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ravnarieldurin · 2 days ago

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Estel Losta Mi Môr - Hope Blooms In Darkness

Chapter 1 - Taste of Freedom

This story comes to you at the request of @lovestruckelleth. (I am so sorry it's taken me so long to answer you, dear! But I hope this multi-chapter story makes up for it.)

The Request: Romantic/Young Love with Thranduil "They know they love each other, are very close friends but haven't taken that step yet to deepen their bond. It's not until something happens to her that he realizes how much he needs and loves her. Perhaps she's fading in his arms for whatever reason." Additional Dialogue Prompts: "How do we get out?", "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you", and "Kiss me."

Fandom: The Hobbit/LOTR Universe (Pre-Hobbit Timeline-Legolas isn't born yet.)

Pairings: Thranduil x Elf OFC Glorveril (face claim: Emilie de Ravin); Background Feren x Elf OFC Mithiel

Rating: T

Warnings: Themes of (Seasonal) Depression and Loneliness, Mild Fantasy Violence (Spiders are gross!)

Genre: Sweet Romance, a bit of Fantasy Action

Summary:

When years of warm friendship turn to silence between Glorveril and her best friend, Thranduil, she wonders why the man she has grown to love has suddenly distanced himself from her. Desperate to escape the confines of her king's palace after months enduring a cold, lonely winter, she joins the first available spring scouting party. The Elven riders may have their orders from the king, but little do they know she has her own plans set for her day in the forest. One that will hopefully break down the wall her king and friend has built between them.

Author's Note: I received this request a few month ago and intended to do a cutesy rescue/adventure story that quickly took on a life of its own. Writing Thranduil's character before he became the arrogant, cold king we see him as in The Hobbit movies was such a fun challenge and I hope I did him justice.

Read on AO3 | My Masterlist

Sindarin Translations:

Mellon or Mellon nín = Friend or My Friend Eryn Galen = Greenwood Edhel = Elf-man Elleth = Elf-woman Lothig luin = Little blue-blossom (Forget-me-nots)

Third Age 1050 - The Greenwood - The Elven-king's Halls

“Glorveril! Mellon nín, are you coming?” Captain Feren asked, the impatience in his voice carrying all the way to the back of the stables. “We need to leave soon if we’re to return by nightfall.”

“Yes, I’ll be out in a moment. Please wait for me!” Glorveril called over her shoulder. Hastily shoving her last burlap sack into her saddlebag, she tightened the strap of her full quiver on her hip and knelt to ensure the daggers sheathed in her boots were secure. Satisfied with the state of her weaponry, she straightened, wedged her foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself up into the saddle. Celebrilloth snorted and danced excitedly under her, her silver-dappled gelding kicking up a bit of loose bedding beneath his hooves. She chuckled at his enthusiasm and smoothed a hand over his neck.

“I know, old friend. Too long you’ve been cooped up in these dreary halls.” The smile on her face faded, and she sighed heavily. “We both have,” she murmured more to herself than her companion.

For as long as she could remember, winter had brought with it a pervasive melancholy that filled the very air of Eryn Galen with a lingering heaviness. Though she knew the change of seasons was necessary for the life and rebirth of the natural world, she never failed to become despondent by the time the first leaves of spring sprouted. It was as if her own spirit reflected the absence of the forest’s life and vitality. Whether it was from a sense of camaraderie with the forest or an effect of the marred world they lived in, she had never been sure, but one thing she knew for certain. The past few winters had been the most difficult she’d ever experienced in all her years. An enemy they once thought vanquished had returned to the world. But it was not the reappearance of this Shadow that vexed her so—it was the demands of her King.

Once, not so long ago, the Peoples of the Woodland Realm believed themselves isolated from the perils of the outer world because the enemy’s influence remained confined to Mordor far to the south beyond their borders. But they could no longer afford such pretense. For the Shadow had spread north and come to house itself within the borders of the Greenwood itself, bringing with it dense clouds of reeking smoke the sun could not pierce, and newly formed lairs teeming with creatures of unspeakable horror. Their once peaceful and healthy forest was now fighting for its life against the infectious spread of the Shadow’s death and decay.

Fearing for the safety of his people, Elven-king Thranduil had ordered the excavation of great underground halls to be delved deep beneath the great hills north of the Forest River. These were to serve as both his new palace and fortress to house his people in these dangerous times. Upon its completion, the King sent a decree throughout his realm: all his people were to move either within his new halls or closer to them for their own protection.

