Chapter Text
“I won’t.”
Your uncle, Cìrdan the Shipwright, stepped forward and hissed lowly: “You will. We need this alliance as much as he does. Now, get down of this horse and be ready to meet your husband.”
You swung one leg over the horse’s croup and jumped down.
It was an understatement to say you were not at ease. Truth be told, you had been uneasy since this marriage had been arranged between you and the King of the Woodland realms. You were to seal a political and military alliance between two Elven people that had grown wary of each other, and found now themselves in dire need of mutual help since the Shadow had been cast out of Dol-Guldur and growing strong in the East.
A sense of dread was filling you, because this forest was dark and sorrowful. The trees seemed to whisper, and ominous shadows seemed to move under their depths. It was so different from the place you came from. In the Grey Havens, you could always see the sky, smell the salty fragrance of the Gulf of Lhûn. Here, you felt oppressed, and it had nothing to do with the high collar of your gown.
Prince Legolas, who had joined your travelling group along with an escort at the edge of Mirkwood, made a gesture of invitation. He was almost the same age as you, yet you were to be wed to his father.
Age was not a problem, as Elves are immortal. But marrying the Elvenking made you aware of how unexperienced you were. Moreover, he was told to be cold and harsh. Arrogant and obnoxious. Your uncle didn’t like him.
You had crossed Thranduil’s late wife’s statue when you entered Mirkwood. It seemed to be raised under the grim trees as a guardian of the Woodland realms. Above all, it had reminded you that you were only the second wife, and that the King was known for never having ceased mourning his wife. You had spent the entire journey wondering if he would allow you to comfort him, or if he would ignore you, or worst, despise you for intruding his widower’s bed.
“My lady, if you will?”
Legolas’ soft, polite voice shook you out of your musing.
You smiled graciously and followed him as he led you. You stepped through a few more trees, then stopped as you arrived in front of a white stone bridge lay across an impetuous stream. On the other side of the river there were great pillars of carved stone, above three great doors leading into the cliff. The halls of Thranduil were his palace, and a stronghold for his people.
“Is this an underground palace?” you asked, uneasy as ever, for you were used to live outside in the air.
“Yes it is, my Lady”, Legolas answered, “though you might find it is not at all like a Goblin’s cave.”
Disconcerted, you raised your eyebrows. What could you know about Goblins? You had been raised in a safe and peaceful place. The sea could be rough, but you never suffered from an attack. You walked through the bridge, following the Prince, and crossed the threshold of what would be your home. At least, you hoped to manage to feel at home in here.
The cave you walked in was not dark and you stopped to admire the sight. Light flooded the great halls from many large windows, and though you were in a cave, it was wholesome, crossed by many streams upon which were laid slight bridges. Moss and bushes grew near the water, and when you tilted your face to the ceiling, it was so high it almost disappeared in the shadow between the high pillars.
“This is magnificent”, you whispered.
“Gloomy”, you heard your uncle mutter behind you.
Turning your head to him, you hushed him: “This is my home now.” You tried to appear determined, when you felt miserable.
He grunted.
Prince Legolas overheard you, and turning slightly, he said with a smile: “It is still a bit cold, for it is too early in spring. But in a few weeks, it shall be truly stupendous, my Lady.”
Well, if you feared your intended to be cold and distant, his son at least was courteous and friendly. Maybe you would have someone to talk to.
“This way, my Lady.”
You walked behind Legolas on the footbridge that led to the throne room, followed by the cortege of Elves from the Grey Havens. You could see the Throne in the distance: it seemed to be huge, but when you stopped before it, you could clearly see that it had been built to make an impression. King Thranduil was casually reclined in his throne, legs crossed and arms sprawled on the armrests. He was wearing a long silver coat. Many gems were shining on his rings, and his golden hair was crowned with twigs and buds. He gave you a haughty smile as you stopped on Legolas’s signal, and graciously descended the steps to meet you.
After having greeted your uncle with a graceful nod, he set his icy stare on your figure. He was taller than everyone in the room, and his stately demeanour made him even taller, if possible. He was towering you, looking at you with half-closed eyes. He was beautiful, with his fair skin, high cheekbones, straight nose and dark brows above steel-blue eyes. But his cold disdain made your entrails knot like a contorting snake.
“You are very thin, little sprig”, he said, stroking a strand of your dark hair between two fingers. You curtsied, shyly casting your eyes down. “What a delicious morsel you are bringing me, Lord Cìrdan.” He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face to his, leaning slightly to look you in the eye.
