Hobbit Her One Wish (K)

Thranduil Fic - LOTR Spoilers  
Fluff, Nothing untoward  
Enjoy!

A gentle breeze nipped at the heels of unsuspecting elves. Outside, the forest was dark and unforgiving. Killers lurked in the shadows of dead trees for a tasty warm body, and such warm bodies were well aware of their constant presence. Weary guards ever watched the barrenness creep towards them. They knew, they understood, and they resented. How could their King keep them locked away like this, when all of the other elves had sailed away to their salvation?

Inside Mirkwood's elven kingdom, it was hardly less foreboding. The bright yellow boughs had dulled to grey, and the gentle thrum of voices and the sounds of life were silenced. The scrape of dead leaves echoed as they were pushed in by a mischevious winter sprite. Those that remained, did so out of loyalty to their King, but the longer and darker the days grew the more wearied their loyalty became. Nobody sought the King's counsel anymore, and the King had hardly spoken since his court left. He perched on his throne every day, like every day before, and watched. Waited.

"He'll be back soon," he muttered, "I will endure. The elves of Mirkwood always endure."

But Legolas would not be back. He knew the perils of staying in the land of men, and lad left for far away shores long ago. Legolas was gone, but the monarch of Mirkwood wouldn't accept that his son had given up his birthright. It wasn't natural. Thus, he would not allow the throne to go cold. He would sit there and keep watch. For his son.

Far, far, away, in a civilization far more technological but by no means any more advanced, a girl clutched a treasured book to her chest. She sighed and stared out the window. Oh, if only she could be at the side of a fictional king! If only she could comfort the Prince, win the hearts of the people, and be admired for her beauty. If only such opportunities existed! She would gladly give anything..._anything_...to go there. Her family was fine. Her social life was ...fine. It just didn't involve her as much as living in her book world would. Why couldn't the men be hairy, but genuine, and decent, like the book men were? Why couldn't the women be strong, and practical, and gentle like they were in the book? She sighed again and set the book aside.  
"If I could give Thranduil anything," she murmured to herself, "I would make him a scarf, so he wouldn't be cold while the winter came to Mirkwood."  
She lay on her mattress, and soon fell asleep. A star, many miles away, shone.

When she awoke, it wasn't her bed she lay on. She sat up, groggy, looking around calmly. Everything around her was cold, and grey, and she didn't recognise it at all. Was she dreaming?  
"Stand."  
Once her brain processed the command, she stood, and opened her eyes to the source of the sound. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her oversized shirt and bike pants as she saw who was looking down at her.  
Sitting up on a pile of sticks fashioned into a raised throne was an impossibly handsome elf. Long, platinum blonde hair fell gently across his silver-robed shoulders as his perfectly carved face rested on a relaxed hand. He appeared bored, but a life in his eyes indicated that he was fully interested in what was before him. Finally, some entertainment. He raised an eyebrow and looked from her feet to her head.  
"So many questions," he mused, "and I don't know where to start."  
She shuffled her feet, face flushing.  
"I was asleep your highness. I was not expecting to see you."  
Which was totally honest. She really wasn't expecting this. Thranduil smirked, his perfect face twitching into a cruel expression. But she loved it. How could she love someone who was being such a jerk? Ugh. This wasn't going to end well.

