Suspected

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

Kingsfoil has almost 20,000 reads! And it's only because of the awesome support from you!

Okay, so normally I like to put in a list of names, thanking everyone who has supported the previous chapter or added Kingsfoil to their reading lists, but this time I just had the hardest time making the Wattpad editor cooperate!  Every time I added some names to the list and saved it, those names would disappear!  Has anyone else had this problem? 

Please know that I am really grateful and appreciative of all your votes and comments!

-  .  -  .   -

Chapter Thirty: Suspected

Three Thousand Years Ago...

When Thranduil woke up, he was alone. The left side of the bed was empty, and the sheets were cold. He placed his hand over his heart, concentrated on their bond. He could feel it faintly, like a pinprick of light in a dark tunnel—just as dim and just as distant.

He ignored the wave of disappointment he felt at her absence. Expecting her to stay was too much to ask probably. It wouldn't be the first time that Thranduil had expected too much, that he had wanted more than he should have.

He rolled off the bed. Still, last night had been...wonderful. Thranduil's heart sped up just from the memory of it. He dressed quickly, ran his brush through the back of his hair, smoothed it down.

He wanted his wife.

He went to her room, not the new one next to Thranduil's room, not the one meant for a princess of the realm, but her old room in her family's quarters. He suspected it was some sort of power play on her part, not that he cared.

Thranduil entered without knocking and was stopped by a maid. She pursed her lips and didn't try to hide her disapproval. "Prince Thranduil! Her ladyship is not available."

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow. "I'm her husband?" He brushed past her.

The maid planted herself in front of him. "Your lordship, my lady is in the middle of her morning ablutions and does not wish to be disturbed!"

"I have no wish to disturb her, only to speak with her," the prince said and reached for the door to Elarien's chambers.

"My Lord! My Lady is not decent!" the maid squawked.

Thranduil's hand stilled on the knob. He turned, just slightly enough to see the lady's maid and give her a withering look. "It's nothing I wouldn't have seen last night. Please leave us."

On the far side of the room, Elarien was in the middle of a bath.

"Abusing the servants again, Thranduil?" she said lightly.

"Hardly." His eyes took in the long white column of her neck, the blonde curls piled atop her head, her bare arms and shoulders wet and shining in the candlelight. His mouth suddenly felt dry. "I missed you this morning," he told her.

"How awfully sweet you are," she said and rose from the tub. "Of course, if my maid were still here, she could hand my robe to me." Her skin was bright pink as if she had scrubbed it thoroughly.

Thranduil picked up the robe and handed it to her. He could not help but watch her.

"You could have stayed with me." His voice sounded unsure.

"I know," she answered breezily, squeezing the water from her long pale golden hair.

He refused to be put off by her nonchalance. "Then why didn't you?" Thranduil asked.

Elarien belted the robe loosely around her waist and came over to him, still drying her hair with the towel until she stood right in front of him. "I think we both know the answer to that question, Thranduil, however much you might wish to ignore it."

"I am not ignoring anything, Elarien," Thranduil corrected her. He sighed. "I...I am willing to try to make this work."

Her laughter sounded sharp to his ears, false. "Oh, my darling prince. You are very sweet. And you were very sweet last night. Very gallant."

Thranduil swallowed and said nothing. He felt foolish for even coming down here.

She headed toward her dressing table and sat down on a lacy cushioned seat and peered at herself in the mirror.

"Of course, I want our marriage to work too," she owned as she pulled a silvery comb through her long hair. "After we get a few things sorted out, reach a few understandings, I'm sure our marriage will be the envy of all my friends."

"You'll see, Thranduil," she assured him with a laugh and glanced over her shoulder.

Her husband had already left.

-  .  -  .  -  .  -

One day after Yule, 3018...

Thranduil blinked. He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep; sometime in the early morning, he supposed. He and Narylfiel had both been exhausted...and with good reason. His eyes drifted down toward Narylfiel, curled up beside him, warm and relaxed. He could just feel the contentment radiating off her. She dreamed, he hoped, of him. Her eyes were still closed, a fact that worried him. He reached out and felt for her feä through their bond. It was warmer than before, more vibrant feeling, like a stronger pulse.

