Three Hundred Years Ago...

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the top of his desk while he listened to Galadhor drone on about his reports for the new shipment schedules. Ah, it was times like these that he wished that Legolas still managed the books for the kingdom; then he could have foisted the thankless job off on his son. The Elvenking straightened in his chair as Galadhor finished the last item on the list.

"Everything seems to be in order," Thranduil said, his eyes drifting toward the door. Legolas stood there, smirking. "Then let us proceed with those adjustments for the next season."

"Yes, your majesty," Galadhor agreed, and quit the room readily, and the thought occurred to Thranduil that his chief of the household had been wishing for the meeting's end as much as himself!

Legolas entered without invitation or prompting and settled in the chair nearest his father's desk. He waited while Thranduil took the opportunity to pour himself a drink and waved away his father's wordless invitation to join him in a glass of wine.

"I hate depriving you of all the merriment that can be had in the keeping of the court's finances," Thranduil teased, taking a slow sip. "Are you sure you do not want to give up your position in the Forest Guard and return to your old bookkeeping days?"

But Legolas only looked thoughtful, and then much to his father's surprise, reached for the unused glass and poured himself half a glass.

"Today was not a good day, Father," Legolas told him, looking down at his glass.

Thranduil nodded grimly. "I saw Beriadan earlier. He said you ran into a small group of orcs, cutting across the old Forest Road. He told me you finished them off easily, without injury."

Legolas brought his glass to his lips and then sat it down with a sigh. "Narylfiel was on the patrol with us. She killed two on her own, but because of the undergrowth of the area, we had to kill them in close combat, not with arrows."

Thranduil was beginning to understand what troubled his son. Legolas was fiercely protective of his wife's little sister. He took another slow sip of his wine.

"We have all been in that moment," Thranduil counseled, not unkindly. "The first kill at the end of your blade is one you never forget," he cleared his throat, "even after a thousand winters."

Legolas nodded almost imperceptibly as he met his father's eyes. "I found her afterward. She was just standing there, sort of dazed, and I realized she had black blood, all the way up from her hand to her elbow. It must have been a messy kill."

Thranduil grimaced. His poor naurreniel. "She is lucky to have you as her Captain, son. I am sure you said the right words in the moment."

"I don't know," said Legolas, catching his eyes again. "She was still fairly upset when I left her with her sister. She did not even finish her dinner." He sat his glass on Thranduil's desk, stood. "It would be nice if you went and talked to her."

"Nice," Thranduil repeated the word like it was a foreign concept. "I am the king of this realm," he countered. "I cannot go coddling every guard who gets a little sad at beheading some orcs."

"Of course, father," Legolas murmured as he took his leave. He did not look back.

Thranduil eyed his son's untouched glass of wine. Wasteful, really. He dumped the contents into his own glass. He took a sip and found it bitter in his mouth, as he reluctantly recalled his own first kill with perfect clarity. Nice, indeed.

The Elvenking left his glass—still half full, a rare occurrence, mind you!— on his desk and let Galion know that he was finished with meetings, audiences, or otherwise for the day. For some reason instead of going straight to his chambers as planned, Thranduil's treacherous feet took him down to the stables.

He did not know that Narylfiel would be there, sitting forlornly in the hay, grooming her horse, but there she was. And here he was. Had Legolas mentioned her whereabouts?

Did it even matter if he had?

So Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, entered the stables, pulled up a hay bale, and sat down. He did not speak, but he listened.

It was enough.

. - . - .

March 6th, 3019

My Queen,

I need to meet with you concerning an urgent matter. I trust you, but I dare not speak more plainly in this letter for fear of discovery. Please keep our meeting in confidence, as I do not wish to raise suspicion. I will wait for you in the stables after dinner.

Your humble servant

The words from the message echoed in her mind. Narylfiel hurried toward the stables, taking care to choose a route away from the scrutiny of the king's royal guards. She paused for a second at the stable door and discreetly pulled the knife from her boot, using the voluminous folds of her skirt to conceal it by her side. Narylfiel took one last look outside the stable—no one had seen her—and slipped inside.

Narylfiel's eyes flicked across the deserted stalls. Most of the horses had been taken with the army, and the majority of the stable hands had left with them. She was sure that was why the stables were so quiet, why the lights were so low. One of the older horses made a low keening noise that had Narylfiel gripping the hilt of her knife.

