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madwomansapologist · 1 year

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Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 3 - A finite deal

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series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attencion. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

third chapter synopsis: After being bitten by a warg, after almost dying, something changed. Something evolved. Things can't stay the same forever. You just didn't imagine they would change so fast. Or that Thranduil was as bad with goodbyes as you. [3K]

warnings: female!reader. lotr kinda of violence. pre-Smaug. a lot of blood.

glossary: Lossëistar: Ice Mage┆Mithrandir: Grey Pilgrim┆Fovren: Fool┆Maenwë: Clever girl┆Pedig edhellen: Do you speak elvish?┆Dôl gîn lost: Your head is empty┆Qenta Eldalien: History of the Elves┆Novaer: Farewell┆Mellon: Friend

Blood seeped into the wooden flooring. It ran down the table legs, dripped from its corners, and gave a new color to the brown floor. The healer’s hands, crushing seeds and heating saps for the ointment, stained everything with a scarlet mark.

In the corner of the room, frozen in time, Thranduil found himself impotent. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but watch. And so he did.

He saw when the healer ripped the arm of your blood-soaked dress. The Elvenking saw your shoulder ligaments. The chewed meat of your arms. The damaged veins. The unconscious tremors. Thranduil saw your lifeless face, your colorless lips, your paralyzed body.

He took you to a healer, but how difficult it is to differentiate it from a slaughterhouse.

Luthien took the warm fabric off your shoulder. She left them aside, holding the bowl with ointment, and poured it onto the bite.

A convulsion gripped your body. The tremors would have knock you off the table if Luthien had not caught you. A pained moan scratched your throat, but your mouth was still closed. Your eyes moved under closed lids. Your fingers writhing in agony did nothing but bruise the skin of your own palm.

“What are you doing to her?” The Elvenking demanded. He seemed to double in size.

She took the needle, dipped it in what was left of the ointment, and sewed it to your skin. With each movement the more you squirmed. “I am saving her, fovren.”

If the Elvenking sought her out, then he must be smart enough not to take offense. Luthien held you in place, sewed you up, cleaned you. When she was done, Luthien wrapped your shoulder in clean bandages.

“When will she wake up?” Thranduil stepped closer. His fingers ghosted over your closed fist, but he could not dare to touch you. He looked at Luthien.

The lack of an answer shivered him.

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Two days are nothing in the life of an elve. Still, such a short amount of time seemed endless for Thranduil. Hours stretched, the next one never approaching. Thranduil remained patient.

Lady Aerin, however, could not afford to be patient. Not anymore.

She always knew you would wake up. Aerin never doubted that. She knows you are stronger than you look. Not only that: Aerin knows how stubborn you can be. You will die on your own terms. She is certain of that.

What she cannot do is ignore that the Elvenking is still there. Is to lie to herself that in the next hour he will finally get bored and travel back home. Is to pretend not to understand that Thranduil cares.

So Aerin wrote for Gandalf.

She wrote about the Elvenking stay at the inn. About that blasted dam. About that look on his face, how his eyes followed you since the moment he first saw you. Aerin wrote about the attack. About your condition. Your unconsciousness. And when she finally had courage to do so, Aerin wrote about the warg.

Aerin knew where to address the letter. In her office, preparing the bird to carry her message, if only she knew what was happening on the other side of the inn Aerin would have added a few lines to the letter. But she was not there, and the letter flying towards Gandalf missed substantial information: you had finally awakened.

Scared, aching, somehow still tired: but awake. Your eyes took a while to work, to show you the ceiling of your room. You remembered running down an embankment, wheat leaves tickling your arms, a howl. The warg. You understood why you felt a pressure on your shoulder. And why you smelled like blood.

And despite all those hurtful memories, all the pain you were feeling, a smile still made a way into your face. You survived a warg. How many people can say that? You survived. Somehow you always do that.

The peace of your realization ended when your bedroom door opened.

“Master Elrond will surely be grateful, your grace. He already is,” Gildor whispered. “But this is not your realm. You do not have any obligation with us. Why take the risk?”

Silence took place after his words. When you thought maybe you were alone again, a velvet voice made a way into your ears. “I am becoming kind.”

“Annihilating that nest was kind enough, your grace,” said Gildor.

“It was not,” Thranduil’s tone went lower. His voice was still sharp, a mere choice away from a disguised offense, but it sounded like he was talking to himself more than anything else. “It was about pride. This is about being noble.”

Before you could understand what that conversation was about, Gildor’s surprised gasp shut Thranduil.

“Maenwë,” Thranduil whispered. It felt just like velvet.

“Still do not know that one”, your own voice surprised you. It was tiring, rough, hoarse. So different from your usual playful, light tone.

“Clever.” Thranduil walked across the room, never taking his eyes off yours. Gildor was no more there. The discussion no longer existed. The world could have burned to ashes and the ashes scattered by the wind and he would not have noticed. “It means clever.”

You laughed. Or you tried, since the pain it caused made you cough. What just hurt you more. “Of course it means,” you murmured. “I still have an arm, right?”