It was enough to give him hope.

Thranduil eyed the line of sunlight creeping across the foot of the bed from the skylights overhead—a rare luxury in the palace, and cleverly concealed. It was already much later in the morning than he ever stayed in his room. And he hadn't been disturbed... he could only guess that his guards, ever respectful of his privacy, and Thranduil mentally rolled his eyes at the idea, had informed Galadhor. He was quite certain that Galadhor had kept the palace staff at bay.

Thranduil stretched a little, his eyes drawn once more to the elleth in his bed. He just could not stop looking at her, it seemed. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow, and her mouth reminded him of a rosebud. He had always known, or thought, that she was pretty, lovely even. But here in his bed, relaxed and cocooned in his blankets—he could not tear his eyes away. His heart ached to think that she was his, to remember how she had given herself to him last night. She could have had any young warrior, and she had chosen him. Thranduil knew he was the king, and his title mattered to some people, but it hadn't mattered to her. It had never mattered.

He was just...Thranduil to her. And he loved her for it. He hesitated and then touched her shoulder, threaded his fingers through a section of her warm, silken hair. She felt amazingly soft, and yet, he knew first hand of her strength, her resolve.

"I love you," he whispered.

A smile bloomed on her lips, and her eyes fluttered open. "Thranduil," she said. She took in his lean form beside her, his tousled hair, and met his eyes. "I could go for this," she said and stretched. "It's a pretty decent way to wake up."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Only decent?"

She blushed and reached for him. "More than just decent. Fabulous, even." Narylfiel slid into his arms and leaned in for a kiss. "I love you."

And she did, he could feel it, the warm glow of her feelings through their bond, and if he listened very carefully, her song threaded through his—together, making a harmony that he didn't know was possible. It thrilled and humbled him, and Thranduil took comfort that her feä already seemed stronger than last night.

As he pulled her in for another slow, sleepy kiss, Thranduil thanked the Valar for the chance to love her and be loved.

-  .  - . - . - 

Much later that morning, Thranduil had finally relented and called for the staff to bring a tray from the kitchens, with the strict understanding that he did not want to be further disturbed: he did not want housekeeping to come by; he did not want to be bothered with questions; he particularly did not want to hear from any of his advisors. He didn't care how urgent they thought it was. He had cracked open the door just enough to stick his head out and speak with Galion. His butler was, of course, suspicious, just as Thranduil thought he would be.

"And shall I bring enough for two, Your Majesty?" he had asked—keeping a completely straight face, not a hint of mischief.

Thranduil's face remained impassive. He merely gave Galion a long look—a 'you had better keep this to yourself if you know what is best for you' look—and said, "That would be acceptable."

"Yes, my lord," Galion said and turned quickly, but not so quickly that Thranduil did not catch a glimpse of a smirk.

Thranduil shut the door behind him, only to see Narylfiel standing by his framed sketches on the far wall. She had borrowed one of his robes; it was ridiculously long on her, but he never thought she looked so beguiling.

"You did these." It wasn't a question. She traced the edge of one of the frames, the one of her as an elfling in the stables. "I saw this once, when I snuck in here." Narylfiel said, her eyes bright. "I was ridiculously happy for days that the Elvenking had drawn my picture."

"I could have had it commissioned," Thranduil countered. He loved teasing her.

She shook her head, grinned. "Don't be all modest on me now," she said. "These are beautiful!"

His lips curled into a half-smile. "It's just something I like to do," he said and led her over to the chairs in front of the fire. "After the war, I struggled...with my grief, with my anger. Hûredhiel suggested meditation, and when that didn't work, drawing. The picture of my father is one of the first ones I finished."

"It's lovely," she said, casting her eyes over to it for a second look. "You miss him."

Thranduil sighed, propped his feet up on the ottoman. "I do. I wish he was still here. I wish he could have met you."

Narylfiel reached for his hand and then wrestled with the overly long sleeve on his robe that hung off her arms as she said, "I'm sure I am not at all what your father had in mind, Thranduil. Common. Sylvan. A disaster." She made a face at her attempt to roll up the voluminous fabric.

Thranduil reached over and stilled her arm, laced his fingers through hers. "Not a disaster," he corrected and kissed her hand, "and from where I sit, not very common at all."

