Three hundred years ago:
Her heart thrumming in her chest, Narylfiel practically skipped down the softly lit corridors to the king's study; she knew she hardly looked dignified enough to be a young initiate of the Forest Guard, just beginning her first day of formal training, but she was so excited she could scarcely contain herself. When she reached the lower hanging crossbeams that formed the arch over the next hallway, she stretched her arm out and leaped up to slap the beam; Thaliniel had gotten on to her for that, more than one time, but today Narylfiel felt so exhilarated, so alive! She skidded to a stop in front of Thranduil's rooms and waited for the guards outside the door to let her in. Finally, Elfir nodded, and she cracked open the door and popped her head in.
"Your Majesty!" she exclaimed, for she would always address him formally in front of others.
Seated at his enormous carven desk, Thranduil looked up from whatever he was reading and his poet's mouth curved into a laughing smile. "Well, do not linger in the doorway," he chided her, "when I know you are dying to show me!"
Narylfiel glided into the room and struck a pose, proudly displaying her new initiate's uniform, right down to the tops of her gleaming boots. "What do you think?" she asked him, her eyes bright and eager.
Eyebrows furrowed, Thranduil rose from his desk in one liquid movement and circled her, pretending to study her seriously. "Well, you certainly look the part," he said with a grin.
"I have waited for this day for so long," she confided in him, smoothing out her tunic, "and now that it's here I cannot help but worry that I may not be good enough."
"You will," Thranduil assured her. "I will tell you what I told Legolas on his first day of training for the guard, the same thing my father told me: Be disciplined and willing to learn. The captains can teach you the rest, but if you can do those two things, you will always be well thought of."
Narylfiel tilted her head and listened to her king's wisdom and clasped her hands. "Disciplined and willing to learn," she repeated back and flashed him a dazzling smile. "I will be the most disciplined and eager to learn guard that my instructors have ever seen!"
"I do not doubt it," Thranduil said quietly to himself as she waved enthusiastically and wished him goodbye, promising to come back later and tell him all about her first day of training.
. . . . . . . . . . .
November, 3018:
Filtered beams of light accented the spaces between the ancient trees that twisted like spires from the undergrowth. Dark leaves littered the forest floor, occasionally dusted with the odd bit of snow that had managed to drift in from the thick canopy overhead. The shadows lengthened, and Thranduil appraised the trail of horrors that he had wrought- orcs, wargs, all dead, gutted, throats hung open-yet he found little reason to rejoice from his role in the devastation. Across the scene of carnage, his eyes landed on Narylfiel. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at her, watched her gulp, felt her fear. His eyes darkened, and he willed himself to slow the pounding of his heart to quiet the surge of fury brought on earlier by seeing her unarmed and captive. He willed himself not to think about what might have been, what might have happened had he arrived only seconds later. Finally, he forced himself to speak and his voice sounded discordant and unsteady to his own ears.
"You...you are not injured then?" he asked uncertainly. Her travel clothes were streaked with orc blood, with the odd bit of dirt and parts of leaves clinging to tunic and hair.
Narylfiel shook her head. "Do I not look the very picture of health?" she joked, attempting to assuage his fears and lighten the mood. She knew she looked wretched and hated for him to see her this way, so broken down and defeated. She most certainly was not telling him about the wound to her side-it was just a trifle, a scratch really-and she did not need him getting more upset.
With a disbelieving look, the king crossed the distance between them and gently lifted her chin with his hand, as if she were incalculably fragile. His full lips stretched into a thin line as his fingers ghosted over the welt on her cheek where one of the orcs had struck her.
He plucked a few errant leaves from her hair, glided his hand down the brown tangled strands.
"Narylfiel." His voice was little more than a whisper as he searched her eyes, as if he needed to persuade himself that she really stood before him, unharmed.
"I am fine," she reassured him. "I was handling it."
"I could tell," he retorted and crossed his arms. His eyes flicked over her again, but he said nothing.
An immeasurable amount of time stretched by, and Narylfiel shifted uncomfortably. This newer, quieter version of Thranduil unsettled her. Why was he so quiet? Why would he not just yell at her and get it over with already?
"Well," she began, "I guess I'll just be on my way then. Not too far from the forest border!" She patted her vest pocket. "This letter will not deliver itself, you know."
She chuckled a little, and Thranduil joined in with her, his warm baritone ringing like chimes through the empty branches. It sounded tinny in the open air, a little too merry, a little too bright to Narylfiel's ears.
"No," he told her flatly. Then he placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "You have acted foolishly, but a fool you are not. Let us hear no more about delivering this letter." He stretched out his hand. "Give it to me."
Narylfiel reluctantly pulled it from her vest and handed it over with an exaggerated sigh. Eyeing the letter like she had just placed a live spider in his open palm, Thranduil picked it up, folded it twice, and stuffed it into his tunic.
"Since you are apparently 'fine' as you so claim, then you can help pile these carcasses to burn," Thranduil told her and gestured to the gruesome trail of bodies behind him. "We will wait here for the Royal Guard to join us. They should be here in a few hours, coming up the forest path. I have already sent your horse back to lead them here."