“You... You do, maenwë. You do not feel it?” Thranduil somehow remembered that Gildor was there. “Find Luthien.”

You looked at your shoulder again, forcing your other arm to pull the blanket off your torso. Nothing was missing. “Just to be sure,” you responded. You leaned on the bed, trying to sit up.

Thranduil understood your intentions. He touched your arm, cold fingers raising goosebumps on your skin. “Stay,” Thranduil whispered. You had no energy to disagree. “How does it feel?”

“I have been through worse,” you smirked. As your words faded away, the truth escaped. “I thought I was dying.”

“You slept for two days.” You imagined it was his way to say: ‘So did I ’.

Thranduil’s hands found something on your bedside table. You heard water splashing. His hands returned to your field of vision with a glass of water. “I cannot hold it.”

Thranduil set the glass on the bedside table and moved closer. You could feel his heat. The ghost of his touch still linger on your arm. “Can I?”

Without really understanding what he meant, you nodded.

Thranduil lowered the blanket to your waist. You felt his hand slide across the mattress and fit behind your back. His palm heated your sore skin. You lifted your head when he tried to place his other hand beneath it. Calmly, very carefully, Thranduil helped you to sit down.

“Your skin is so warm,” the Elvenking murmured. He touched your forehead, his contact lasted for a few seconds. “But not feverish.”

You sighed. Everything aches. Every single part of your body. But when Thranduil touched you… It felt a little bit better. Just a little bit.

Then he grabbed the glass and brought it close to your face. You could feel your body heating. Be helped to drink a glass of water. There was something so sweet about it. To help someone conclude such a simple, mundane task. And to do it simply because you are close enough to.

The world is a horrible place. So ill-formulated, uneven, indifferent. It is a place filled with horrible creatures, corrupted humans, malevolent diseases. It is a place where an inevitable darkness hides in the light, where evil deceives the good, where innocent lives perish simply because the world moves on.

But the world is also the only place where you can smell the rain. Where you can eat sweet strawberries. Where you can feel leaves tickling your skin. Where you can dance. Where you can quench the thirst of those who need help.

You leaned in, extinguishing the distance, silently allowing him to help you. Allowing a king to serve you.

“Thank you, your grace” you whispered.

“You should not thank me,” Thranduil’s words made you blink. “I hope one day you can forgive me, maenwë. You gave me your trust, and I was not able to defend you.”

You chuckle. It burned your throat, but you were getting used to the pain. “I am pretty sure you killed a warg.”

“Not before it could bite you.”

Thranduil blamed himself. He blames himself for not being able to protect you, someone he knew for a few days. Not even a week has passed since you both first met. ‘You slept for two days.’ Did he really thought you would die?

A king is apologizing to you. Thranduil killed a warg, found someone to heal you, but for him it was still not enough. You wonder if you would feel the same in his place.

“Teach me elvish,” you said.

“What?”

“Teach me elvish and I shall forgive you.” With a lot of effort, you were able to move your good arm and reach out to him. You heard steps from the hallway, people were coming to see you. “And a new dress. I have a personal preference for violet.”

Thranduil stared at your hand. He heard no anger in your voice. Not an ounce of regret or hate.

He held your hand. “Deal.”

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Your routine for the next few days was simple. Someone brings you food when it is time to, Aerin helps you with your bath, Luthien examines you every morning.

You knew Luthien before, but never really stopped to talk to her. Now, without further choice, you discovered that she is a great healer and the best at gossip.

And for the rest of the day you do nothing on your bed. You cannot read, as your head throbs still. And since walking requires a gigantic effort, looking out for someone to talk to is not a option.

Except for the nights.

“Pedig,” repeated Thranduil. This time he slowed down. “Edhellen .”

Sitting in an armchair in front of your bed, Thranduil had two books in his hand. Reading from one of them, his velvet voice never was so treacherous. It is harder to understand his accent than from the elves of Rivendell.

You took a deep breath. “Pedi edellen.”

“One more time,” the Elvenking encouraged you. “Pedig edhellen.”

Your face was already burning. It was so embarrassing to barely learn a language in front of someone. A few people have tried to teach you elvish, but you never stood still for long enough. “Pedig… edhellen.”

“I knew you had it in you,” Thranduil’s words were sweet, but you saw his smile turn into a smirk. Thranduil was amused by your difficulty.

“Do not mock me. What does it mean?”

“‘Do you speak Elvish?’” Thranduil could not contain his playful smile.

Those teaching sessions were already routine. Thranduil comes after dinner, and stays until one of you wants to sleep. He usually is the one to say goodbye. There is a sense of freedom that comes at night that no one wants to let go. So, even when you are tired, you try not to show it. Just so it can last a little longer.

“Very funny,” you rolled your eyes. “Teach me how to swear.”

Thranduil closed the book, the dry thud embarrassed you. “Maenwë,” there it was. The strong accent. It fades when he speaks in common, but it shines again whenever he gets back into his native language. “What will people think?”

You straightened the pillows behind you and clasped your hands in your lap. “Indulge me.”

“As you wish,” Thranduil sighed, but you knew he was entertained. “Dôl gîn lost.”