“Slate-grey. Is the sea the colour of her eyes?”
You bit your lip. He was talking of you as if you weren’t even here. Examining you like a horse. Like a broodmare.
“Sometimes it is, my King, before a storm”, you answered.
You knew your brewing indignation was easy to read on your face and in your gaze, yet it just seemed to fuel his arrogance.
“Is she a maiden?”
You gasped in indignation. How could he dare asking it, and even doubting it?
“Are you a maiden, little sprig?” he asked you.
“Yes, I am, my King”, you hissed.
He smiled smugly, straightening.
“Very good, Netholf. For I shall not fuck anyone else’s leftovers.”
Netholf. Sprig. You couldn’t decipher if it was an endearment or a sarcasm. You waited for your uncle to retort, but as nothing but an embarrassed silence stretched over you and your cortege, you freed yourself from the king’s touch, and answered with a forced smile, blinking the tears that threatened to form in your eyes: “I am going to pretend this was a compliment.”
He gave you another cocky smile, and chuckled lightly.
“You have spirit, Netholf, I give you that. It’ll be fun to tame you”, he whispered darkly in your ear. He didn’t notice your shiver, for he turned and slowly walked away, regally talking to the Elves accompanying you: “But you must be exhausted by your journey. You will be led to your rooms, where you will be able to get some rest. Tonight, we will celebrate together.” Turning to you, he added: “I will marry you tomorrow.”
You managed to hold straight and unshaken until you were alone, but as soon as you closed your chamber’s door, you couldn’t help crying. You felt so angry and miserable. You were going to spend your eternal lifetime with the obnoxious, heinous, offensive Thranduil. You wanted to scream. But you could not make a scene. Make a fool of yourself. So you undressed and dipped into to steamy bath already waiting for you, eager to get rid of the sweat and dirt of your long ride.
A maid silently entered to help you dress and trim your hair for the feast. You eluded every attempt of small talk, brooding and watching your hands while she combed and plaited your hair, adorning it with flowers.
“My lady”, she finally said, “don’t be so sombre. The people rejoices in having a new queen. The Woodland Elves have been waiting for you since the King announced his marriage. We have faith in you.”
“The King seemed to take pleasure in humiliating me in front of my people.”
“He has forgotten what is it to love, and to be loved. Give him a chance, my Lady.”
You nodded politely, and smiled, knowing the smile didn’t reach your eyes.
When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you thanked your maid for her work. You wore a night blue velvet dress with silver embroideries on its hugging bodice and long sleeves, and you hair was crowned with white flowers.
“Pick a necklace in my jewellery box.”
“The King wishes that you wore no jewel, my Lady.”
You huffed through your nose in annoyance. Must he also decide of your appearance?
“Very well.”
There was a knock at the door: it was your uncle, fetching you for the feast. He dismissed your maid, then smiled benevolently at you.
“You are beautiful, my beloved niece.”
You were not done with your anger, and couldn’t help answering harshly.
“Thank you, uncle, for letting my intended insulting me earlier.”
“Thranduil is quite rough, I assume. I haven’t met him since a long time. He wasn’t so wary, as a young ellon.”
“He is as obnoxious as he is beautiful.”
Your uncle chuckled, and extending his hand to show you the way, he said : “The most beautiful ellon I have ever met, I dare say. Now brace yourself, niece.”
You took a deep breath in, squaring your shoulders. You were now determined not to let Thranduil know he unsettled you: as much as you disliked him, you wanted to behave regally. You curtsied before him, a maidenly smile on your face, and he smiled back. This time, he seemed genuinely pleased with your appearance, for his perfect teeth flashed and he bowed his head to greet you. “You are beautiful, Netholf.”
You cast your eyes down in shyness. You were still angry at him, no matter his handsomeness, but you couldn’t let it show.
“Thank you, your Majesty.”
“I have a gift for you, my bride”, he said in his deep, silken voice, producing a necklace made of white gems and silver, a beautiful jewel crafted by Dwarfes. You nodded gratefully.
“It is a magnificent gift, your Majesty.”
“It belonged to my mother.”
Such a gift was intimidating. It meant that he was allowing you to be part of his family. Yet you felt relieved that the necklace wasn’t his late wife’s: that would have been awkward.
He circled you to fasten it. You brushed your hair out of the way, and waited in silence, trying not to flinch when his fingertips lingered on your nape. The contorting snake was back in your gut, and you couldn’t remember feeling so nervous. You turned back to him, thanking him courteously, casting a glance to see a smile on his face.