Her cheeks pinkened. "When I was younger and then when I grew older, I used to wonder, did you ever draw any more pictures of me?"

He grinned. "Maybe," he said. Making her blush was becoming his favorite new pastime. "I wanted to sketch you this morning while you were in bed for sure."

Ah, there it was. Two dark spots appeared on her cheeks, and she looked away at the fire. "Is it getting a bit warm?" she said. She tugged at the neck of her robe.

Thranduil's eyes darkened a shade. "I think maybe it is," he agreed quietly.

A knock sounded on the door. "Should I answer it," said Narylfiel with a wicked grin, "and give Galion a proper shock?"

Thranduil stood up. "He already knows, or I'm a dwarf," he said. "Galion's no fool." He strode over to the door and cracked it open. It was Galion clutching a tray from the kitchens.

"My lord," he said and bowed his head. "I brought the tray for you and—well, for you." He passed the tray to his king and looked down the hall, bit his lip.

"Thank you, Galion," Thranduil said with an incline of his head. His butler, usually so amusing, only right now the Elvenking wondered what bothered him. Where was the smirking, sly Galion from earlier?

The king set the tray on the end table by the door and stepped into the hall. He folded his arms, waited.

Galion looked conflicted.

"Go on. Tell me," said Thranduil flatly.

"Galadhor said I mustn't interrupt, Your Highness..." he hedged and tugged on the end of his hair.

"Galion, we're out here in the hall. I'm already interrupted." Thranduil sighed, his eyes going to the door.

"I'm sorry, my lord. It's just that the dwarfs were supposed to leave this morning," Galion said and frowned.

"I already knew of their departure," Thranduil said impatiently. "So? Let them leave. Good riddance."

"That's just it, Your Majesty," cried Galion, shamefaced. "They're not leaving. One of them is ill, really sick. He's been taken down to the healers. And the other dwarves? They're extremely angry. They said some...unflattering remarks about you, my lord."

The king's mouth tightened into an unhappy line. "No, you were right to tell me of this, Galion."

The butler's nervous frame instantly sagged from relief. Thranduil thought he heard him mutter thanks to Eru, but he couldn't be sure.

"I will be down shortly," Thranduil concluded reluctantly. "See to it that the dwarves don't break anything valuable." He entered the room and picked up the tray, brought it to the ottoman by the fire, and plopped it down in front of Narylfiel.

"What?" She could tell something was wrong from the moment he had come back in their room.

"Try to eat something," he said, frustratedly pushing a hand into his hair as he strode over to his closet. "There's some sort of issue with the dwarves. I'm going to go take care of it."

Narylfiel scrambled up from her chair by the fire, tray forgotten. She leaned against the closet door, eyed her new husband as he selected a blue tunic and a pair of dark grey leggings from the open shelf of folded garments. "I could go with you," she offered.

Thranduil shook his head. "No, you should rest. Eat." He shrugged off his robe and pulled the tunic on, his fingers deftly fastening the closures up the chest. He took a second to pick up the robe and place it in the dirty laundry bin by the door.

Always so tidy, Narylfiel thought to herself and smothered a grin.

"They just couldn't handle a single morning by themselves," Thranduil grumbled as he headed back toward the chairs by the fire, carrying a pair of tall dark boots. He sat down with a huff and met Narylfiel's eyes. "I'm sorry for this, naurenniel."

"Don't be," she said and casually plucked a piece of cheese and some bread from the tray. She noted with some interest that the majority of the things on the tray were her favorites, including little sour pickles, something she knew Thranduil hated. Well then, they knew.

"Thranduil, did you see—" she started to say.

"The pickles?" Thranduil interrupted and looked up from pulling on his boot. He smiled at her, despite his frustration. "I told you Galion had already figured it out. And Galadhor. And now Ernil along with the rest of the kitchen staff."

Narylfiel groaned. "Oh, and don't forget the Royal Guard," she added. "I'm sure they suspect as well."

Thranduil stood and went over to her, pulled her up from her seat, kissed her gently. "Well, they did see me carry you into my bedroom last night."

Narylfiel dropped her pickle.