"Mirima?" Narylfiel enquired about her horse. "You found her then, and she is safe?"
Thranduil nodded once and then pointed to a clear space next to the nearest dead warg. "Let's pile the dead there."
Narylfiel nodded, more than a little frustrated by his lack of communication. It was just so unlike him and frankly unnerving.
Without another word, he went to work, and so did she, dragging the corpses and settling them into a hideous pile. Thranduil motioned for Narylfiel to help him drag one of the wargs.
Wishing for a pair of gloves at this point, she disgustedly picked up one of the paws, while Thranduil hoisted the other side. He gave her a questioning look, and then together they both began to pull the dead beast toward the pile.
Those nasty things were heavy! All this lifting and pulling was not doing Narylfiel's injury any favors either, not that she could mention it to Thranduil now. Her side burned from the exertion.
"I know I should not have left without your permission," Narylfiel told him quietly, straining to move the warg.
Thranduil dropped his side. "You think, Naryfliel?" He pointed around the clearing. "Look at this! Look at them!" Then he dropped his hand and closed his eyes for a second, willing himself to guard his temper.
The king drew a deep breath, and Narylfiel stared and wondered.
Thranduil picked up his side of the warg. "Come. Let's get this one moved."
They left the body next to the pile, for it was much too heavy for them to hoist on their own. Thranduil dropped his side and walked away without a further glance at her. Narylfiel followed him and caught his arm.
"Look, Thranduil. I know I was wrong," she admitted softly and forced herself to meet his eyes. "I should not have gone against your word. I should never have left without your permission."
He drew her hand from his arm, held it while she spoke to him and then released it gently. Thranduil said nothing but looked at her, his expression a mixture of hurt and loss.
A rare breeze teased the ends of his hair across his face. Again, Narylfiel was struck by his beauty-so masculine and strong, but only now he looked utterly devastated.
"Please," she said, hardly believing that she would even consider asking this, "can't you just yell at me already?"
Thranduil arched an elegant eyebrow at her request. "Yell at you, Narylfiel? Could I just yell at you?" And although his voice was still so soft, something indefinable seemed to sizzle in the air, hang on his words.
"I do not wish to yell at you," he said, and for the first time since speaking to her, Thranduil's eyes flashed. In vain, he had tried to hold his anger in, to not lash out at her. He grabbed her with a hand on each of her arms, yanking her close. "I want to shake you, shake you until you realize how close you came to being killed today!" he said, his voice growing more like a roar with each word. Despite his claim, he did not shake her but held her tightly.
"Thranduil, I am sorry," she cried, her eyes darting up to his. Of all the times she had dreamed of being in his arms, this was not how she envisioned the moment.
"You're sorry?" he scoffed. His gaze scorched her, and he tightened his grip on her, pulling her in even closer. "I ought to take you over my knee and spank you!"
"Thranduil!" she cried, scandalized.
He shook his head bitterly and held her gaze. "There are some things that 'I'm sorry' cannot fix, Narylfiel, even between friends."
"I know that," she protested, glad to see the familiar fire return to his eyes-even if it was directed at her, "but 'I'm sorry' is all I have at the moment, Thranduil."
"When will you learn that there are consequences to your actions, Narylfiel? Did you even stop to think about how I would feel after finding your room empty, your bed unslept in?"
Not waiting an answer, Thranduil released her roughly, putting distance between them, his eyes wild.
"Do you think a king does not know fear?" he exclaimed, the anguish rising in his voice. "I was terrified for you, Narylfiel. Worried that you would be killed...or worse! And that I somehow drove you to this, that I pushed you away. That I lost you..."
"Thranduil, no," she protested weakly. Narylfiel reached out to him, but he shrugged away from her touch. "I should never have said those horrible things to you. Please, do not think-"
He cut her off, his words laced with grief, grief that her actions had invoked. "I am equally to blame, Narylfiel." His eyes were bright and sorrowful, but his voice was grim. "As king, I should have risen above such pettiness, and as king, I cannot ignore your willful disobedience."
She nodded her head, just once. "I understand," she said, and she did. Suddenly all of her journey seemed to catch up with her at once. As much as she wanted to appear strong in front of Thranduil, she was tired, oh so very weary. She sank down on the nearest convenient log, pulled her legs beneath her, wrapped her arm across her torso to slow the dull throb of her injury.
Thranduil eyed her carefully. "I want you to know that I did not make this decision lightly, nor do I take any joy from it." He knew his words, even carefully chosen, would devastate her, but she had left him with few alternatives, and this, this was what he hated perhaps most about being king. Knowing that his decisions willfully brought grief to others.
The starkness of the wet, black wood of the trees mirrored her own dark thoughts. Seeing him standing there, his strong face, almost unbearably regal, the straight fall of his hair bleached silvery white in the fading afternoon light. Beautiful, she thought. A model of elven strength and perfection, he was so far beyond her, and she was fooling herself if she ever thought any part of him would willingly be hers, that she could even hope to claim him. And her recent actions had only widened the gulf between them.
