Various Array of One Shots ✔️

Of The Scribes >> Thranduil X Reader

Title: Of The Scribes

Parings: Thranduil X Reader

Warnings: fluff

Spoilers: none

Sequel: This is part one of three. The next is called 'Of The Flames' and the third can be found in my other one shot book, 100 More One Shots and is called 'Of The Stars'. 

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There was no sound in the night. No whisper of wind. No hiss of rain. No owl fluttering to its home. The silence was not unnerving though - to Thranduil, King of Mirkwood and elves of the Woodland Realm, it was a support and listening ear, peaceful. Beautiful.

Ever since the passing of his wife and Legolas' mother, he had found it increasingly harder to use his heart to guide him in anything. Though it had been many centuries, he still kept away from the petty little love-craving games of a childish elf he had once been many, many years ago.

With that behaviour, it left his only his son feeling estranged, his council advised him to take time from the throne to find the correct headspace to recover - he, the king, taking time off? Preposterous! - his people needed answers with the turmoil rising in the -

"My lord, King Thranduil," a small voice squeaked from behind him. "I am so sorry, I thought the room empty, I should leave -,"

"Wait," He halted the patter of footsteps before they echoed from earshot. Turning his head slowly, he took in the figure which had interrupted his moody musing with clumsy words.

You were small, well, shorter than he was, with (h/l) (h/c) hair braided intricately like the elves, with gorgeous wide (e/c) eyes that stared back unblinkingly to him ... and as his own eyes found your ears, that hair was tucked behind, he was surprised; you were human.

But that wasn't the only thing which caught him off-guard; it were for the fact that, if you had been elven, could've been a mirror image of his late wife.

"Pardon for my directness, Lady..." He frowned. He didn't know your name.

"I am Miss ______, I'm not a proper titled lady, your majesty," you blushed a brilliant red like most humans do. It was all Thranduil could do but keep silent. Such emotions puzzled him; human expression wasn't one of his strengths.

"Miss _______, what are you, a human doing in my realm?" He questioned, doing his best to not sound disdainful at your race. He didn't have grudges against Men ... well, not as great as dwarves. The race of Men were greedy and vain. He didn't understand why Lord Elrond had any patience for the small boy in his own court, Aragorn.

You bowed low into a long feminine curtsy that seemed unnatural for your rank and replied, "I am sorry my King Thranduil, for my impeding presence, but I have been here for two moons passed, sent by Lord Elrond of Rivendell for -,"

He shook his head, interrupting your words just like yours had broken his revere. "Yes, yes, I know, I was expecting a ________ of Rivendell. Now I know Lord Elrond has dalliances with humans I know..." He turned completely from his throne and smiled, "You must be her."

You blushed. "I really shouldn't be in here wasting your time with my airy words, your majesty,"

The King of Mirkwood shrugged, "Do go on, Lady _______; I have none other to hear but yours and an empty room."

You cleared your voice, "I am - was, now - a lowly scribe for Lord Elrond, who was merely tasked to translate the common tongue to Elvish -," you blushed a deeper red, "It is a boring job, my king, are you sure you wish to hear of it?"

He moved his head to the left, and cocked an eyebrow, "No, you it is not, Lady _______," he smiled slightly, inviting you back to him to continue the conversing, "A truly boorish job would be being king with no wars to lead, no problems to fix."

"Would - would that you, my king?" You questioned quietly. "Are you tiring?"

If you had seen the flash of sadness that had come to his face as quickly as it had gone, you did not remark on it. Of course the tired king was he. Thranduil saw it that if he couldn't be with the one he truly loved, his late wife, then no place would be warm without her.

He noticed your silence, and inquired, "What use would a scribe be at my council from Elrond?"

He watched as you stood taller almost and brushed your hair from laying on your shoulders, "The Mirkwood council's documentation is all written in Elvish, my Lor-King," you stuttered, tripping over your verbal mistake, "It has come to the best interest from the ambassadors of Rohan and Gondor that all documents regarding issues for their lands and politics be translated and copied for their uses to their languages."

Thranduil stiffened. He did not think it to the best interest of anyone in the whole of Middle Earth, be it the Steward of Gondor or a single lowly wench of Bree to have business with the elves of Mirkwood. He supposed then that the commonly used phrase was right. Elves were a secretive kind.

"What need does the race of Men have for words, old issues from the Elves?" He noticed his stressed tone caused you to shrink slightly. Lowering his voice, Thranduil continued, "Is this comforting for their lords and stewards to possess the documents?"

You shrugged, then hastily added, to make sure you didn't seem to be an unworthy candidate for his council, "To some, what you have said should be the reasonable answer, My K-,"

"Lady _______, there is no need to address me that way, my name would suffice," he interrupted your terrifically boring speech that he wasn't listening to for the politics but the sound of your voice.

He couldn't get over the fact you looked so much like her.

"Yes, Thranduil," you bobbed your head. He watched as your internal cogs turned and as your mouth gaped, he answered your questions before it had been spoken.

"I apologise for elongating the boorish subject, Lady _______, but it would seem you are a better distraction from silence of an empty room than rouge thoughts."

You nodded, and quietly, you added, "I heard from whispers that you and your son have experienced losses, King Thranduil," you murmured, "I know it is hard, I have the mortality, have seen others loose theirs to war. Just know I am here to aid you in your mourning."

He could not speak. Once again, if you had the mark of the elves on you, he would have thought all of you were his late wife, even your speech.

"I understand, Lady _______." He agreed gravely.

You laughed. "But I have told you, your majesty, I am no lady."

Turning away to conceal his recently uncharacteristic smile, Thranduil disagreed. "No, I declare you to be a Lady from now onwards, Lady _______ of the Scribes."

"Er -," he heard you stutter. "Thank you, Thranduil..." under your breath he swore he heard you try it out. "I must return to my books..."

When your footsteps faded away, Thranduil's smile widened. He was glad he had stopped the intruder to his revere before they had gone. He couldn't wait until seeing you again.