aule has taken an interest in you, Thranduil,” Thorin rumbled, “although I cannot see why.”

Thranduil ignored the comment, having no desire to bicker with the dwarf this evening. His rage swirled in his chest, but not at the pestilent king under the mountain, but the Necromancer. Thranduil stared back at the bird, but it had taken off, flying silently into the night. Its slinky black disappearing into the shadows, lost to the darkness.

The elven king went back to rubbing away the last of the blood from his sword, ignoring the aches in his shoulders, the stiffness of his fingers and knees. Ignoring everything but the rage he felt when he thought of the Necromancer he was so close to liberating him from life.

~~~

It took another two days for the snow to stop, and another three before the low gray clouds to clear from the sky. And yet another week before she was able to sneak over the wall and walk across the valley towards the lake. The weather was crisp, with the smell of fresh ice and pine boughs lingering in the air. Even this soon, the snow felt wet and loose under her boots. The sun shining out all the clearer, blindingly bright on the untarnished snow. She left no footprints behind her as she traveled over the vacant landscape. The occasional boulder poking out from beneath silent white cover. Tauriel would not approve, she knew.

But with her tapestry completed, the stitches smooth and neat, the colors bright and mixed to an unnatural brilliance, she had only left to offer it to her friend. It was not as grand or large as those in the Hall of Kings, but she believed it proved a pleasant addition. Its scenes depicted the arrival of the eagles to Erebor once again, the flock of ravens as they watched diligently for their return, and of the battles fought far away to the east. She braided silk with wool, giving it a shimmer as it moved, catching the fireflight, making it move and rippled with color. And to the utter amazement of her dear friends, she braided the fine filaments of raven feathers into a very thin, glimmering thread, that she wove throughout the entirity of the tapestry. It was both light and dark, glory and sorrow in fabric.

She considered it, and rightfully so, her best work yet.

Except for the cloak she made for Thranduil. She had sewed shut the tear in his black one, but she was quite dissatisfied with it. So, once more she gave her raven strands a test, weaving a thick deep, midnight blue cloth, with threads of silver and the blue-black of the raven strands. The finished cloth was stowed away in a leather pack, along with her needle and cutting dagger. Another day and it would be complete, or so she hoped.

Her thoughts scattered once she left the sanctity of the mountain, the air and the echoing birdsong and the arms of white sunlight took her away from her task at hand. She meandered her way to the usual spot by the lake, brushing away the powdery snow before sitting.

She sat, silent and unmoving, for a long while, eyes closed, letting the chill nip at her nose and ears, the wind tugging at her unbound hair. Her raven landed on the rock next to her, fluffing its feathers and nesting on a corner of her cloak. It tucked its head underneath one wing, and she let the quiet lapping of the icy waves lull her. Tauriel would be so displeased, but she was too long inside the mountain. She did not do well with prisons, no matter the size.

When she finally removed the thick fabric from her satchel, she smoothed it over her lap, its silky, fluid texture pooling between her folded legs. With one last, longing look over the lake, she took in a deep, frozen breath and began stitching. She had cut the fabric to her needs, now she only needed to take her silver thread and finish the collar, the sleeves. Although it was simple, with no extensive embroidery or rolled cuffs, she firmly believed he would enjoy the shimmering night sky she wove into the fabric.

It pleased her to think of his reaction. It pleased her even more to think when he would wear it. Yes...in the mornings...

Her reverie was jarred when the harsh whinny of a troupe of horses echoed over the lake. Her head shot up, and four horses barreled along the side of the lake, their riders high in the saddles.

Gadrehal jumped to her feet, clutching the long pile of fabric to her chest and her breath came fast and quick. She grabbed her satchel and ran from the rock, snow flying behind her as she ran towards the oncoming horses.

They were Elves, long hair flowing and horses foaming at the mouth.

Her bag thumped against her body, and with one quick movement, she shoved the unfinished cloak into the bag and dropped it.

“Gadrehal!” Gimili’s voice roared over the still lake, an axe raised in greeting, held high and proud. They were still too far apart, the distance still closing between them. “Gadrehal!”

Tears stung her eyes from the wind, and suddenly she heard her raven screaming and swooping happily above her head. His wings whipped past her ear as he pulled forward, before doubling back at her. The cloak billowed behind her, too long, too wide, her own black wings.

She almost felt the vibration of horse hooves in the snow, the hard icy clumps spraying behind the powerful legs of the horses, and she ignored the sting of the wet snow soaking through the cloak and her boots, her legs sinking into the white. Her voice was lost in her need to run faster, run towards them, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, drumming in her ears.

It was Legolas who glided off the horse, landing on his feet and running towards her, a smile plastered to his smooth face, a shining recreation of his father’s. He reached her, and she hugged him fiercely. The horses came to a rough, snorting stop around them. His arms felt tight, and she pulled away. Haldir grabbed the reins of the empty horse, nodding at her. Legolas kept one hand on her shoulder.

Gadrehal wiped away the tears from her face, the frozen gloves stinging her red cheeks.

“Legolas!” she croaked, her throat dry with cold. He smiled at her, broadly.

“We have won, Gadrehal.” he squeezed her shoulder, “Thranduil and Thorin shall return victorious.”

Chapter Text

Gadrehal meticulously folded the finished cloak, tucking the sleeves in, smoothing away the wrinkles., and running her fingers over the thick blue silk. It took her longer to finish it, as the celebrations that began in earnest with the arrival of Legolas and his soldiers. Time seemed to slip away from her, and for a day or two it was forgotten in her overwhelming joy at the news. She became absorbed by Gimili, Legolas, and Haldir, as she spoke quietly with them for hours, listening to their tales of valor and excitement. They told her little of the war, but she was glad to be with them nonetheless.

Legolas had not known when Thranduil and Thorin would arrive, but he assured Gadrehal it would not be too long, for Thranduil was eager to return. Their armies were weary, and the way back was long, this she knew. Yet still, Gadrehal woke every dawn for past week, and scampered to the battlements over the gate. From there, she peered out towards the valley, hoping to see them as they crested the valley. Legolas was much more adept at preventing her from running off to the lake. So to the battlements she went.

As she folded the robe again, as part of her morning ritual, she gently placed it in her pack and tightened her belt, the charms brushing against her dress. It was her simple forest green, with the silver trim, the skirts loose around her legs, the neckline square and elegant. Her hair was down around her shoulders, with several small braids pulled back, adorned by her favorite silver beads. She was an odd mixture of dwarf and elvish, her dwarven amulets, elvish dress. She tried to stamp down her excitement and hope, wishing that this was the morning. Sleep was difficult, as she desired to listen for their footsteps all hours of the day.

As she slipped the large black cloak over her small shoulders, she left her chambers, barefoot, small music following her swift movements, the beads and the amulets tinkling around her. It was, as usual, this early in the day, quiet around the great halls. Few dwarves were awake and roaming, and even her silent footsteps echoed. The flames on the wall were low, smoldering a deep crimson that reflected off the smooth shine of the stone.

As she grew closer to main gates, there was a muffled buzz of activity. Voices swelled and chattered, the creak of leather armor as bodies moved faster than it was intended for, the clang of armor and chain mail, and tramp of ponies’ hooves. Gadrehal picked up her pace, one hand lifting her skirts as she padded up the stairs. She felt like flying, and the raven danced around her head, unable to clutch to her shoulder as her pace hovered just under a run. Everything felt too heavy, and she could not reach the battlements fast enough. The deep, vibrant orange light of dawn crawled over the wall, filling the Hall of Kings with a fierce hue and color. Her shadow fluttered between the shadows of the tapestries, her footsteps padding along.

“Gadrehal!” Legolas called out as he spotted her from his own perch. Gimili and Kili were with him, looking out towards the valley. Legolas hopped down, and met her on the stairs. He was dressed in a plain tunic, and was without his armor. Even his bow was absent from his shoulder.

“Come, let us go break our fast!” he rushed, touching her shoulder. His false smile did not fool her, and she narrowed her eyes at him. The black cloak settled around her body, pooling on the stars around her feet, and swallowing her. The hood bunched under her hair and around her neck.

“No.” she huffed, and moved to pass him, but he stopped her, placing his body to block hers and his grip on her shoulder tightened.

“The cold is dreadful this morning, my lady. No need to be in the way of the wind, hm?” Gimili half stuttered from where he stood, shuffling and not looking at her. Gadrehal’s eyes lit up with understanding, and she jolted.

“He is returned?!” she cried, but as she backed away, Legolas followed her. “Why do you prevent me from seeing him?”

Legolas glanced up at the two dwarves, and Gadrehal took his momentary distraction, to bolt down the stairs.

“Gadrehal! Wait!” Legolas called, rushing after her. She was quicker than he expected, and he realized that Tauriel did not jest when she spoke of Gadrehal’s fleetness. “He...” Legolas stopped his explanation, knowing she was not listening to a word he said. She slipped past the guards -Elven and Dwarvish alike - in a soft blur of black and green, a forest shadow escaped from the confines of the trees.

“Stop, Gadrehal!” Legolas commanded, but she was barefoot and flying. His hand reached out for her, and the ravan dropped into his face, cawing frantically, wings flapping into eyes, feathers slapping his mouth.

“Ack!” Legolas gasped, and stopped short, throwing his arms up to protect his face. Their was muffled laughter, while some Elves came to his assistance.

“Don’t you hit that raven!” a dwarf gruffly barked, and Legolas saw the ensuing arguement before it came to pass. Whether this was her true intention, to distract them and allow her to slip through the gates unhindered, he would never be sure. But if it was or not, it worked quite well to her advantage. For as the dwarven guards bickered with the elven ones, Legolas looked up, to see the raven flying after her, and Gadrehal half-way to the tented camp where Thranduil kept his council.

