The Eastern Woman

The great king

"On your knees!" Feren ordered, hitting Goneril's legs with the handle of his whip. "Kneel before our King!"

"Feren, auta hí. Nanwe apa." said Thranduil. That sentence meant: go away now. Come back later.

He wanted to question Goneril in person, and that fact itself was quite alarming, considering that at that moment the Elf King was holding the long royal sword: Thranduil kept it hanging on one side, partially hidden by the red-colored robe.

The woman had been transported to the healing quarters, where a healer had medicated her forehead and offered her a mysterious - and not very tasty - drink, to make her recover some energy. "You are the second healer I meet in my life ..." she had murmured, once she had recovered her lucidity.

The Elf had not answered.

"What happens, are you dumb? Did the squirrels steal your tongue?" She had provoked him.

"We don't talk to prisoners." the other had finally answered. "Especially ... to brigands like you."

"My reputation precedes me here." Goneril had smirked. "I'm a celebrity, apparently."

Feren had been present for as long as necessary to treat the woman, and once the healer had given consent, he had accompanied her to the great cave in the center of the kingdom, where the king's throne was placed.

Thranduil was waiting for her, his hands folded behind his back, a solemn and wary expression on his pretty face. He was intrigued. He had heard all sort of stories about the human warrior. He had heard so many rumors, that at one point he had suspected that Goneril was a creature of Sauron, a horrendous experiment as much as Uruk-Hais were. A new, deadly weapon.

When he saw her, he felt a little surprised and perhaps disappointed.
That girl was a human female, nothing else.

While she was approaching with Feren, Thranduil saw nothing extraordinary, nor even a bit interesting.

A human woman, as there were many in that world. More attractive than others, perhaps, but nothing exceptional.

"Here she is, the scourge of the East." the King had said with a smile. "The great warrior."

Goneril had been forced to kneel.  Her hands were tied behind her back.  A wooden bar behind her elbows did not allow her to move her arms.  The kneecaps were already aching.

She slowly raised her gaze.

"Here he is, the woodland sprite."  she answered.  "The great King without a Queen."

Goneril had to be careful.
She had to be very, very careful.

Thranduil had psychic power, he could spy on her thoughts exactly like Gandalf.  He could read her mind like an open book.  If she had let him do it, he would have opened the drawers of her memory one by one, to find the information he needed.  To discover the reason that had pushed her there, in his wood.  In his territory.

And there was a drawer that had to remain closed, sealed.  The King had not to find out why the woman was heading towards Esgaroth.  He didn't have to know that her plan was to meet Roswehn Monrose.  He didn't have to know that Goneril knew:
of the existence of Roswehn, of the love that still united him to her, of their son Haldir.

Because if he had discovered that the secret was in the hands of that warrior, fearing that the latter could have revealed it, he would have eliminated her. The existence of that half-breed prince was Arda's most reserved news, after the discovery of the One Ring.  And if there was one thing that Goneril had heard about Thranduil countless times, it was that he had no scruples nor pity.  Exactly like her.