Sunlight streamed through the high-rising windows of Thranduil’s bedchambers. I awoke nestled on Thranduil’s chest, as his fingertips caressed my hair.
“Have you been awake all this time?” I asked him, with a voice that hinted that I was still half-asleep.
“Admittedly, yes, I have been,” he smiled.
“So after I leave your chambers, shall I become Maeneth the seamstress again, or is this how it is going to be now; you waking up hours before I do and touching my hair in that strange way?”
Thranduil gave a soft chuckle and replied, “I would prefer the latter, if you don’t mind,”
“No, I don’t mind that at all,”
I looked up at Thranduil. Then I shut my eyes, and kissed him.
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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...
