Stars of Varda - An Elven Love Story (Thranduil)

49. The Meeting

I am there early, before the sun begins its ascent, when the world is dark and still. The guards are my only company, one whom I recognize as a fresh-faced Narunir. He does not remark on my presence, nor do I offer a reason. I know Thranduil will arrive at any moment, ever punctual, with the first sign of sun.

I place my hand on the bridge railing, and a cold mist from the river sprays my face and removes the last vestiges of sleep. Breathing in the early spring air, I listen to the rushing water. There is a certain peace in mornings not found elsewhere.

I am finished guessing his reasons for taking me along, having done enough the night before, at first with Gwendes, then later in my bed when sleep refused me. There seems no obvious explanation, and my friend uncharacteristically suggested I stop overthinking it. If Gwendes knows of my true feelings for the King, she has not mentioned it. For that I am grateful.

He did not give instructions for proper attire for the journey, but I assume my wool traveling cloak and riding boots are adequate. I gathered freshly-made bread from the kitchens and a bottle of Dorwinion wine from the cellars for sustenance.

The finches begin to chirp in their morning ritual, and the surviving oak trees make an interesting play of shadows as the first hint of light touches the sky. Thranduil strides through the doors on cue. His branched crown is adorned with white woodland flowers of springtime, and he wears a silver velvet cloak clasped with an elk brooch.

Glancing down at my cloak, I notice part of the fabric frays at the hem from overuse. I look like a raft-elf.

"Where are we going?"

"When will you learn to trust me?"

His teasing smile could be a trick of the dusky light, but I am not convinced. "I learned to trust you long ago, my lord. But I would like to know if my attire is suitable for our destination. I am now having doubts..."

"That is nothing new." He makes a quick assessment of me from my boots to the top of my curls. "Green suits your hair. It will do."

"It will do," I repeat, bemused. "I am not sure if I should thank you..."

"You are welcome."

Nay, his teasing is no trick of the light. I feel a whoosh of warmth at his smile, and quickly look away so the feeling will leave. "Why are you dressed in your finest robes?"

"Because it is a good day, and I feel like wearing them. Are you ready?"

"I suppose, though your cryptic behavior is setting me on edge. But I did say I trusted you, so I must hold to my word."

"Good."

With a swish of his cloak he starts across the bridge, the growing light of dawn throwing a rosy cast on his pale hair. I follow closely behind. Why does he insist on keeping me in the dark, yet take pleasure in teasing me about it? Not only is it unnecessarily puzzling, it furthers my long-time suspicion that he has a flair for the dramatic.

"Did the horses survive the battle? I can ride on my own..."

"That will not be necessary."

I pause in my tracks at his loud whistle. Its sound is unusual, almost resembling a song, and even the finches give up their happy chirping to listen. Before I can ask, a massive beast the size of a house appears from the woods, galloping over the blackened remains of the village and straight towards us. I step backwards.

But the antlers become clearer as he approaches, as does the graceful stride and proud set of his head. The elk comes at us with full speed, hooves clopping against the cobblestone, then slows down and stops near the bridge.