He knelt so they were eye level. "Narylfiel, you must resign your position in the Forest Guard."
Her breath caught, but she made no protest. Her eyes did not brim with tears. Her chin never quivered. Like an emotionless mask, Narylfiel's face betrayed nothing. Indeed she felt nothing, only the numbness of disbelief.
Thranduil continued, his voice softening: "If this was only between us, I could have overlooked this display of defiance from you, but as it stands, other members of the guard are on their way now to retrieve you. Narylfiel, they all know what you have done, and I cannot let this go unpunished."
She finally managed a nod and then buried her face in her hands, unable to do anything else, not speak to Thranduil, not help pile orc bodies, not move from her unfortunate seat on that decrepit log.
With dismay, Thranduil watched Narylfiel crumple into herself. Seldom did he despise the authority of his position, but this was one of those moments; and it was not like he never had to mete out punishment! Wearing the crown often meant being the one to deliver judgment, handle discipline and reprimands. But he never enjoyed it, and now seeing Narylfiel's despair, knowing he must not give in, well, it took most of his willpower right then not to go to her and comfort her. Instead Thranduil just stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, reminding himself that this was her choice, her decision. Only...his eyes were drawn to her once more, noting the silent shake of her shoulders. He turned away.
Thranduil went back to piling the bodies, disgustedly flinging them onto the steadily growing pile. Part of him wanted to load Narylfiel onto Taurion immediately and head back for the palace, but he had told the guards that they would wait, and it would not do for the guards to arrive here and find he and Narylfiel gone, leaving them worry about what had happened to their king. No, it was best to wait.
After a while, Narylfiel had wordlessly stood and joined him clearing the last few bodies; she had not said anything and neither had he. Ever so often, Thranduil stole a glance at her. Her dirty tear-streaked face looked utterly fatigued and miserable, and he wondered what part of the downtrodden slope to her shoulders and listless eyes had to do with being attacked by orcs and how much was a result from losing her rank and position in the forest guard. She had been so proud of her commission; it was all she had wanted since he had known her as an elfling.
By the time Thranduil heaved the last orc onto the pile, the light had dimmed considerably with the shadows thickening under the trees. He dusted off his hands and eyed the final warg.
"Narylfiel," he called her name, and she turned just slightly toward him. "Please help me move this last warg."
As she came up beside him to help lift the beast, Thranduil frankly could not remember a time she ever looked worse. Her warm brown eyes were dull, no, more like pained; her skin was unusually pale. He caught her arm as she brushed past him. "We should just leave this for the guard when they come, Narylfiel. You clearly do not feel well."
She swayed on her feet a bit and tugged her arm free. "It's nothing, Thranduil," Narylfiel insisted and blinked. She then grabbed up one of the enormous furry paws. "Let's just get finished. We can't have the guards thinking you made exceptions for me or anything."
Thranduil narrowed his eyes at that last comment but only in time to see her try to lift the warg all by herself and then topple over, face first into its furry hindquarters.
"Narylfiel!" he exclaimed, immediately lifting her off the carcass and carrying her into the last fading light where he could see her more clearly. Her eyes were glazed, pupils wide, and when he pressed his hand to her forehead, her skin was cold.
He patted her cheek. "Narylfiel," he called to her softly.
Her eyes refocused a little. "Pretty," she slurred her letters, looking up at him. "Maybe we should rest for just a minute or two."
As Thranduil watched her eyes drift shut again, he felt the icy tendrils of dread curl through his heart. She had told him she was not injured! But this- this behavior, the disorientation, chilled skin, and then he recalled that he thought he had heard her retching behind a tree earlier- these were all symptoms brought on by orc poison. Even the smallest cut could prove lethal if untreated. The king hastily pulled off his cloak and lowered her gently upon it, first checking her hands and arms, and then after a brief mental debate, rolled up her vest and tunic to check her waist and abdomen.
His hands stilled after discovering a small knife wound, raw and angrily swollen, marring the delicate skin right under her ribs. She needed medicine, and although Galion had the presence of mind to include a small field kit in Thranduil's bag before he left, treating this sort of wound would require much more than a simple field dressing. A healer would have to draw out the poison, and the longer the poison settled in the wound and entered the blood, the more difficult the removal. He could do it himself now, if he only had the right herbs. Thranduil shook his head angrily. Stubborn elleth! Why had she not told him that she was injured? Because she was afraid of you, chimed an unwelcome voice in the king's head. And then he had forced her to pick up and lug all those corpses to burn!
Thranduil gently wrapped her in his cloak and picked her up, hating the decision he was going to have to make. Narylfiel had almost reached the edge of the forest. The palace was hours away. He whistled for Taurion, one long trill. If he wanted to save her, Thranduil would have to ride for Dale.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Author's Note:
Oh My! It looks like we're heading to Dale, although Thranduil is none too happy about it! And poor Narylfiel- kicked out of the Forest Guard! Was Thranduil too harsh with his discipline?
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