~~~

Thranduil, Elrond, Haldir, Dane, Elessar, and Thorin were gathered around a large bronze fire pit. Thorin still donned his armor, although it was bent, scratched, and dirtied. His hair was dissheveled, and his beard in a need of a trim. Thranduil had removed his armor, as it weighed heavily on the wound inflicted on his side and shoulder. It had been bandaged, and when time allowed, he planned to have it healed. But first this last war council.

“What do we wish to do with the lands of Fornost? The body of the Necromancer has not been recovered.” Elrond spoke evenly, but they all remained uneasy. Thranduil had the pleasure of removing his head from his body, but as he was wounded in the process did not retrieve the body. Now it was missing, but seeing as no thing could survive decapitation, he saw little issue.

“Unless the necromancer can grow a new body, I believe we have no worries left.” The mountain kingdom was only a few short footsteps away and his beloved waited for him.

“Still, a body must be burned. As with the witch-king of Angmar, we made a mistake once. Not again.”

“There are spells a plenty for dealing with the petty matter of the dead,” Thranduil waved his hand, the ache in his side intensifying with each breath.

“It was these spells that were to keep the witch-king dead. We see how well that went.” Thorin snapped, shaking his head. “I propose a scouting party once we have recovered.”

Elrond and Haldier nodded, “I concur.” Elrond stood and poured goblets full of strong red wine. The road to Erebor had been long, but Thranduil had pushed them. His desire to see Gadrehal bordered on madness, but the refugees...

