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Room For Improvement >> Thranduil X Reader

"But what of the match? You have not spoken word of it, ________; I know you, and your sharp tongue well. Are you ashamed?" She implores, pushing for the news to be spilt.

You pause at your brushing. Ashamed? No. Perhaps you are too humble, having spent so long by true nobility's side, to see that you are worthy of this match, this opportunity. You take time to think of a reply, but Arwen beats you to your answer.

"I think you should trust the judgement of our fathers," she confides to you, "They could have matched you with the youngest son of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien," she reminds you. "Have faith in the Ilúvatar."

You shake your head. "My faith is unwavering, cousin, and I do not doubt the judgement of the gentry who arranged this. I – I am to be married to King Thranduil, of Mirkwood," you confess, the words overflowing from your mouth like sap from a wounded tree. "Arwen, I will be so far from you, from home," you whisper.

She turns, facing you on the chaise, her light eyes full of starlight. "And so close to your fate," she reminds you, and running a hand through her hair, smiles at the lack of knots. "Thank you, ________ ... fear not. I will not forget you."

Forgetting one another was not a problem, neither was the marriage. Not a year after the news broke, you were wedded, and lived away in the forest from the Elves you called family. You had come to love your husband, Thranduil, and the people he ruled over in the forest lands where the stars shone so brightly through the blanket of the night. You loved how over time, the king had showed you compassion, and open arms and a larger library than you had ever seen before in your life.

While he was in council meetings to dispel rebels, and consolidate the peace his father had died for, you were away reading as usual, filling your head with the works of the legendary Elves, the long-dead Men, the poetry written down from the faraway Hobbits, reading ballads translated from the Khuzdul of Dwarves. Yes, you appeared when you needed to beside your husband, and yes, you slept when the bed required warming at his side in the sheets, but the library – it called to you loudest.

But on an evening when the stars were bright enough to chart, the moon high, you did not return to the chambers. Instead, you slept at the scholars' desk, the open parchment smelling so sweetly that it had lulled your mind to slumber. While it was an occurrence that was normal to yourself, having done this many a time in your life, your husband hadn't known of this practice. It was how you woke to a royal guard calling your name, a hand shaking your shoulder, your husband in the doorway, a relieved look upon his face.

Later that night in your shared chambers, though, it was more of an ordeal. "You mustn't read past sundown," Thranduil instructed you, his cold blue eyes fusing a look that could melt steel into your gaze. "And once eaten for the night, return to the chambers."

"Thranduil," you scoff, "is that not heavy-handedness?"

He shakes his head, his long hair wavering in the moonlight, turning from your gaze. "It is not, when the kingdom of Mirkwood could have daggers for their new Queen's heart, waiting. ________, not all are content. You could have been, for all I knew, dead."

"You thought me dead?" you huff, your eyes wide, "I – I was-am not dead, just reading!" you implore, and stalking to your husband, force him to look you in the eye. "If I am not allowed to fill my mind, it might shrivel up, reduce itself to nothing at all!" You are adamant. "I cannot believe you are so hard-headed upon my only pleasure, Thranduil."

For a minute, the pair of you are at a stand-still, an impasse. You do not back down; you will not back down on this fight, would never. Whilst over Elves danced and sang, played instruments, had their trades, you had your books, and your hungry mind, devouring everything and anything it could lay its hands on. It was the only thing that kept you sane, in this new land; perhaps, it kept you thinking that you were still and elfling at the bosom of your mother, back in the lands of Rivendell with Arwen not too far away. Slowly, Thranduil nodded, and taking his hand in yours, hummed.