It was one of the quietest, and stillest of nights of the Elven summer. Even the birds did not sing their melodies to accompany the winds of the night, and the elves remained in their homes, waiting for the light of dawn to return to the sky, and so did I.
My hands fumbled around with a beautiful wooden piece carved in old Elven writing and intricate patterns, given from my grandmother. I stopped watching the night sky and paced towards my grandfather’s bedroom, and watched him sleep soundly and fill the almost soundless room with his snores.
As I watched him sleep, I grew sleepier as well. I returned to my chambers and slipped into a nightgown, and fell into the world of dreams, with the wooden piece still in my grasp. Little did I know what was to follow in the morrow would change my life forever.
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Your Hands Are Cold
FanfictionMaeneth considered becoming Thranduil's personal seamstress after the death of her grandfather, her last blood relative, as her salvation. But as every Sindarin elf knows, the king is a very difficult person to deal with. Young Maeneth encounters ob...