**Pt 2**

"Your name?"  
"Emery, your Highness."  
"Emery."  
Thranduil rolled her name around. He wrapped his lips around the name silently, then nodded, watching her with an eerie look the whole time.  
"And what are you doing here?"  
Emery shuffled, looking around. She didn't know. What was her crazy head trying to tell her?  
"I don't know."  
"You don't….know."  
The voice was deep, but cold. This wasn't at all how Emery imagined Thranduil. She imagined a handsome man, with warm eyes hidden behind a cool exterior. He had not shown her any warmth at all. Rather, he appeared like he was ready to pounce on her at any moment. And _not_ in a sensual way. Emery felt very uncomfortable, but Thranduil simply didn't let her go. And she wasn't even wearing a bra! This was a terrible dream. She wanted out.  
"What do you think you want to do here then_, human_." He sneered. Emery winced. The corners of her eyes prickled with tears as she avoided eye contact now. This wasn't the Thranduil she imagined loving, this one was mean. She didn't like this one. She started to think. What did she want to be doing there? _Well, with a nicer elf King_…her mind sniped.  
"Knit you a scarf." She blurted while her mind was being rude. Her eyes widened. _What the hell_? There was an infernally long pause as the he-elf's eyes pierced through Emery. Her face burned as her arms grew really cold. Then she noticed her feet. They were cold too. Then she noticed her chest, and quickly folded her arms.  
"You came all the way here to knit me …. A scarf?"  
He rose gracefully, gliding down the steps to his throne out of habit. His hand rested on a sword. Emery quaked. She was finished. She watched with terror as he neared, head slightly tilted as he surveyed her. He stopped within arm's reach and gave her a straight stare, thick brows shielding any humour or encouragement.  
Or so she thought.  
"Well then," he whispered, "You'd better get started, hm?"  
His eyes brightened for a second, as if he could have smiled. Then he turned and waved a hand. An armoured guard walked up and took her away. Emery was locked in a small room, with a bed and a fireplace, and given a small pile of yarn and knitting needles. A small pair of shears sad next to the basket of yarn, and the door was locked behind her. A tiny window allowed daylight into the room, and Emery was alone. She sighed and picked out two colours and began to knit.  
"This had better be good." She muttered as she poked her tongue out, concentrating.

Pt 3

The days were long and lonely, except for the times Emery was pulled from her room to sit in the throne room and entertain the King. She didn't know what she hated the most – the isolation, or a bored monarch mercilessly taunting her.  
"So, how does it feel, to be mortal?"  
Emery took in a deep breath as she slipped on the next stitch.  
"I don't know, I've never been immortal. How would I know the difference?"  
Thranduil lounged on his throne somehow. It had always baffled Emery how he was comfortable on that pile of sticks, but he was there day after day. Didn't he have anything else to do? Apparently not, as the endless barrage of questions proved.  
"Hum. So if you have no idea of what it's like to be immortal, you don't fear death?"  
Emery paused in her knitting. Was this guy serious? She clenched her teeth and continued on. She didn't want to piss him off. No need.  
"Everyone who is mortal fears the unknown, but I don't think it's death we're scared of. I think it's pain, really."  
Thranduil didn't respond, contemplating her response. His eyes rarely left the entrances to the throne room. He was distant for a while until Emery became fed up and pushed the conversation herself.  
"What are you afraid of, as an immortal?"  
Thranduil turned his head slowly, a facial expression between fury and incredulousness. He held that look for a minute, then he broke the hold. He sighed.  
"Things you could hardly comprehend…" the king drawled, "I won't confuse you with the details."  
"What, like losing your son?"  
That quip got her thrown back in her room. Go figure. The King tired of her arrogance after a while. She guessed that he'd rather sit in silence than have an actual, level discussion with a mortal human. Whatever. She kept working away at the scarf.

A day, a night, a day and another night, and Emery hadn't spoken to a single soul save for herself. The pain in her legs from sitting on the floor reminded her that she somehow wasn't dreaming, and yet it never registered to her how she was there. How could she have landed herself in Mirkwood? It was a dream come true, but yet it was actually a nightmare. Her capable and comforting lover was ...an asshole, actually. He finally called for her on the fourth day, when the scarf was nearing completion.