No doubt he was pleased with himself, for showing off his benevolence after being so rude on your arrival. So you lowered your eyes, not allowing him to see your distrust. He extended a hand to you, as an invitation to lead you to the dining table and you obediently took it, walking side by side to your chairs. You sat next to him, keeping silent.
The dinner was an ordeal, as you felt extremely nervous but tried desperately to act as if you were completely at ease, not drinking wine in order to keep your wits, and not able to eat much. The King mostly talked to your uncle, so you chatted with people sitting next to you, trying not to drown in sadness and frustration.
When music started, Thranduil invited you to join a slow group dance. He danced beautifully, moving and swirling with more grace than you have ever seen. Coldness was gone from his gaze as he smiled at you, and this was all the more unsettling. How could he coldly ignore you a moment then behave kindly?
There was another dance, then another. After your third dance, he went back to the table, and you politely excused yourself, heading to a large window opening to a large balcony. You welcomed fresh air as it filled your lungs, though the night was cold. The balcony opened on the cliff, over the river, and you could see beeches on the other side of the ravine and stars high in the sky. It was a relief to know that there was a place in this halls where you could see starlight. You missed it so much during the three days spent travelling through Mirkwood. As much as the forest was dreadful, the beeches that you saw seemed harmless and peaceful. You liked these trees. Maybe there were areas of the forest where you could safely have a walk?
You heard footsteps behind you, and assuming it was Cìrdan coming to scold you for leaving the feast, you spoke first: “Leave me alone.”
“I know you are here, Netholf. Why do you linger in the shadows?”
The King’s dark, silky voice made you jump and you spun to him.
“Forgive me, my King, I didn’t know it was you.”
He came next to you and gave you a smile, then turned his gaze to the sky.
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
“I missed them”, you confessed.
“You seem woeful. I know that coming here, you are doing what you are told.”
You kept silent, eyes fixed on the beeches, for fear of offending him with your answer. You flinched when he touched your hair.
“Tell me. Do you not want to be my Queen, Netholf?”
His tone was not cold nor ominous. You felt that he was genuinely asking you. You took a deep breath.
“Your Majesty must know that I can’t lie. I can’t conceal my heart. That is why I’d better not talk, for fear of what I could say.”
“Now you are alarming me. What is it you want to say? Please, feel free to speak.”
What if it was a trap? You knew in his realm, you were at his mercy.
“I never asked my uncle Cìrdan for this. I never dreamt to be a queen, never expected to marry, either. But when he told me of your arrangement, I submitted, even if I felt like he had sold me. Please, my King, you must understand that I am fully aware that I am but your second wife. I have no intention of replacing your son’s mother.”
He stiffened at your words, but you went on.
“I don’t expect love from this marriage, my King. But before I first met you, I expected trust and respect.”
“Not anymore?” he asked, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted.
“I don’t see respect when you examine me like a broodmare, inquiring about my virginity, claiming you will tame me like an animal.”
You stopped talking, for your voice was threatening to break and you didn’t want him to hear your distress. Telling the truth was relieving, even if you didn’t feel less miserable.
He let out a heavy sigh.
“You must forgive me, Meldîs. I have long forgotten how to behave with a young elleth.”
You closed your eyes at the endearment.
He came behind you, circling his arms around your middle, and kissed the crown of your hair.
“I understand that you be wary of me”, he whispered.
“I don’t want to hate you, my King. You must know that I will willingly share my body with you for the sake of our people. All I hope is to be treated like a partner, not like –“
You cut your words, knowing you were pushing too far. But he asked anyway: “Like what? A prisoner? Is that what you think?”
“A hostage, kept here as a token of trust and mutual assistance.”
He chuckled, the vibrations in his chest echoing in your back.
“I find you very refreshing, my dear. No one dared speaking to me like this for centuries.”
“I am sorry if I offended you, my King.”
“There was no offense. I thank you for being so sincere with me.”
He tightened his arms around you and you revelled in his warmth, as it protected you from the crisp air of the night. You were tempted to lean against him, but it felt so improper: what would he think of it, of you?
“I can’t promise love, for my love is not mine to give anymore”, he said in a low voice. “But I offer you trust and friendship.” As he leaned down to you ear, you inhaled his scent – oak moss and something spicy – clove? coriander? – and shivered at his dark whisper.
“I make you a promise. Pleasure beyond measure.”
You gasped as his breath fanned on your cheek, and he lightly brushed the skin of your neck with his fingertips.
And then the night’s chill was at your back again, and his footsteps disappeared.