Thranduil resisted the temptation to pick it up off the floor. That carpet was silk after all! He met her eyes and pulled her into his arms instead. "I'll go check on things and come back to you," he assured her. It was a promise to himself too, not to let his duty interfere with what he had with Narylfiel.

She nodded and then watched him go. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she tucked into the nice little meal which Galion had brought. Narylfiel was surprised to find that she had quite the appetite. If she hurried, she could wash up and then go and change her clothes. Why sit around and mope when she could go and join him?

Thranduil could hear the shouts in the healing ward before he ever reached the door.

"I'll have no more of your uncanny elf magic on 'im! He's sick enough as it is!" one voice thundered.

"I understand, but if you just let me—" This voice was a shade calmer.

"He's suffering! Do something already!" Another voice sounded panicked.

The scene from the door was chaotic at best. The prep table was strewn with tonics, herbal powders, all sorts of medicines, and pestles. Three dwarfs and two of Thranduil's best healers, including Hûredhiel, crowded around one of the beds; the dwarves pushed in for a better view, all offering suggestions and refusing to leave their companion.

Prince Thorin. Thranduil could see that now. The dwarf looked to be in obvious pain, curledup on his side, his hair flung across his face.

"King Thranduil," said Hûredhiel as when she turned to reach for a packet of herbs. "Your Majesty, I was not expecting you."

The dwarves all turned at the same time and glared at him. "Coming to gloat?" The bald one accused.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed and before he could say something really cutting, Hûredhiel spoke up: "Of course not! King Thranduil is a very gifted healer in his own right."

The Elvenking slid past the dwarf to have a closer look.

"He's running a high fever. The prince woke up in the early hours of the morning complaining of a fierce headache and stomach pains."

Thranduil smirked. "Sounds like a simple hangover. Maybe your young prince of Erebor had a few too many rounds of my Dorwinion."

"If you think for a second..." blustered the taller dwarf—Dwalin, Thranduil remembered.

Thorin groaned, and Hûrediel shot Thranduil a look.

"We already tried a tonic for his stomach, but he couldn't keep it down," Hûredhiel informed her king, reaching for a compress. Her patient's eye's were glazed, his face was flushed with a fine sheen of moisture on his cheeks. She gently swept the dwarf's unruly hair away from his forehead and then gasped. Across the top of Thorin's forehead, a series of angry red welts marred the skin close to his hairline.

The dwarves' reaction was immediate and profound. Dwalin swore while the one in the funny hat cried, "What could have caused that?"

Nobody answered him. Hûrediel flew over to the medicine cabinet, her hands shaking as she pushed various bottles aside until she found the ointment she was looking for. She uncorked it and poured some onto a clean cloth.

But before she could smooth the soothing balm onto the sick prince's forehead, Dwalin caught her hand mid-air.

"And how do I know we can trust you?" he growled, his eyes worriedly going to the prince.

Thranduil stepped in between them. "Unhand her, dwarf," he said sharply.

"Hûredhiel gave them both a look of supreme annoyance. "I want to help," she told the pair of them, "and right now he's suffering."

Dwalin dropped her hand and scowled at Thranduil instead. The healer dabbed the ointment across the irritated skin as gently as she could.

"This is more than a mere hangover, my lord," Hûredhiel said grimly after a more careful examination of the irritated skin.

Thranduil leaned closer and then wished he hadn't. Hûredhiel traced the path of the red welts in the air, careful not to make contact with her hand. "See here?" she said quietly. "Look at the tissue around the inflammation—"

Thranduil swore, and the three dwarves stiffened at his reaction. "What? What did he see?"

"Get Wilem in here. Bring him at once," Thranduil ordered the other healer. For what Hûredhiel had pointed out to Thranduil was something he had seen well enough before—the unmistakable symptom of dark spidery lines, fanning out across the top of Thorin's hairline.

The dwarf prince had been poisoned.

Just then Wilem came through the door. "What is he doing here?" Dwalin jabbed a finger at the thin young man, who instantly recoiled.

"Guards, please take our guests back to their rooms," Thranduil instructed, schooling his face into a neutral expression.

The Royal Guard gestured for the dwarves to follow, but they did not budge. "I will not

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net