As they liberated the lands around Fornost, more Maghi had been found, enslaved and beaten, used for labor and other, more nefarious deeds. It had propeled the Woodland king into a rare, quiet anger. Each one reminded him of the young Maghi who awaited him at Erebor. Those who survived were sent to Imlardis, to heal and escape the land of horrors that Fornost became. Slowly, more emerged from the mountains and hillsides, following the victorious army, shuffling behind them like beaten dogs. It was heart wrenching to hear their tales, and it only fueled Thranduil’s obsessive need to return and check on the Maghi he called his lover.

“I’m sure it is only a rag tag band of orcs who wanted to feast on the body of their master.” Dane grumbled, accepting his goblet of wine. Thranduil took a tentative sip, hoping the warm liquid would ease the soreness in his body. There was a clamor outside their tent, voices rising in pitch. A horse whinnied and stamped its foot.

“My lady -” but the words were lost as a small blur pushed into the tent and launched herself at Thranduil. The king, who had stood to accept his wine, was taken off guard. Fatigued from travel and pain, he had barely a blink of an eye before she crushed herself into him. The force of her body made him stagger backwards and loose his footing on the slick ground.

“My king!” she squeaked cheerfully, as they both tumbled down, falling in a tangle of limbs and robes and hair to the chair Thranduil occupied moments before.

“Oof!” he grunted, her weight settling heavily on his lap. Thorin clutched at his stomach as he began laughing, tilting his head back, eyes shut, the sound deep and soothing. Even Haldir and Elrond looked at the two with amusement in their eyes. Thranduil regained his composure, but her face was buried in his neck and her arms were wound tightly his neck. The lines around his mouth and eyes eased as he gazed at the bundle now sitting on his lap. 

“Gadrehal?” he murmured, his hands sliding down her back. His side stung, but it didn’t quite matter. Thorin’s laughter quieted, and he stood up, watching the happy Maghi. The fire crackled in the silence, the tent warm and comfortable, compared to the stinging cold outside. 

“Oh, your son can keep her occupied until we are finished?” His eyes were twinkling with mirth. Elrond and the rest stood up. She peeked at them sheepishly from between the folds of the robe and Thranduil’s hair.

“I am glad you all returned to us safely.” her smile was small, but she was firmly curled in Thranduil’s lap. Thorin looked grim for a moment, but let it pass.

“We shall continue this, but for now, enjoy.” Elrond bowed his head in respect, and left.

Gadrehal snuck her arm out, and held her hand out to Thorin. When he took it, she pressed into the callousness of her palm. He squeezed back and left.

When the tent emptied, Gadrehal sighed and burrowed deeper into Thranduil’s arms. He remained silent, as did she. The warmth of his embrace enough, the feel of his skin and hair. He smelled of horse and wood smoke, leather and the cold wind. And his arms pressed her to him.

“My lady,” he whispered into her hair, his hands slipping to her jaw and lifting her face. Her smile was bright, and one hand reached up to brush hair from his face. He pressed his lips gently to hers, his thumb rubbing her cheek.

“My king,” she said quietly, her hands running over his face. “You slipped past Legolas,” he shifted, moving her to a more comfortable position in his lap, but still holding her close. She wore the black robe he left for her, it was large on her, she swam in all the fabric. His fingers trailed her face, gentling running along her nose and lips and jaw, over her eyebrows and into her hair.

“Gadrehal...” he began, but there was nothing to say.

“Shh,” she purred, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she pulled herself to him.

“Amin mela lle” Her words captured him, and he felt the world grow softer. His heart burned, and he crushed her to him, ignoring the pain in his body, ignoring everything but the sensation of her. The danger had passed, the darkness was once more expelled form the world. But such mighty deeds fell short to the warmth of her arms around his, her breath on his neck, and the smile that played on her lips.

“Amin mela lle” he murmured, letting his cheek rest on her head and his eyes close.

Chapter Text

The sunlight dulled as it filtered through the tent fabric, leaving streaks of yellow on the thinly carpeted floor. The faint sounds of moving soldiers, wagons, and horses moved around them, beyond their world. Fire still glowed in the bronze pit, reflected on the polished surface, keeping the space warm. Thranduil did not know for how long they slept, cushioned in his chair, her squeezed tightly into his lap, his head bent over hers.

It was an unpleasant position to sleep in, and even with the stiffness in his muscles, he woke with a lightness in him. Her head was tucked between his neck and shoulder, her eyes gently closed, breath ghosting over his skin. One hand twitched, and he began to rub her back. She murmured in her sleep, but remained still. The sunlight was strong, but cold, the crisp winter yellow that melted nothing but his heart. They were alone, but a fresh pitcher of wine, a loaf of bread, and cheese had been left on a small round table by the fire.

“Gadrehal,” he brushed hair from her face, smoothing it away. His fingers lingered on the scar by her hairline, tracing the slightly raised white skin with one finger. Her hand tightened its grasp on his shirt. His ring was still on her finger, the deep silver vines digging into her knuckles. He kissed her head. She wrinkled her nose, and turned her head into his shoulder.

“I know you are awake.” he said, his hand slipping down along her arms, gently playing with her fingers before moving to her waist. She did not respond, but her lips pursed against the thin fabric of his loose white shirt, but when she rolled her back, her smile was radiant.

“Good afternoon, my king,” she responded, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. He grumbled inaudibly, before pulling her back for a much longer, deeper kiss, and he smirked as her body went slack in his arms. He ended the kiss softly, before unfolding her from his lap. He stiffly rose, closing his eyes against the harsh pull of his side.