Glorveril’s old home, Amon Rhûn—a distant village to the south-east tucked under the shadow of the Dark Mountains—had been one of the first settlements to be vacated. The King had visited her village in person and requested that she move inside his carven halls since she was the daughter of Amon Rhûn’s fallen leader, Lord Dínenaer; and thus, the person most knowledgeable regarding its people. He offered her the position of delegate of Amon Rhûn and a seat on his council within the palace. He also claimed she would be safer inside his fortress than in the woodlands beyond, even with the vigilant border guards. Though he presented the request as something she could accept or reject, she knew better. One did not refuse a king. The only reason she did not voice her displeasure at the Elven-king’s thinly veiled command was for Thranduil’s sake as her friend.

That had been five winters ago. Five gruelingly long winters. And this past winter had finally stretched her to her limit.

She missed the warmth of sunlight on her skin each day, and the colorful display of wildflowers draped across the rolling hills and sprawling valleys. Her love of nature was so ingrained in her being that she chose the name her mother gave her as an elfling as her true-name.

Glorveril—Golden-rose.

Most folk who met her believed she was so named for her unusual golden-blonde hair—a rare trait amongst the common Sindar—but it was her love of flowers, particularly roses, that inspired Glorveril’s mother to call her golden-rose. Even one thousand years after her mother sailed West across the Great Sea, her name remained true.

The community gardens of Amon Rhûn overflowed with an abundance of herbs and flowers, designed and maintained by the many Elves who called the village home. The multitude of vibrant roses in the center courtyard was Glorveril’s greatest delight every year, caring for and coaxing the fragrant buds into full bloom each spring. They were her pride and joy. Or at least they had been five years ago.

Unfortunately, the dim underground halls she now lived in could not support the roses she once cared for, so she had to grow and maintain her beloved flowers beyond the walls of the palace. Only the hardiest of plants grew within the Elven-king’s Halls. Those that required little to no sunlight; and while she respected the resilience of the sparse foliage fighting to live in the darkness, she had grown weary of the never-ending shades of green, brown and grey she wandered by day after day—week after week—month after month. Even the fleeting glimpses of color from the stained-glass lanterns lining the corridors, the woven silk tapestries hanging on nearly every wall throughout the palace, and the dyed beeswax candles decorating the banquet hall tables had lost their charm many moons ago.

She longed for natural color in her life again; and if her trip today was successful, she may yet return some color to the dismal halls of her King—and perhaps even the King himself.

“I can assure you, my lady—” Glorveril’s head snapped up to find Mithiel leaned up against the doorjamb, an amused look in her grey eyes and a playful grin stretched across her lips. “—there are much better things to stare at this day than the wall of a horse’s stall.”

Glorveril smiled sheepishly, feeling the tips of her ears flush pink with embarrassment. She had not even heard her friend’s approach, so lost was she in her own thoughts. “I’m sure there are, and I look forward to seeing them.” She gave the smirking elf-maiden a pointed look. “And how many times must I ask you not to call me ‘my lady’?”

Mithiel’s silvery laugh echoed through the stables, tapering off as she disappeared around the corner with a flick of her dark hair. A few of the horses seemed to share in her mirth with nickers of their own. “So long as you keep making me wait on you. You’re not the only one excited about today’s ride. Now hurry along before Feren leaves without us.”

Glorveril shook her head with a quiet chuckle, gathering the reins in her hands. Though Mithiel spoke in jest, she was right. The palace had been abuzz with chatter regarding the grand opening of the main gates for several weeks now. The energy within the palace was palpable—equal parts excitement and restlessness. With each new visitor that arrived from the neighboring villages, the energy swelled like a current beneath the surface of the sea, gathering its strength to rise and then crash as a thunderous wave upon the shore.

Though King Thranduil had ordered the main gates shut for the winter, a smaller entrance on the western side of the palace remained accessible to messengers from the surrounding villages in case of emergency. In recent weeks, the western-gate became a well-trodden passage for messengers of the Woodland Elves bearing tidings of spring’s arrival. Each report brought news fairer than the last, and after months of closure, the main gates were finally being opened for unrestricted travel between the outer villages and the palace again.

Giving Celebrilloth’s side a gentle nudge, Glorveril rode out into the center aisle and once again met with a grinning Mithiel, this time from atop her own white-haired horse, bearing her own bow and quiver at her side. Together, they walked their steeds towards the open stable doors, and a familiar tall, dark-haired edhel came around the corner.

“Good morning, fair ladies,” Lieutenant Mallor said with an exaggerated bow and a smirk at Mithiel. “Where might you two damsels be off to at such an early hour?”