"Hello?" she called out, her eyes scanning across the tops of the stalls. Another one of the horses nickered toward the back, made a chuffing sound. Nobody answered. No one was here. Well, that was it. She was leaving. Something about this did not sit well with her.

As she turned, pain and a dozen stars exploded across her field of vision. Narylfiel slashed out with the blade, and the wooden door of the nearest horse stall slanted up to meet her, and the straw, the sweet straw smell mixed with a dark musty tang.

Blood, thought Narylfiel before she hit the ground.

. - . - .

Groggy voices swam in the background.

"We should take her to Hûredhiel and get that wound tended."

"No, we should move her to the king's chambers. It would be the safest place for her."

A new voice joined the conversation. "No! You should take her to the king's dungeons. That's where she belongs! How dare you stand there while...while..."

Elfir's voice rang out. "I am sorry for your loss, but you need to leave!"

Narylfiel gingerly felt for her face, and her hand came away damp. Squinting, she cracked open an eye and grimaced immediately. Her head pounded at the slightest movement.

"Your highness," Melui gasped and knelt at her side, "stay still. You took a hard blow to the head."

Narylfiel looked down. Her hands, her gown, red coated everything in a slick, violent hue.

She scrabbled back, a sharp pain behind her eyes, and slipped. Blood, blood soaked the straw in the horse stall where she lay. Everywhere, on her clothes, in her hair—oh, Valar, the stench! And Narylfiel's stomach twisted, the throb behind her eyes tightening painfully, and she turned away from Melui and vomited into the mess of hay and blood.

Melui was at her side in a moment, helping her rise slowly from the gore streaked stall, and bringing her out into the stables. Dorwil and Elfir were there, arguing in low voices about something, and Melui moved her queen right past them, to sit on a bench, where she wrapped her in a clean horse blanket, and brought over a bucket of clean water and a rag for Narylfiel to wash her face and hands.

"Do you remember what happened?" Melui asked her softly. Dorwil and Elfir stopped arguing to listen. Narylfiel looked past Melui, her eyes wandering the from Dorwil and Elfir's expectant faces to the stall behind them.

"I—" Narylfiel hardly got a word out before Elphir interrupted her.

"Let's not do this here. Melui, we should take her to the Healers," he said, impatiently looking around.

"Drenched in blood?" Melui was incredulous. "Only if you want everyone in the kingdom to know what just happened."

"They are going to know—no matter the pains we take!" Elfir snapped.

"It's not my blood," murmured Narylfiel, trying to clear her head. "it's not my blood. I'm not..." She let out a shaky breath, and folded her arms across her chest to ward off a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. She fixed her eyes on the pair of male guards.

"What happened?" she said.

"Your highness." Dorwil kneeled in front of her. "Do you not remember?"

Elfir spoke up, "Did he attack you, my queen? We have to know what happened."

"Who? Whose blood is in that stall?" Narylfiel asked, her voice sounding foreign to her ears. She pressed a hand to her temple as if the gesture would make the pounding in her head stop. It didn't.

Narylfiel caught Melui and Elfir exchanging a worried glance. And that was when she noticed the blanket covered lump next to the stall where she had woken. Boots poked out of the end of the blanket, and a wave of horror washed over Narylfiel. She launched herself off the bench before Melui could stop her, despite the ringing in her head, and took four dizzy steps toward the blanket, the body.

Had she killed someone? With a flood of shame, she remembered the knife in her hand, her hunting knife. She sank to her knees next to the body.

"Narylfiel, you don't have to look. It's Lord Filron," Melui blurted out, but her words came too late. Her friend had already drawn back the blanket.

Lord Filron lay in the dust on the floor of the stables, his skin gray in death, his eyes mercifully closed. His neck hung open, a wide savage gash against the pallor and beauty of his face and elegant robes. Stunned, Narylfiel drew back the blanket.

"Take me back to the king's chambers, please," she said quietly.

Melui nodded. "Thankfully, it is late enough that the halls should be fairly empty. Can you walk?"

Elfir offered his hand to help her up from the floor. "I can carry you, if you wish."

Narylfiel took his hand and slowly stood. "Thank you for offering, Elfir. I would like to try on my own." She did take his arm though when he offered it and was glad of the help. Wordlessly, they left the stables, and Naryfliel did not look back.