“My king?” she questioned, one hand gingerly touching him.

“It is nothing,” he waved her away, pushing past her. She side stepped him, silent, but watching him, his slow precise movements, favoring his side and leg. It was much more than stiffness from sleep. His mouth was a thin line in his regal face, strained with the pain he did so horribly to hide from her. His hands were still, his body did not tremble, but he put more concentration in picking up the decanter of wine and pouring it evenly into two goblets.

Gadrehal stretched, and when Thranduil turned, both goblets in his hands, his eyes traveled the length of her body, still mostly hidden by the cloak. But as she reached out for the simple silver goblet, her amulets tinkled, and caught his attention. He gripped at the goblet, and put it down more harshly than intended. It sloshed onto the carpeted floor, but he ignored it.

“What...”he began, moving closer and lifting the cloak aside. “What are you wearing?”

She glanced down at her belt, filled with charms and trinkets and amulets. His long fingers brushed against them, a few with jewels catching the sunlight, glittering. The silver polished. He then looked to her hair, and felt for her braids. She stood still, and let him touch her where he willed. His face was impassive, but his eyes were stony. He ran a braid with two raven shaped beads and a raven feather through his fingers.

“What is all this?” he gritted out, thumb brushing the silky raven’s feather that dangled at the end of a braid. She stepped back, and twirled, her charms tinkling and her skirt billowing about her, the cloak twirling and catching around her legs. She smiled. “gifts.”

He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow, and let his eyes drift along all the many charms on her belt. All but two were of Dwarvish origin and make. He felt a twinge of anger, but as her hands plucked at the skirt of her dress, he found he was more curious than anything.

“Gifts?” What exactly had she been up to while he was away?

“Yes, from the dwarves.” she explained, removing one golden metal knot with a small emerald, and handing it to him. “This is for luck.”

He took it patiently, and listened to her explain the meaning of each one, pointing to them, sometimes removing them so he could see better.

“Why did the dwarves give you gifts?” he asked, handing back to her the charms, and she neatly replaced back on her belt. He tried to keep the grimace from his face. Dwarven amulets? Must she? Yet she looked so...so pleased with her little gems.

“They believed I called the eagles to protect Dale and Erebor from the orcs.” she told him with a hint of pride.

“I heard the eagles came. But why to you?”

She tilted her head, and took a sip of wine. She turned away, and he knew she was keeping something from him.

"Gadrehal,” he warned. The dwarven amulets had not put him in the best of moods, but for her sake, he was trying. “I will find out one way or the other. You might as well tell me yourself.”

She looked over her shoulder, pouting, with her eyes narrowed. “I was down by the lake when they attacked. The eagles scooped me up before anything happened.”

This time when Thranduil closed his eyes, it was from fury not pain. His body stiffened, and he clenched his fist. The entire purpose of her remaining in Erebor was for her safety, yet she still managed to put herself into the path of danger. He turned away from her, his jaw twitching as he clenched it.

“My king,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around him, knotting her hands over his chest, and laying her cheek on his back. “Do not be angry.”

His reaction to her touch was immediate, and he felt any anger born of worry dissipate from him. For too long he had been removed from her, and even with such trinkets on her belt and his worry, he could not remain in such a state. He only desired to be with her, even if she needed to wear....those things around her waist.

“Here,” she pulled away, and went for her pack. She picked up, and placed it on the table. She ushered him towards his chair, and kissed him on the cheek. Her tiny charms making her jingle softly as she moved about. Her energy was born of excitement, and he could see her cheeks flush. She pulled a bundle from the worn leather bag, and smoothing it, handed it to him. It was a thick, folded cloth, softer than silk or lamb’s wool, but thicker than those. The colors were magnificent, blues shimmering to black and purple and the color of midnight after the moon has fallen. Faint glimmers of starlight before the dawn ran in the light. When he shook it out, the robe was long and lined with black silk. He, for once, was speechless. She fidgeted, and shifted on her bare feet.

“Does it please you, my king?” she ventured, stepping forward. His heart burst with a warm rush. It was something so simple, yet its beauty outweighed even the brightest gems of the Woodland realm. Oh, how this young Maghi changed him. Joy had once been foreign to him. Loneliness the paths he took each night. Now, he knew. For love of a kingdom was one thing, but love of another beyond his ability to speak.

“My lady,” he reached out for her, and brought her close. “Such a gift is even too great for a king.” He held her face and kissed her.

“You flatter me, my king.” she kissed him quickly, the lines of anxiousness gone from her face, and to think she had come so far. She kissed him again, deeper, and his hands grabbed her hips, bringing her forward, bringing him against his body, and desired to be with her, to be connected to her was overwhelming. He tugged at her belt sharply,

“Now, an excuse for this to come off.” She laughed, and ran her hand over the charms,

“You do not like them, my king?”

“They are dwarvish, and too crude to be worn by one such as you.” he grumbled, searching for a clasp. She danced away from him, bare foot and giggling. She moved out of his reach, and if not for the nagging pain at his side, he would have caught her.