Glorveril quirked a brow and Mithiel scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Damsels, huh? I’ll have you know I’ve been told by a very credible source that we’ve both surpassed even you in skills of archery, brother.”

“What source?” Mallor asked, puffing out his chest in mock offense.

“Captain Feren.” Mithiel’s smug smile quickly shifted to a scowl when her brother threw back his head and his deep laughter boomed through the stables.

“Feren only said that because he fancies you,” he replied with a grin, “though only the Valar know why.”

Glorveril took no offense at Mallor’s good-natured jab at his sister—and her by association—and she bit her lip to hide her grin as Mithiel’s cheeks flamed a bright red. She had noticed the unmistakable attraction between her friend and the captain immediately upon stepping foot inside the palace. She’d attempted a few times to nudge them towards one another, but Feren and Mithiel were both equal parts shy or stubborn or both. When Glorveril asked Mallor why Captain Feren was not at the very least courting his sister, he informed her the pair had been dancing around each other for many centuries before Glorveril moved into the King’s Halls. While at the time it made no sense to her, the strange sentiment was now something Mithiel and Glorveril had in common: dancing around the ones they loved.

Glorveril shook her head, fighting to keep the frown off her lips. If all went according to her plan, there would be no more dancing around him after today.

Mallor bowed his head, oblivious to her bitter thoughts, and said, “I am sure you are both perfectly capable damsels.” He shot Glorveril a cheeky wink and grin, purposefully annoying his sister, and she returned his smirk. The siblings’ banter was all in good fun, and she was used to being roped into their verbal spats, letting the words run off her like raindrops on a duck’s feathers. “I’ll let you join the others. Enjoy your ride, ladies.”

“Lieutenant Mallor,” Glorveril called, and he halted mid-step. “You are to have your weekly meeting with King Thranduil this afternoon, correct?”

“Yes, my lady. Why do you ask?”

“If it is not too much trouble, I wonder if you might pass along a message for me?”

Mallor nodded, and Glorveril took a deep breath, gathering her nerve. What she truly wished to say was far bolder than a messenger could safely repeat, and she did not want to doom Mallor to the wrath of their King. But she refused to play this game with Thranduil anymore.

“Please tell him I require an audience with him today upon my return…and I’ll not accept silence as an answer this time.”

Expecting him to argue or outright refuse, Glorveril had her counterargument ready on the tip of her tongue, but the lieutenant shocked her when he merely chuckled. An oddly approving light shone in his grey eyes, and he nodded. “I will pass on your message, my lady.”

She blinked at him, stunned into silence for a long moment. That was much easier than she thought it would be. She cleared her throat and nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You’re welcome, my lady,” he replied with a final bow and disappeared through the doorway of the tack room.

Mithiel gave her a curious side-eye as they rode out of the stables into the courtyard but said nothing. At their approach, Captain Feren’s whistle pierced the air, halting the conversations of the dozen gathered Elven-riders.

“Right. Now that we’re all here, remember this: we are riding to the northernmost villages and scouting for possible border weaknesses. As much as some of us may wish it to be, this is not a social visit. We have our orders and are to be back by sundown at the latest. Understood?”

A collective affirmative made its way through the riders, the faint rattle of shifting arrow-shafts and clop of dancing horses’ hooves joining the voices.

Feren nodded. “Good. Be on guard. Though the night patrol has scouted the nearby lands, they may have missed something, so stay alert, stay on the road and please…stay together.”

Glorveril bit her lip, trying to keep her smirk off her face. The captain knew her well. Perhaps a little too well since the pointed look he shot her way made it obvious he was speaking to her directly, but she maintained her composure. The scouting party may have their orders from the King, but she had her own plans for the day. Ones that didn’t involve scouting the borders of the north.

So secret were her plans that not even Mithiel was privy to them. In truth, her friend was not even looking at her. Instead, Mithiel was staring longingly after Captain Feren as he led them from the stable courtyard through a wide corridor.

A tall figure came into view as the riders approached the main gates, raising Glorveril’s hopes only for them to be dashed a moment later upon recognizing the edhel. Steward Baranhír stood off to the side dressed in a finely woven light green silk robe. Embroidered golden flowers traveled up the flared sleeves to his high-collar where his dark hair draped loose over his shoulders. A bronze circlet of twisted vines rested lightly on his brow.

The sharp sting of disappointment pierced her heart, and she fought back the tears welling in her eyes. Baranhír only wore his court circlet when he was on official business for the King. He was there in Thranduil’s stead then.