Dorwil left them along the way to go get Hûredhiel and bring her to the royal chambers, and once Elfir safely deposited the queen inside, he took up watch outside the door, while Melui stayed with the queen, helping her to change her clothes, wash, rinse the blood from from her skin and hair. They spoke little. Melui did not press for answers, nor did Narylfiel offer any. Her head pounded like there were a dozen hefty dwarves striking it with their hammers, and her stomach turned uncomfortably every time she turned too quickly. The bowl of red-tinged water from her washbasin made her gag and reach for the bedpan.

Melui brought her a fresh glass of water, helped her into a clean nightgown, and then tucked her into bed. "Really, Melui, thank you," Narylfiel said sheepishly. "You make a good nurse."

Her friend smiled then, though a bit wearily. "It's been a hard night. I am glad you are safe."

Just then Hûredhiel entered the room, her lovely long hair tied up behind her, wearing a robe. Dorwil had clearly woken her up. Her face drawn, she came straight to Narylfiel's side at the bed. "Oh, I feared the worst when Dorwil came pounding on my door, your highness. He said you received a nasty blow to the head." She looked to Melui for confirmation.

"Yes, she did," the guard said. "There was a small cut and some bruising. I cleaned it as well as I could when I helped the queen wash her hair just now." Melui carefully drew back Narylfiel's hair on the back of her head to show the healer.

Satisfied, Hûredhiel gently patted her young patient on the arm. "Did you run into something?" she asked as she leaned forward and looked carefully at Narylfiel's eyes. Her pupils were much larger than normal.

"I don't remember," Narylfiel realized aloud. "I went down to the stables, and I remember going inside. There was nobody there. That was the last thing I remember, really."

Hûredhiel took her hand, felt for her pulse. "Trouble with memory can sometimes accompany a hard blow to the head," she said. "Any other symptoms?"

"Dizziness," supplied Melui. "Vomiting—twice."

"Melui!" Narylfiel blushed.

Melui was undeterred, her voice grim. "You will hear undoubtedly hear of this, and I know you will keep our queen's confidence: We found Narylfiel unconscious in the stables in a pool of blood—Lord Filron's blood. His throat was cut."

"Oh...oh my. Valar, your highness. And you remember nothing?" Hûredhiel's face had drained white. She set Narylfiel's hand back down on the coverlet, only to pick it up again. "I wish King Thranduil were here," she murmured.

"I cannot fathom that such a thing could have happened under his watchful eye," Melui agreed. "You cannot imagine the panic I felt when I found these chambers empty and that foolish note on the bed."

"There was a note?" Hûredhiel asked. "From the queen?" she guessed.

"No," interjected Narylfiel tiredly. "I did not know who it was from. Lord Filron, maybe."

Melui pulled out the note, handed it to Hûredhiel.

"The writing does look familiar. I have seen it before, but I could not tell you who or if it was Lord Filron's hand," the healer said.

Narylfiel leaned back into her pillows with a sigh. "I feel terrible," she said.

Hûredhiel exchanged a worried glance with Melui. "With your permission, your highness, I would like to examine you a little more."

Narylfiel started to shake her head 'no,' and then stopped herself, pressing her hand against the side of her head in a sad attempt to alleviate the pounding. "No, I meant I felt terrible about Lord Filron," she clarified. "I mean my head does hurt, but it's nothing serious. Just a bump."

"A good sized bump," Hûredhiel corrected her gently, "can have some long lasting side effects: dizziness, lack of focus, blurred vision even. I want to make sure you are well." The healer placed her hand over Narylfiel's heart and closed her eyes. Narylfiel remained quiet, knowing that Hûredhiel felt for her heart beat, but also her feä.

Then Hûredhiel stiffened beside her, her eyes flying open to gaze at Narylfiel in wonder and surprise.

Narylfiel stiffened too and frowned. "What? Is it my bond with Thranduil? It hasn't felt quite right since he left."

"No, dear one," the healer said, "it's not your bond with Thranduil...but there is something I need to tell you..."

. - . - .

Author's note: Well that seemed like a good place to stop for now... Any thoughts about Huredhiel's diagnosis? Or the death of Lord Filron?

Thranduil: #Savage