The King alternated between watching the door, and watching Emery. He didn't speak a word since she was marched in, sat on a chair near the throne, and started knitting again. She occasionally looked up, expecting a quip, but he gave her nothing of the sort. Was he upset? Was he worried? Why was she there, she wondered. His dark brows were furrowed, his flawless face riddled with a kind of pain as if his throne had become uncomfortable. Emery sighed. Perhaps some flattery would perk up the self-centered jerk.  
"What are you busy with today, my King?" She trilled pleasantly. Thranduil turned his crown-adorned head towards Emery once again.  
"Why does it concern you." It was more of a statement than a question, but his captured human entertained the notion of conversation a while longer,  
"Well," she led, "I'm here knitting like crazy, but you seem to be at leisure here. Surely you have something fun to pass the time?"  
Thranduil drew breath and re-settled himself on his throne.  
"It has been a while since I got to fight in a war," he mused. Emery regretted asking. No wonder he constantly had his sword on him, he _enjoyed_ using it. Thranduil stood and moved towards her, peering at her handiwork. He seemed interested for a second, and met her gaze.  
"You find this interesting?"  
Emery nodded, "Somewhat. I just wanted to make you a scarf."  
"Why."  
Emery started a new row, thinking. She frowned, then looked back up and forgot to breathe. He was actually paying her attention, and he was gorgeous. She gasped and spluttered a little bit.  
"I thought it would bring you some comfort. Sitting on that throne must get so lonely."  
The hard edges around his gorgeously sparkling eyes softened. His face fell, and for a second, Emery recognized the Elf King for who she dreamed him to be. Then he drew himself to full height and the softness was gone. He didn't acknowledge the comment any further, and traipsed up to his favourite chair. Emery knitted in silence again.

"Done."  
Emery approached the throne and offered the finished piece to the King. She picked silver and copper coloured thread, with the image of a stag knitted into each end. When she finished it the day before, she folded it neatly. She thought it would fall to Thranduil's knees when draped around his shoulders, but time would tell. Thranduil skittered down his steps and arrived in front of Emery in a whoosh, fingers twitching towards the handmade gift that sparkled before him. He picked it up as if it were made of spider silk, soft threads caressing his fingertips. His lips parted slightly as he raised it to his cheek and felt its warmth. Emery didn't know it, but her days of dedication had woven a special magic into every stitch. It was the warmth of love and kindness, and Thranduil felt a tug at his chest as he placed it over his shoulders. Emery's eyes brightened as she saw his features soften again, the Elven King now shielded from the cold that lingered at the door to his Kingdom. It was a look of relief, as if he had finally been sat in front of a fire after a long day in the snow. He sighed, his hands never leaving the folds of wool that now weaved through his starlit hair.  
"This is a princely gift." He murmured quietly, stroking the ends. Emery nodded, cheeks flushed, as she looked with pride at her handiwork.  
"Thankyou."  
Emery bowed and moved to go back to her room, as she was used to. Now he had a scarf, what would she do now? Thranduil was left to stand alone in his throne room, embraced by the warm arms of an invisible hug. He began to sway slowly.

Emery woke the next morning and was surprised to see that she was still in Mirkwood. Surely she would be sent home, now that her job was done?  
She wandered to the throne room, unbidden, where she stifled a giggle. As she suspected, the King had fallen asleep on his throne. Somehow he had fallen unconscious in his favourite chair, scarf wrapped around him like a too-narrow blanket, all snuggled up. He had the tiniest smile as he nuzzled the scarf beneath his head, platinum blonde hair still somehow unmussed. _How?_ His silken robes were even uncreased!

A sneaky idea came to mind, and Emery dismissed it quickly. _No, I can't_. She told herself. _It would result in certain death, you idio_t.  
_Come onnn_….said the part of her mind that was supposed to be her conscience,_even if you die here you'll wake up at home, right? Go on. It'll be worth it_.  
Emery took a deep breath, nodded, and made her way towards the throne. She tip-toed up the stairs until she was so close she could hear the King breathing gently in his sleep.  
Now or never, she thought as she leant down, holding her hair back, and brushed her lips across his forehead. He smelled like Christmas - pine trees and wool and some undiscernible spice. She grinned, for he had not stirred, and began to make her way quietly back down the stairs…

…and woke on her bedroom floor with a thud. She cursed. After all that hard work, why couldn't she have stayed in Mirkwood? Emery sighed and looked around, noticing a small silver envelope on her windowsill that rested atop her favourite book. She stood awkwardly and looked at it. There was no address, just her name in flowing script. She opened the envelope to pull out a single piece of parchment. Scrawled on it in dark green ink were three words;

_How dare you._

Beneath it was a beautiful signature, illegible save for an embellished T and a curved L, and a post-script in tiny letters.

_You had better come back soon. I want another scarf for my summer crown and it won't knit itself._

Emery grinned. What an idiot. She wondered if she could sneak in another kiss next time.


End file.

Hobbit, Fantasy, Hurt-Comfort