A bright flash of anger seized her, and she had to will herself to remain calm. It should be the Elven-king who opened the gates after the winter and saw their scouting party off. Not his steward. She’d hoped that she would at least be able to see Thranduil this morning even if she did not speak with him, but it seemed even the opening of the palace gates for spring was not enough to drive Thranduil from his hiding place.

Burying her disappointment, Glorveril chanced a quick glance at Mithiel to ensure she did not see her anger, but it seemed she had nothing to worry about. Her friend’s gaze was fixed on Captain Feren. Again. She probably did not even realize she was staring so intently. Glorveril smiled, biting back her laughter. Her friends were hopelessly in love. The entire palace knew it to be true. Well, the entire palace except Mithiel and Feren, that is. Now, it was a matter of convincing the stubborn pair of that fact. Leaning closer to Mithiel, she whispered, “You can ride with him if you’d like.”

“Ride with whom?” Mithiel asked, trying to feign ignorance. Trying and failing.

Glorveril chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Don’t play coy. We both know you want to ride next to Feren.”

Mithiel shook her head, but her gaze remained glued to Feren’s back as he conversed with Steward Baranhír by the gate. Her eyes spoke truth for her even when her mouth did not. “I would much rather ride with you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Glorveril said with a grin. “Truly, I don’t mind. Besides, I plan on ignoring all of you as we ride through the forest, soaking up the sun and beauty of nature.”

Mithiel barked a laugh, a besotted smile still stretched across her lips as she reluctantly looked away from Feren, a soft yet puzzling expression gracing her features. “You are certain I cannot change your mind?”

“No, trust me. Once we’re outside, your captain will be much better company than I.”

Mithiel blushed but did not deny Glorveril’s words of ‘your captain’. Feren was without a doubt Mithiel’s captain. With a defeated sigh, she nodded slowly. “If you are sure?”

“I am. Now go on.” Glorveril shooed Mithiel away, and her friend urged her mount into a trot towards the front of the line and her almost-beloved.

Quiet anticipation surged through those gathered at the doors as the trio spoke in hushed voices for a few moments longer. Then, Baranhír stepped back from the riders and raised his hand above his head. His voice boomed through the halls.

“Edro in ennyn!” (Open the gates!)

A pair of palace guards leaped forward and, speaking a few words of enchantment, pressed their full weight against the double-doors. Metallic groaning rattled the very air of the entrance hall, as if the hinges protested bearing the considerable weight of the grand stone doors, being left too long to their slumber. A refreshing breeze rushed into the entrance hall, carrying with it the rich perfume of clean river water and warm earth. Glorveril inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with the sorely missed scent. Blinking to adjust to the sudden brightness, she found herself mesmerized by the sight that lay before her.

Lush green oaks and beeches rose high above the riverbank on either side of the Elven-road. A striking blend of buttercups, violets and wild garlic peaked out from the undergrowth, their delicate faces tilted towards the barely risen sun in the east. Faint white mist lingered in the air, and dewdrops clung to the plants, leaving the landscape coated in a reflective sheen like a veil of diamonds draped across the forest, sparkling in the early morning light.

Nature’s beauty never failed to amaze her, and today was no exception. In fact, she would say it was more beautiful than ever. The forest seemed determined to impress her, dressing itself up in its very best to welcome her return to the waking lands above ground. A smile that rivaled the golden sun spread across her face.

Winter was over.

Spring had returned.

Finally.

Feren’s sharp command to ride broke her revelry, and he and Mithiel spurred their horses forward. The riders followed the pair over the narrow stone bridge to the other side of the river. Glorveril felt like an impatient elfling waiting for her turn to cross, but it wasn’t long before she nudged Celebrilloth into a trot behind them. As she crossed the gate’s threshold, she could not contain her relieved sigh followed by a deep inhalation.

She was outside. After what felt like an eternity of winter, she was once more outside in the forest she loved. If only she did not have to go back inside the palace. Glorveril frowned and pushed that dark thought away. She had a whole day to bask in the sun. She would not waste it on self-pity.

Captain Feren waited for every rider to cross the bridge with Mithiel at his side, and then the pair led their party into the forest. Wind rushed around Glorveril, caressing the bare skin of her face and hands, and her long blonde hair whipped behind her like a banner. Birds took to flight with shrill calls as if they were heralding the return of the Elven-riders to the forest. As the party galloped through an open field that bordered the road, a doe and her young fawn startled and, running away, turned up their tails.

