Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Untamed

One day after Yule, 3018

Thranduil stared at her for what seemed a very long time, so long in fact, that Narylfiel was very glad that he had dismissed his guards from the throne room.

At last he spoke, rising from his throne, "So what I hear you saying is that Huredhiel believes you're healed?"

Narylfiel beamed. "That's right," she said. "All better."

In less than three seconds, Thranduil was down the stairs, and by the fourth second, she was in his arms. "This is wonderful news." He fiercely kissed the top of her head, and then repeated himself. "Wonderful news!" His voice echoed through the rest of the empty cavern.

"I'm pretty happy about it," Narylfiel said nonchalantly, peering up at him though her long lashes.

He beamed right back at her. Thranduil—beaming. It was glorious and almost a little unsettling.

"I'm thinking we should celebrate," he announced, taking her hands in his, with an expression that was both charming and more than a little naughty.

Narylfiel's breath caught. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Thranduil smiled again. Pure bliss. "The better question, dearest, is how fast can we get there?"

...A few minutes later...

"You were right," Narylfiel said and moaned.

Thranduil met her eyes and licked his lips. "Delicious."

"Best idea ever," she agreed and lifted another berry tart, warm and flaky, to her lips.

Laughing, Thranduil pulled her into his lap and kissed the powdered sugar from her mouth.

"I didn't mean just the berry tarts," he said with a wicked glance around the empty kitchen. The fire from the oven crackled pleasantly and the heady smell of sugar mixed with the evergreen garlands still left hanging from Yule. As the king lowered his head to taste her lips again, he decided it was a very good thing that all his kitchen staff had left the room.

-  .  - .  -  .  -

March 6th, 3019

Two months had passed since Yule, since the night Narylfiel and Thranduil had bonded, married. In those two months, the forest had softened from the harsh white freeze to a temperate thaw—the snow gave way to bare patches, then to soft green fronds and curls of new grass peeking up through the dark soil.

Two months had passed since Yule, and Narylfiel gloried in the hush of the long nights she spent in Thranduil's arms. The days kept them both busy enough, endless meetings for Thranduil, organizing and planning strategies for when the spring came and the enemy rallied its forces once more to strike; and for Narylfiel, preparation and training, more lessons on deportment, learning how to assist in the day to day running of the king's household and court. Truthfully, most days she longed to be back on patrol with the Forest Guard, but oh, those nights—those nights more than made up for the mind-numbing dullness of Rhivenion's speeches concerning etiquette.

Two months had passed since Yule, and new buds began to lace the trees in Mirkwood in shades of green, and the river ran again, and with it, death. The enemy stirred in Dol Guldur, slowly, scouts reported at first, sending runners south and east over the Misty Mountains. Then three days ago, before the ice finally broke on the river, orc troops marched steadily from the ruined fortress. A village on the outer banks burned to the ground. War had come.