“Then I believe I shall leave them on.” she nodded her head sharply. He sighed. Maybe leaving her with the dwarves was a foolish idea after all.

~~~

“I suppose you shall not remain in Erebor for much longer,” Bilbo finally spoke, clutching his tea cup as Gadrehal and himself sat on his terrace, most likely for their last time. She did not reply, but continued to steadily stroke her raven. The sun was dipping low over the corner of the mountain, the shadows deepening around, the rustle dead branches and leaves filling the silence between them.

“We leave in two days time.” she replied, not looking up. “But I shall not stray too far.”

Thorin barked out a laugh, and they both turned to look behind them, watching as the dwarven king walked towards them. He smiled tenderly at Bilbo, and draped his fur lined cloak over the hobbit’s lap. Then he looked at Gadrehal.

“I fear that Thranduil will try to keep you for us dwarves for a long while.” he stood before them, in simple dress and a trimmed beard. “he says we have corrupted you with our ways.”

This time Gadrehal laughed, and motioned to her belt, “because of these?”

He nodded grimly, but a soft smile still remained on his face. Gadrehal stood up, and her raven hopped from her lap, to settle on the fur of Thorin’s cloak. It had a week since their return, and many councils had taken place. Thranduil explained to her the devestation wrought upon the lands in the north, and spoke regretfully of the refugees they encountered. They remained in their camp to allow the injured to heal, but slowly the soldiers of the Woodland realm marched home to the forests less than a day away.

The Woodland king barely let her out of his sight. It was a rare moment when she was free to wander about, visiting friends without his hovering presence. Yet she did not mind, he grew overtly affectionate, his hand grasping hers as dinner, and their long walks along the lake became a nightly ritual. She ignored his scowl when she belted her charms to her waist, his eagerness to remove it when they returned to the tent they shared. She felt whole and content, like the vines of her soul were finally budding in spring sunshine. Her nights were wrapped in heat and small sighs, her days full of fading winter snow and sunlight. Hope was renewed and rooted so deeply in her now, she had weapons to battle darkness. She was strong once again, of mind and body.

Although she did not wish to see Erebor disappear behind her, she desired to return to the white halls of the Woodland realm, to her garden, and the soft bed of her king and lover.

“We are all saddened to see you leave us.” Bilbo said, rubbing the raven’s neck, the feathers ruffling between his fingers. The bird practically cooed.

“As am I to leave you.” she smiled at Thorin, and then her smile widened, “Oh! I have forgotten, my lord!”

She grabbed Thorin’s hand, “My dearest apologies, but I have a gift for you!”

Bilbo brightened, and jumped up, forgetting his old bones. “I wondered when you would show him!”

“What is this about?” Thorin grumbled, looking from Bilbo to Gadrehal, who was beaming. She tugged on his hand.

“Please meet me in the Hall of Kings!” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling. To see her so pleased made Thorin’s troubles ease. He had a certain fondness for the elf, and even with Balin’s death in the war and the heavy pall it left over them, seeing her excitement made him more content with the whole affair.

He only nodded, and she bounded away, and her now usual accompaniment of tinkling charms echoed after her. Bilbo looked happy, and slipped his arm in Thorin’s.

“Come,” the hobbit said, patting his arm. They walked in companionable silence, with Fili eventually joining them as they slowly plodded towards the Hall of Kings.

“Do you know what this is about?” Fili asked, “Kili and Tauriel just ordered me to the Hall of Kings, and told Legolas to bring up King Grouch - I mean Thranduil.”

Thorin shot his nephew a look, and shrugged, “The only one who seems to know anything is Bilbo.” he gave the hobbit a sharp glare, “But I trust it is nothing to worry over.”

Fili siddled up to Bilbo, “Care to share with me?”

“I would not ruin this.” Bilbo’s kind eyes gazed at the king, a soft smile on his lips.

Thranduil and Legolas were standing in the Hall of Kings along with a spotting of other dwarves and Elves. Elrond stood with his two sons, talking quietly between themselves. Thranduil looked bored, and held his white wood staff firmly in his hands. He wore his crown of winter silver with the white leaves and red berries. His silver, black, and red tunic was prim, with a stiff collar, and pointed sleeves. His son was dressed to match.

He glanced at Thorin, and then away, giving his stern attention to the many tapestries that hung from the rafters, depicting the great deeds of his forebears. Each tapestry fluttered, the colors deep and dull from age. The filled the spaces between the massive pillars that lined the sides of the hall. A great golden statue of the beast Smaug stood at the opposite end of the hall, a memorial to the great adventure it took to win back the kingdom.

“Look,” Legolas nodded in the direction of three figures perilously walking along the edge of a rafter. Gadrehal struggled to grip a large rolled carpet, Tauriel, Dis, and Kili bearing most of the weight. A raven swooped around Gadrehal’s head, before dipping down to rest by Bilbo. Thranduil scowled at the dreadful brat of a bird. The two had taken an instant dislike of each other, and Thranduil was aghast he needed to vie for her attention from a bird of all things.

The bird in question cocked its head, watching Thranduil with one beady little eye, and squawked. He turned away and ignored the black beast.

He watched the four move around, unrolling and working with straps. He wished she wasn’t so high. She walked nimbly over the rafters, occassionally speaking to Dis or Kili. Finally she stood up straight. She captured the attention of the hall, not that many milled about.

The sunlight was bright and golden and warm, it lit the end of the hall, falling at her feet. Her dress was dark in the shadows, but he still caught the glimpses of swinging light that glinted off her gems and amulets.

“My Lord Thorin,” she called out, “the stories of your bravery have not been lost. With great honor I present to you a gift of our gratitude.” She faltered, and she glanced at Dis.

“Thorin, in short,” Dis yelled, “every king deserves a memory.” She nodded towards Gadrehal, who bent and undid one last latch.

The tapestry rolled out with a sharp crack and swap as it jerked to a stop. It waved for a moment, and hung in full view of those gathered. It was not nearly as large, wide, or long compared to those already hanging around the hall. But what it lacked in size, it outdid with color, detail, and texture. Each thread, each strand, each fabric was placed in perfect unison with the others to create a picture, not of war, but of bravery and love and fortitude.

The colors caught the attention of all, so vibrant and full of life, that in some cases as it moved in the breeze, it looked as if those detailed on the tapestry walked with life. It was not small by any means, but the detailing of the fabric sprung to life as the setting sun caught the mastery of art in its last light. Scenes leapt to eye and reached out with arms of color. Their was a gasp from some.

At the center, the mountain of Erebor stood firm, with scenes of battle around it in four sections. Even Thranduil was awed, amazed by the creation in front of him. She depicted Thorin royally, with sword and axe, with ravens and light. The battle of the eagles was vivid, and in a way, Thranduil felt he experienced with her. It was memory made pure, each sliver of fear, of bravery, of glory and destruction woven into the threads, sewed together with love and darkness.

The four scampered off, and only a few moments passed before they entered the hall. Thorin stood, staring, at the tapestry he had no words for. Such a thing had never been done, and even with all the gold in his treasury, he was not certain something so rich and bold could be found. She walked up to him, and he turned to her, her face expectant.

“In all my life, never has such a great gift been given.” he murmured. And her only response was a smile.

Chapter Text

Gadrehal did not which was louder the strong crackle of hearth fires or the the joyous chatter and laughter of those attending the feast. In celebration of victory and to wish the Elves goodbye, Thorin lined tables throughout the Hall of Kings and set up massive bonfires, steaming plates of meats, fresh greens, and sweet cakes were served, and musicians played their ballads from all corners of the room. The tapestries waved with the wind each fire created, the room warm with bodies and flickering heat.