The farther into the forest they rode, the more Glorveril’s excitement grew. With her horse bounding beneath her, the rising sun on her face and the wind in her hair, all she felt was freedom. She could practically taste it on her tongue. With each breath of fresh air, the essence of all things green and wild filled her being. A deep-seated laughter bubbled up within her, so near to bursting was she with joy after the long, cold, lonely winter she’d spent locked away underground.

Not that she was a prisoner. Far from it. She was grateful to her King for his hospitality, but only a few Elves from Amon Rhûn had moved into the palace with her. The rest of her people lived outside the underground fortress, rebuilding their lives in the forestlands to the north, and even in only five short years, Glorveril sometimes felt like an outsider amongst the people with whom she had shared centuries of life. She’d made new friendships with many inside the palace, but most of them had duties that often took them beyond the Elven-king’s Halls.

Which is why she was so glad she could call Thranduil her friend.

Her parents followed Prince Oropher, Thranduil’s father, away from the devastation of Doriath across the Blue Mountains. She was only a few decades old when the doomed sons of Fëanor destroyed Menegroth. Her memories from that time were blurry and fragmented, which was a relief for her. She would not wish what happened in those halls on her worst enemy. But the one constant factor through that time was Thranduil.

They grew up together in the Wilds of Eriador, being the only elf-children among the Sindar refugees fleeing into the East. Though Thranduil was of noble blood and she was not, it mattered not to them. Children do not care about such trivial things. They became the best of friends, forging a bond stronger than priceless mithril. Even after his coronation as King of the Woodland Realm some thousand years ago, Thranduil remained one of her closest and most trusted friends. And despite his new title as King, he often shared a familiarity and confided in her beyond what most would deem appropriate for a king and subject.

Many of his lords heavily scrutinized one such decision five years ago: when Glorveril agreed to the position of Amon Rhûn’s delegate within the palace, Thranduil granted her a chamber in the royal wing—right next to his own rooms.

Many called it unwise. Some called it inappropriate. A few even uttered the word scandalous. No matter the word used, they were not shy nor subtle in voicing their distaste for a “common elleth” being given such luxurious accommodations. While she had tried to assure Thranduil that she did not need such a generous living space, and that the room was much too grand for her simpler tastes, he refused to budge on the matter. Her King and friend had vehemently defended her before all his court, daring them to defy his decision. None did.

Something had blossomed within her that day. Something she thought she had buried long ago as an elfling.

Hope.

Hope that Thranduil had grown to see her as more than a friend. Hope that he finally felt for her the same deep affection that she had felt for him since their childhood. Affection that had started out so simple but had grown more complex over the centuries. So much had changed. And yet, her hope remained the same.

But she dared not voice her hope. She valued their friendship too much to risk it for a silly, girlish fantasy. They were both well over four thousand years old after all. Surely, if Thranduil had desired her for his wife, he would have said something by now. But alas, no words of love or courtship or marriage crossed either of their lips.

So with her hope firmly locked away, she had obeyed the order of her King and moved into the royal wing of his palace.

And despite what the Lords said about her behind her back, she was not some ignorant, simple-minded Wildling. She was fully aware of the rumors circulating the palace like wildfire. But she would not give them the satisfaction of doubting herself. So she ignored the slanderous rumors and derisive looks and focused on the task at hand: taking care of her people.

She adjusted quickly to her new life and sought knowledge and counsel from whomever would offer it. Steward Baranhír became her first ally and advisor during her early days in the palace, and between him and Thranduil, many of her new friendships blossomed. Lady Mithiel and Lieutenant Mallor were among her first friends, and with them came Captain Feren since the edhel could find the flimsiest of excuses to see Lady Mithiel. The King’s other lieutenants, Ornil and Arroch, also frequented her social circle as colleagues of Mallor, as well as the twin sisters, Fordaleth and Hardaleth, who came with her from Amon Rhûn. They often traversed between the Elven-king’s Halls and the new settlement of her people to the northwest, fulfilling errands for Glorveril when her duties in the palace prevented her from leaving.

The lines of duty and leisure blurred together with such excellent friends, and Glorveril tried to push aside many fleeting moments of hope as her relationship with Thranduil strengthened in his court. She told herself it was mere coincidence that drove them to spend so much time in each other’s company. Her duties required her to interact with the King almost daily, an unavoidable occurrence for a member of his council.

At first, it was innocent enough. Finding themselves in the library at the same time. Walking through the halls together to council meetings. Sharing a meal in the banquet hall with other lords and advisors.

But soon, they started pursuing time together beyond the scope of their courtly duties. And it did not matter how deep she buried her hope, for Thranduil always seemed to find little ways of tempting her to bring it out into the light.