“Dôl gîn lost”, you repeated.

Thranduil stands up and moves towards your bed. “At the first try,” that made you smirk. “What does that say about you, maenwë?”

You pouted. “That I have a natural talent for linguistics?”

Thranduil held one of the books out to you. “There is a chance.��

It was heavy, old, you could smell the aged pages. Leafing through it, you saw elvish in golden handwriting. But you also saw your own language on it. On every couple of pages there was different engraving, all so beautiful. You sniffed it.

“Try reading this once a day,” he told you. “It is a collection of myths.”

You slid your finger across one of the drawings that caught your eye. Even on dry pages the blond hair is still so alive. “Qenta Eldalien.”

That surprised Thranduil. History of the elves. A natural talent perhaps.

“You forgot to tell me,” you shouted when you noticed that he was leaving. Thranduil held the doorknob and turned to you. “What does that mean? Dôl gîn lost?”

“Your head is empty,” Thranduil smirked. You sighed. “Sleep well, maenwë.”

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Warm water trickled down your body. Aerin dipped the sponge in the water before running it over your skin. She ran that soft sponge over your back.

Things were not normal. The bite scar on your shoulder would never go away. The pain when stretching your arm would last forever. The time spent in bed would never be recovered. You are not back to normal, but it is a good thing.

Fear that nothing will survive. Fear that something will. Change is terror, change is craving. Part of you wish nothing bad had ever happened to you. The other smiles when waking up every morning. You survived. Nothing will change that.

Watching the golden leaves falling through the cracked window, you had a new experience. Without realizing, you open your mouth and a melody comes out.

Back in your room, wrapped in a warm towel, you noticed something new. A fabric stretched over it. Violet. So thin it felt like holding flour. So soft. You almost felt bad for touching it, for being unable to keep it pure as it is now.

When you asked for a dress, you thought Thranduil would get you something like the one damaged by the warg. Neutral, of resistant fabric, for those who need to walk and to work. The kind of dress that the wearer does not care if it gets dirty.

This is not a dress for someone that works with horses. For someone that gets muddy. For someone that runs, that likes the feeling of almost falling, that often passes through trees and animals. This is not a dress made for someone like you.

You wore it without thinking twice.

“You were singing”, Aerin sat on your bed.

You admired yourself in the mirror. “Was I?” You caressed the fabric. So soft.

“I never heard you singing before.” Aerin stared at all the fine fabrics together over your body. “And I know you for almost a year.”

“Fourteen months,” you corrected her. You never did something like that before.

“Oh.”

You said nothing while getting dressed. You have never done anything like this before. To correct her. Never. When you turned towards Aerin, choosing between pretending that nothing happened or apologizing, you realized she had left you alone.

You were unsure of what to do. You went through the inn, walking without purpose. Feeling suddenly alone, you walked out of the inn to see the horses again.

You just did not imagined that everyone wanted to do the same. All the elves who came from Mirkwood were out there with their mounts. Within seconds, your surprise turned into realization. They wore their armor. This was no coincidence. They were leaving.

You ran to the stable, trying not to be trampled by horses, searching for him. There you saw the gigantic elk. And you saw Thranduil mounting it.

“You are leaving?” Your breath was a mess. “You did not even said goodbye.”

Thranduil hoped you were still sleeping. Or that you were busy not to noticed the noisy from outside the inn. How he hoped he would never see you again.

He did not wished for a last memory. For a goodbye. Thranduil feared the sour taste in his mouth. He wanted to go remembering you swearing in a language you do not really understand. Thranduil wanted to spend his days imagining if you liked the dress, not to see you in it. To see your braided hair.

Now how will he forget this?

Thranduil cannot stay. Thranduil should have went back to Greenwood a week ago. Thranduil has responsibilities, lifes to care about, a realm to rule. He should not be here. Thranduil may not know a lot, but he knows when it is time to go. “It is good to see you well, maenwë.”

You blinked. That is all he had to say? You tucked your hair behind your ear. “You did not say goodbye,” you repeat yourself.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he lied. Guiding his elk, Thranduil passed through you. He looked away first. “Goodbye, maenwë. Farewell.”

That is all he had to say. Goodbye. Farewell. You watched him, so aware of how you must look. A pretty braid, a fancy dress, a cruel deception. That is how a fool is supposed to look? And all he had to say was goodbye.

You walked. Ran. Outside the stable, you saw him organizing the small army. You walked up to him, not caring if he was speaking. If he wants to pretend that is enough, if for him it is enough, then Thranduil can live with that. But it is not enough for you.

If he is going to leave, if you will never see each other again, let it be done correctly. “Novaer,” you licked your lips. Farewell. You hesitated, searching for the right word. “Mellon.” Friend.

Embarrassed, you turned back to the inn. You walked towards it, aware he would see if you runned. By the time you locked yourself in your room tears streamed down your face. Hidden behind the curtains, you watched him go.

Thranduil did not looked back. Or else he would not be able to go forward. That night, you slept hugging your new book. That night, Thranduil slept thinking about how you could not say mellon correctly even if your life depended on it.

[Forth Chapter]

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