She sat on the right of Thranduil, dressed in a deep crimson dress with gold and black, her head braided, her beads polished, although she was without her customary belt of amulets. A small thin circlet of entwined silver and rubies graced her brow, looking ever the royal. Thranduil matched his tunic to hers, wearing midnight black lined with crimson and gold, his crown sitting high on his head. He glittered with perfection and jewels, chin high, but eyes soft. He held her hand firmly in his, in view of all and Gadrehal felt a small warm flicker of pride, knowing that they all saw her now as his lover and confidant.

Her plate was never empty and her goblet always brimming with sweet wine. Grand speeches were made, and deep silences to honor the fallen. A long, winding ballad of Dwalin of the thirteen began the evening, so the dead would not be forgotten amongst the great festivities.

“My lady,” Bilbo bowed before the Elven-king and Gadrehal, who smiled warmly at him, her head tilted and her eyes drowsy with wine. “You look radiant.”

She laughed, her fingers squeezing Thranduil’s, as he gazed at her, his normally stiff features relaxed from the several glasses of Dorwinian wine passed his way.

“Do I?”

Thranduil gave her a soft smile, “You do.”

Gadrehal blushed and glanced at her king, turning her head slightly to meet his eyes. Her flush did not dissipate when she turned her attentions quickly back to Bilbo.

“Master Bilbo, are you enjoying the feast? I am told you planned the meal.”

Bilbo straightened, and tugged at the lapels of his waistcoat, “I did indeed, my lady. I thought I would bring a bit of the Shire to Erebor tonight. We hobbits know how to throw a party.”

“The Shire must be lovely then, if this small slice is anything to think on!” Gadrehal quipped, “We must go travel there, some day!” Her eyes twinkled, and in truth, her joy radiated from her. The light of the Eldar grew in her yet, and tonight she was a beacon of such.

Thranduil’s brows lowered over his eyes, but he remained silent. Watchful. He was stern and spoke little as always, bowing his head to Thorin and Balin, eyes catching sight of his son briefly, before returning his adept attention on her.

“Alas, I am too old for such a trip.” Bilbo chuckled.

“Nonsense!” Gadrehal chirped, sitting forward, leaning towards Bilbo with an intense expression. “We shall go together, you and I.”

Thranduil’s grip tightened, and he tugged at her, pulling her closer to him. “Mela, such a trip is long.” he murmured, one finger tapping her ring. Her smile was wide and bright, she gazed up at her king.

“We must,” she urged Bilbo, pulling away from Thranduil’s side.

The bards sprang up, a fast melody unfolding from their instruments, their voices raised above the din. Gadrehal jumped to her feet, the dwarvish music heavy with drums, reverberating inside her, shaking her bones. She broke away from Thranduil, who let her hand go as she held her other to Bilbo,

“But now, you must dance with me!” She grasped Bilbo’s small chubby hand in hers and ushered them both to the space between tables, open for such activities.

Thranduil watched her closely as she patiently instructed Bilbo, slowly showing him the steps to a simple dance, her foot and arms turning, the dress flowing around her waist and legs. Bilbo attempted to copy her swift, graceful movements, but was caught unawares as she sped up, her body twirling, hair and skirts twisting around her. She laughed, grasping his hand and Dis’ as she kicked out again, laughing.

“She seems quite content.” Balin nodded towards Gadrehal. Thranduil detested dwarves, but this was one was clever. Old, wise. He was not as hard headed as the rest. But still, Thranduil only deigned to nod in response.

Gadrehal twirled, tugging on the hands of her friends, dragging them into a dance they knew little of. She tilted her back and laughed, although the sound was stolen from his ears by the music and the applause and the sound of fires and voices. The room was stuffy with woodsmoke, and breathing in through his nose he caught a whiff of sweat and seared meat and thick cloud of white pine smoke. Her perfume of lavender was faint underneath it all.

“She will miss this place, I suppose.” Thranduil finally ventured, because much to his chagrin, she had told him so. She enjoyed the mountain and its crags and caves. She took the wind on the peak and cold winder flowers into her soul and kept them there, picking at petals like she did at memories. She wanted to wander rocks under the starlight and see the moon reflected in the silky black waves of the lake. Yes, she would miss this place. And worse of all, it’s people.

“She speaks fondly of you.” Thranduil looked down at the white haired dwarf, with the curve of his beard, bushy eyebrows, and round face. Balin turned back to the dance, it had grown, Fili and Kili and Tauriel and even Thorin, joining in the bouncing circle.

“She is a good lass. A bit world weary, I see.” he hummed, “and a bit wild.”

Thranduil gave the dwarf a chuckle. “Truly, you have no idea.”

Balin nodded good naturedly, “Oh, Woodland king, you did not have to chase after her while you were away.”

Thranduil’s lips curled up, watching his beloved as she twirled, grasping hands and laughing. Yes, she had become quite the escape artist, but then, she had always been. And to think of when he first saw her, as she fought to stand before him in his mighty halls, with bruises and death in her eyes. To see her now...to see how far she had fought, to see how she dug her roots into the world and had watched her grow and grow and grow until the thought of fading was nothing to her. He had no words for her. His wild spirit, his most beloved queen.

He snapped from his reverie.

“I do believe I am called to dance.” Balin laughed as Gadrehal desperately waved him over, her hands grasping at the air between them. She was flushed with wine and exertion, her slippers long gone from her feet. Thranduil waved him on, but Balin was gone, tepidly moving towards her. She called to him gleefully.

“My lord,” Tauriel walked to him, dressed in a slim violet dress, hair bound with braids and dwarven beads. She merely bowed her head to him, no longer under his tutelage or kingdom. His fingers tapped the arm of the chair, and his eyes flickered to the promise beads that hung in her hair. She did not waver under his blank gaze, but a slight reddish tinge blossomed on her cheeks.

Legolas has joined the dance, and he picked up Gadrehal and swung her around, before grasping her hand and joining in with her precise movements.

“Tauriel.” Their interactions had been brief, and never in private. He had not spoken to her since he banished her so many years ago. She had remained in Erebor ever since. Their was no feeling of remorse from either of them, and in truth, he had barely given her a thought. She had proved inept at keeping Gadrehal in the mountain, but he was magnanimous enough to not speak to her about this.

They stared at each other for a moment longer, her words trapped in her mouth. Even as a member of the kingdom of Erebor, she knew to tread carefully with the Elven king.

“I was wrong, my lord.” she finally said, keeping eye contact with the piercing blue gaze of the king. He remained impassive as always. After a moment, his eyebrow rose.

“About many things, yes. To which do you refer?”

Tauriel fought to control her temper. It would not due well to start a row with the king and ruin the evening. This celebration was much needed and deserved. She closed her eyes and took in a breath, once she said what she needed to, it would be over. Her debt to him, her old words would be gone and her guilt faded.

“There is love in you yet.” she bowed her head, “just do not forget you cannot tame all wild things.”

And with that, Tauriel left the elven king, the darkness in her heart finally dispersed. She walked away, until she reached Kili and bent low to kiss him. Thranduil watched her go, but not for long.

Gadrehal danced over, and she reached her arms out to him. This was a rare exuberance, but he could only hope it was not the last he would see of such joy. Very little dimmed the beauty of the stars for him, but the complete and wild elation that glowed from her did just that.

“Thranduil,” she cried, eyes bright as gems, her body breathless. He pulled her close and kissed her gently on her lips. Then he gave her a gentle push.

“Go and dance, mela. Be at peace.” She let her hand trail slowly from his, before rejoining the throng of dwarves and elves she had gathered around her. Once she had been afraid of such noise and crowd and closeness, but now she grew in it, laughed in it, and gathered love around her like river stones collect in the bend.