When they weren’t otherwise engaged in their courtly obligations, she and Thranduil would often take rides on horseback (elk-back for him), enjoying the forest when the weather permitted. Their conversations on matters of state in the library would turn to more casual or personal topics, such as what tales they were reading or what scholarly pursuits or interests filled their days. Daily meals in the banquet hall with members of his court turned to one-on-one dinners in her private chambers, often followed by a game of chess and a glass of wine. They spent more time together than they’d ever been able to since their childhood. With her living in Amon Rhûn to the south and him ruling his kingdom in the north, it simply hadn’t been possible. And now, despite her initial reluctance to move underground, she found the palace an enjoyable place to live and eagerly awaited Thranduil’s frequent visits. And that stubborn seed of hope sprouted and continued to grow within her even in the darkness of his carven halls.

Until this past winter.

At first, she’d been too busy to notice the change. Her annual duties as Amon Rhûn’s delegate were extensive as autumn drew to an end. For nearly two full moons, she had occupied her days organizing preparations for the last autumn harvest and ensuring the people of Amon Rhûn had enough food to stock their pantries before the palace gates closed for the winter. She had always loved working in the fields, but it was hard work, and she barely had a moment’s rest as the cold bite of winter crept into the air. When she’d ensured the provision of her own people, she offered her aid to Steward Baranhír, volunteering wherever there was a need inside and outside the palace.

Another moon passed. The nights grew longer, and the days grew colder, and as the first icy flakes fell from the sky, Thranduil ordered the palace gates to be sealed.

Except it was not Thranduil who sealed them. It was his steward Baranhír. And that’s when realization struck. She’d not seen Thranduil since the harvest moon three months past.

Winter draped across their forest like a cloak of shimmering white silk. The crisp bite of frost and snow hung in the air, and the giant hearths were continuously lit in the great-halls of the palace to stave off the worst of the cold. Even with the many communal banquets, dances and winter festivals, King Thranduil made appearances only a handful of times and only ever from a distance. Most times she set eyes on him, he seemed agitated or preoccupied, locked in hushed conversations with his steward, advisors, lords or lieutenants. Even simply catching his eye proved a challenge. And each time, it was as if someone had replaced her friend’s gentle, clear eyes with shards of chipped ice. Like the cold and snow beyond the palace had crept inside and leeched away his warmth, leaving behind nothing more than a frozen shell of the one she loved.

She tried to ignore it. Truly, she did. Try as she might to occupy her days with her duties and find distractions to fill her spare time, her mind always returned to swirling, incessant thoughts of one Elven-king.

Reminding herself that Thranduil’s duties required much from him helped ease the ache of separation. After a millennium of laboring to recuperate the Woodland Realm’s losses after the tragic death of his father, he was no doubt exhausted from years of ignoring his body’s limitations for the sake of his people. As Elves, they may be immortal, but they were not exempt from the weariness of life. Though they had shared many moments of life together, Glorveril had learned long ago that the seasons they spent apart had not been kind to her friend. Time seemed to wear away more and more of him with each passing year, like a raging river eroding its banks, carving deep scars in the earth with no care for the damage it left behind in its wake.

Some scars he bore in his flesh, concealed from most, friend and foe alike. But most of Thranduil’s scars he bore in his spirit. She was among the privileged few to have seen those scars over the centuries, and she did not take that for granted. In times of peace, they’d shared moments of laughter and companionship; and in times of pain, they’d cried over their sorrows and confessed their deepest secrets.

She knew Thranduil better than she knew herself. Or at least she believed she did. So when her friend suddenly isolated himself this winter, it disturbed her greatly. Months passed without a word of explanation for his extended times of absence around the palace. The winter banquets, usually full of mirth and merriment, lost their festivity for her, and daily meals became a chore with each day the King’s chair remained empty at the head of the table. She languished in her chambers, sometimes for days on end, and often took her meals in her room. And always the door to Thranduil’s private chambers at the end of their shared hall remained closed. She knew not where the King spent his nights, but it was not in his room in the royal wing.

Several attempts to speak with him all failed: sitting in on various council meetings (he’d left each time before she could so much as stand from her chair), inquiring through his lords and lieutenants (Captain Feren refused to keep asking for her after her fifth attempt), requesting an audience with King Thranduil in his throne room (which was repeatedly denied). She even sent a witty yet clear message through Steward Baranhír, saying her chess pieces were collecting dust after her last victory against him, and offering him a chance at a rematch. Silence was Thranduil’s reply.