~~~

The night air was chilly as they left the warmth and fire of the halls of Erebor. Yet the sky was clear and the moon was round and the silence blanketed them in the only true way the night can. Legolas and Gimili remained behind, promising to keep the dance alive and cups full of thick honey ale. Her eyes drooped heavily, and the silver of tears lined her eyelashes.

They would leave early on the morrow, just as the sun rises. Thranduil wanted to return to the Woodlawn realm and sit on his own throne once more. He was healed and the councils were done. It was time to return home. She was draped in the black cloak, and it swarmed around her, thick and billowy. It came down past her hands, and pooled around her feet.

Thranduil walked close to her, her hands tucked warmly into the folds of the cloak, and he wanted to get them both to his tent. Two guards walked discreetly behind them, following several steps behind.

“Are not the stars so unclouded here?” she whispered, gazing up at the white speckles that littered the dark blue sky. Snow still spread its way across the valley, but on the mountain splotches of brown revealed where the rocks and dead grass peaked through. It smelled of the the heavy must of March, when winter was beginning to receded back to the northern places and spring stealthily grasped its fingers into the land.

Thranduil paused, letting her tilt her head back and study the millions of lights above them. He touched her cheek, bringing her back to him. She was exhausted, her body and soul weary. She was sore to leave, but as much as she loathed to say farewell to her companions, she too wanted to return to the Woodland realm. She gave him a thin smile, and linked her hand with his. He did not pull away, but gazed down at her, her small frame wrapped warmly in his black cloak, hair mussed by the breeze, her eyes glittering.

“The stars will still be in the sky when we return to the realm.” he murmured, drawing her close to him. His body was warm and tall, while she fit snugly into his, head tucked against his shoulder. He planted a small kiss to the top of her head, and he wanted to scoop her up, and carry her the rest of the distance. But a king was a king, and did no such thing.

She looked up and rested her chin on his chest, “May we walk down by the lake?”

He balked. “Gadrehal, dawn in nearly upon us. We must sleep.”

She blinked, “please?”

“Gadrehal...”