After weeks of chastising herself for thinking so selfishly, she finally came to an undeniable conclusion: Thranduil was avoiding her. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why that would be, but she felt it to be true. A deep ache grew in her heart the more she thought about each meal missed, each gaze averted, each day spent alone within the palace. The palace that he had insisted she move into.

Slowly, her hope for more between her and Thranduil faded away like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream. What used to be comfortable companionship shifted to self-consciousness. She believed them to be well beyond the age for childish games, but she could not shake the feeling that she had done something wrong.

Did she accidentally reveal too much of her desire toward him? Was this his way of showing he did not reciprocate her feelings? By distancing himself? If that was the case, why not reject her directly instead of refusing to speak with her? They never shied away from discussing difficult or emotional matters in the past, so why was he avoiding doing so now?

With these questions and many more plaguing her waking thoughts, a plan took shape in her mind. Each passing day that the chasm of silence grew only confirmed her fear; and despite her fear, she refused to sit idly by anymore.

Something was very wrong. Her friend had changed, and it was not a change for the better. She knew not what caused it, but she would know soon enough.

She would speak with Thranduil today.

Somehow, she vowed she would. Thranduil couldn’t keep avoiding her forever. He would hear what she had to say. Even if she had to turn the palace upside down to find him, or order Steward Baranhír to drag Thranduil from his hiding place by his ear and lock him in his own dungeons or tie the stubborn edhel to his throne. But despite how comical those absurd imaginings were, she truly hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Thranduil was a fierce opponent in battle, both of the body and the mind. He was intelligent and cunning, but he was also extremely reactive. Even with their centuries of shared friendship, if Glorveril approached him accusingly with eyes of fire and a tongue as sharp as a sword, he was likely to respond in kind. But if she brought before him a peace offering, then maybe she could persuade him to listen to her and break through the ice that had formed around his heart.

And because she was a horrible cook and couldn’t bribe him through his stomach, she would offer the next best thing. The thing she loved most in this world—flowers.

And thus, she set her plan in motion.

Step one of her plan was easy enough: get outside the palace.

The opening of the main gates and the first scout patrol of spring had been the exact opportunity she’d been waiting for. Though he’d stopped taking her messages to the King, Captain Feren had been more than receptive to her joining their party. She was a skilled archer and a fine horse-rider, but her true value as a scout lay in her ability to perceive minute changes in the natural environment. Subtle differences in the plants and air would alert her to nearby danger, even if it was only a patch of poison ivy. She wasn’t the only Elf to possess such a gift, but in Captain Feren’s own words, she was the best scout within the palace after the King, Steward Baranhír, Thranduil’s lieutenants and Feren himself.

And as the sun rose higher in the sky, warming the air as their party rode further into the forest, Glorveril used her skills to scout for the best place to enact step two of her plan: sneak away from the scouting party.

An inkling of guilt pricked her conscience, knowing she told Feren she’d help secure their northern border, but she had a limited amount of time outside the palace, and she knew of only one place in the forest where the peace offering she sought grew: her old village, Amon Rhûn. Over the years, she had taken several trips to her old home to care for what remained of her beloved flowers, but her duties made those trips few and irregular. Nature had reclaimed much of the village in the absence of its inhabitants. The old wooden houses were now decorated with wild ivy instead of jasmine, the flowerbeds in the main courtyard had grown unkempt, and her favorite glade to the south had grown more marshy than ever before, creating an isolated environment for water-loving plants to thrive.

It was this glade she planned to visit today.

But first, she had to sneak away without getting caught.

No simple task considering her fellow riders were also skilled scouts, but she already had fate on her side. The road had narrowed considerably, forcing them to ride single-file, and she was the last rider in the line. Captain Feren occasionally looked over his shoulder to check on their band, but the edhel in front of Glorveril had his gaze set ahead of him, paying her no mind. As the miles and minutes flew by, she recognized the surrounding landscape; they were approaching the north-south split in the Elven-road. Signaling the riders to slow, Captain Feren scanned the dense shade of the trees for any hidden danger as they neared the fork.

“Barn i taurad. Aphado nin!” (The forest-road is secure. Follow me!)

Urging their horses onward, the riders fell into step behind Feren, following him to the right around the sharp turn to the north. A turn lined with dense shadows and thick trunks of oak. Trunks that, if she was stealthy enough, would block her completely from sight.

Patiently timing her approach, Glorveril veered left beyond the bend in the road and tugged sharply on Celebrilloth’s reins. He came to a sudden halt behind an ancient oak tree, and she held her breath to listen.