“A short walk, I shall not do so for quite some time once we return home.”

He glanced at his guards, who stood at attention, looking blank and bored, as if they were not witnessing their king being manipulated by the sweet young Maghi wrapped in his arms.

Thranduil sighed, and pulled away from her. He turned to the guards,

“Be on your way.” he ordered, but he held out his hand, and one of the guards obediantly offered their sword. The two bowed to both of them, and hurried off, armor clinking softly in the cool night air.

Thranduil began walking in the direction of the lake, with swift purposefuly step, attaching the sword to the belt at his hip.

“Thranduil,” she jogged to catch up with his stride, “walk, my king, walk.”

She looped her arm through his, and he sniffed. He was walking. He merely had longer legs. She kept her pace slow, and forcing him to match hers.

“If you do not wish to come, I will walk alone.”

“You will do no such thing.” he grumbled, bringing her closer to his side.

The lights of Dale and Erebor began to fade behind them as they stepped into the smooth darkness of the land beyond. It sloped downwards as they walked in silence. Snow crunched beneath their feet, and Thranduil was suddenly thankful he was able to convince her to put her slippers on.

The lake was inky and black with a rippled reflection of the moon. It appeared before he expected, the large silent waters a vast mirror, that caught the yellow light of the moon and the far away orange lights of Dale. The only sound was the soft lapping of waves, the gurgle of pools as they splashed against the pebbles and rocks.

“I waited for you here.” she said, clambering onto a uneven boulder. She bent over awkwardly, her dress catching around her ankles. Thranduil grimaced, his hands hovering around her, eagerly waiting to catch her, afraid of her falling into the icy waters.

“Here?” He could only picture her stubbornly sitting here, surrounded by snow, wrapped in this black cloak and chill winter sunlight, waiting patiently and sitting as still as stone. She made a small noise in reply, standing at the edge. Thranduil followed her, moving more gracefully than she, feeling the roughness of the stone under his boots. The wind was harsher here, pressing against their bodies, inching into the seams of their clothes. She sighed wistfully.

“For so long, I have forgotten the sound of peace.” she said into the air, Thranduil stood behind her, his own cloak flapping behind him. “I am glad to have found it again.”

He had no words for her, for there was no immediate need for them.

“Will there be peace when we return home, my king?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad for it.” She turned to him, and nestled into his chest, she buried her face into the folds of his cloak and as he looked down, she seemed to disappear into the darkness. One hand rested on her head, keeping her close to him.

“Gadrehal?” he kept his voice even, but he felt his mouth go dry. Was he nervous? She looked up at him, but he kept his arms secure around her, holding her close.

“Upon our return to the Woodland realm, you shall become my queen.”

Gadrehal blinked, once, twice, and weighed his words. She tasted them, felt them, let them coat her. Her smile was broad, and her eyes flared. She reached up, and brought his face to hers, letting their lips meet. And suddenly the wind was not nearly as strong or cold, the night not so dark, and the stars gleamed a little bit brighter.

“Yes,” she whispered against his lips, pressing her body more firmly into his. He body hummed, a heat igniting in her chest. Her eyes locked with his, and she remained grounded. Her soul sighed.

“I don’t believe it was a question.” He smirked, needing to be closer to her, wanting to her. He burned for her, and now that he had her, he could not let her go. She had healed him as he had healed her. They were bound by this, and he planned to see that through. Her laugh was soft, her breath floating over his skin, and she closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his.

“Amin mela lle.”

~~

Dis sagged now that she slowly trudged back towards her room. The celebrations had lasted almost until it was dawn, and time for the Elves to take their leave. Her sons were in states of disarray, and even Thorin showed signs of wear. The periwinkle hue of a March sunrise winked against the sky, and the sounds of horses were growing fainter. The Elves were gone, taking the dear Maghi with them. She had grown fond of the girl, as troublesome and stubborn as she was. Yet it seemed that good had come from it all. The Valar gracing them all with happiness at this ending.

“My lady Dis?” the guard called gently, hastily crossing the bridge. A soft brown package was clutched carefully in his hands.

“Yes?” she barked wearily, wanting nothing more than to clamber back into her bed and sleep the day away with the rest of the kingdom. The guard had the grace to look sheepish as he handed over the soft, silk tied gift.

“I was ordered to give this to you.” She took it too quickly, and it felt like water in her hands. It was definitely fabric of some sort, it melted like liquid as she held it.

“It is from the Lady Gadrehal.” he told her, before bowing low and disappearing quietly the way he came.

At first, Dis wanted to rip into it, and pull out whatever lay inside. But her heart ran amuck in her chest, and she felt foolish, blushing over the gift. Was it a cloak of the likes she gave the Elven king? Such a gift that would be! There was no note, just the simple tie. Wrapped in brown paper, it crinkled whenever her fingers moved or held too tightly. It had been long indeed since she had been given anything before, and she was eager. Her headache forgotten, she rushed to her room.

Once the door was closed, she placed the package on her bed, and took a deep breath. What could that little girl have done? With a deep breath, she tried to dispel the oddly placed nervousness she felt. She tore into the package, and she nearly fell to her knees.

Now messily folded, lay a deep purple dress. But not just any. No, indeed.

Dis ran to her chest, and threw it open, she rumaged around, and found a specific, burnt dress to be missing. Long ago, she had a purple dress, woven for her by the Maghi. She wore it the day Smaug attacked, and the cloth was so smooth, so thick, and so full of Maghi magic, it saved her from flesh from burning. But the dress itself was singed beyond repair or wear. For many a long year, it sat in this chest before Dis.

But now...it lay on her bed, looking as bright and beautiful and whole as the day she first put it on.