No one sounded the alarm. No one shouted for her to come back. Only the thundering of hooves, the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birdsong filled the air. And as the horses’ galloping faded into the distance, she blew out the breath she was holding, sighing in relief. She’d done it. Step two was complete.

Now, onto step three: fill every burlap sack she’d scrounged together to bursting with flowers.

Judging by the sunlight filtering through the dense canopy, she would guess it to be almost the tenth hour. If she were quick, and didn’t find herself too distracted along the way, she could reach Amon Rhûn before midday. That left her plenty of time to gather as much as she could carry and ride back to meet the scouting party here at the fork when they returned from their patrol. She was already bracing herself for the inevitable scolding Feren (and Mithiel) were sure to unleash on her for not staying with the group, but she was optimistic that once the captain learned why she left, he would aid her in her plan with Thranduil.

After all, she wasn’t the only one their King had given the cold shoulder to this winter. Captain Feren was one of Thranduil’s most trusted lieutenants. He had the closest relationship with the Elven-king after Steward Baranhír and herself. But when she asked Feren how their King was faring, even the loyal captain had no information or insight regarding Thranduil’s abrupt change in behavior.

Hopefully, Feren didn’t stay angry with her for too long. And if they both knew what was good for them, neither of them would tell the King that she’d even left the scouting party. Better to keep that to themselves. She would hate to be the reason Feren got in trouble, and she especially didn’t want her first conversation with Thranduil in almost six months to be a verbal lashing.

Well, at least he’d be forced to speak with me.

No. She shook her head, banishing the dark thought. She was trying to resolve this matter peacefully. Not start a fight with her best friend.

Nudging Celebrilloth’s sides, Glorveril started down the south road towards her home. Barely twenty minutes had gone by when a flash of color caught her eye in the shadows. She slowed her horse to get a better look, and she gasped.

A budding cluster of lothig luin grew along the road on her right, the light blue blossoms blending almost perfectly with the sunlight dappling the forest floor. She hadn’t expected to see these tiny flowers growing this far north. They grew in abundance by the glade behind her old house in Amon Rhûn, sprouting in thick patches under the willows and alders that stood as sentries around the borders of the marshlands. They’d been called many names over the ages by many peoples, but their most commonly known name was forget-me-nots.

An appropriate name. One that held sentimental meaning for her personally. The first time she’d seen forget-me-nots was the day friendship bloomed between her and Thranduil many centuries ago. She had never forgotten that day, and she knew she never would.

She scanned the woods from atop her horse, searching for any signs of danger. Merrily chirping in the canopy, a wood thrush sang and flitted overhead. A clear, babbling stream rushed through the undergrowth to the right of the road by the cluster of flowers that had caught her eye. Rustling in the leaf-litter to her left revealed a pair of squirrels in search of brunch. A woodpecker drummed far in the distance, and another answered its staccato call a few moments later.

All was safe.

She unlatched her saddlebag and withdrew a burlap sack and a small hand shovel she’d packed the night before. Dropping out of the saddle, she patted Celebrilloth’s neck.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. Don’t wander off too far.”

He snorted, flicking his ears in reply, and she crouched down next to the small patch of flowers. It had been too long since she had dug her hands into the earth, and she wished she did not have to rush this process, but she could not stay out in the forest forever. No matter how much she may wish it.

Working quickly, she soon freed the plant’s roots from the loamy dirt and set it gently inside her bag. Paying special attention to each leaf and flower she tucked into the bag like a mother tucking in her child for bed, she tied the bag closed with a looped knot and left it on the side of the road. She would pick it up on her way back to the palace. No need to jostle the flowers around more than necessary. She wanted them to look their best. After all, they are a gift for a king.

At her sharp whistle, her gelding returned to her side from his grazing. She rinsed the dirt from her hands in the stream by the road and dried them on her tunic’s hem (not that she minded a bit of dirt). Returning her shovel to its place in her saddlebag, she pulled herself back up into the saddle.

With a smile and a glancing look back at the bag of flowers, she urged her horse into a gallop towards Amon Rhûn.

One peace offering done. Many more to go.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I'd love to know what you thought in the comments. And I promise that Thranduil will indeed show himself next chapter (stubborn elf, haha!).

This work is completely written (5 chapters total) and will be updated every Friday at 12PM EDT.

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#hope blooms in darkness #raven writings #thranduil #thranduil x oc #thranduil fanfiction #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #pre-hobbit timeline #third age 1050ish #feren #elves #tolkien elves

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