Chapter Text
The gentle breezes now awake,
They whisper and weave, by night they take,
And work at every turning.
O freshened scent, O sounds anew!
Now, troubled heart, take hope in view!
For all the world, the world is yearning.
The world grows fairer with each day,
Who knows what next may come our way?
The bloom will have no ending.
The deepest vale with flowers will glow:
Now, troubled heart, forget your woe!
For all the world, the world is mending.
- Ludwig Uhland
"It's spring. Flowers should be everywhere!" The young prince made his way through the crowd of Elves flowing towards him like a river. Everyone wanted to get to Amon Lanc today, not in the opposite direction, like him, and he had to use his towering height and sternest gaze to make his way through the many bodies in a reasonably straight path. Most of the Wood-elves were so preoccupied with preparations for the great feast that they didn't even seem to notice that their future prince was among them. A stocky, red-haired Elf even called out to him to be careful when he accidentally brushed against him, and Thranduil furrowed his eyebrows in indignation.
He glanced behind him. His friend was visibly having more trouble walking against the crowd, if only because she was smaller and the Elves barely gave her room. He waited patiently until she had caught up to him, cursing, and then continued on his way.
Behind him, he heard her grumbling, but this time not at the crowd that wouldn't let her through, but at him. Her voice had taken on the dangerously ironic undertone she always used when she thought the prince was saying something particularly stupid.
"This is a forest, not a botanical garden. We haven't been here long enough to have bothered with something as unimportant as growing flowers. So unless you're planning to decorate the king's coronation ceremony with daisies and wild grasses or wait for an import from the south, you'll have to think of something else."
Thranduil peered ahead over the heads of the Wood-elves. They had almost reached the end of the flow. One last tug at his clothes, one last push against the shoulder of another Elf, and they were both free. At last he saw the road ahead, narrow and winding like a snake, even though it was the main street of this settlement. The Silvan Elves didn't think much of wide, paved roads like the ones he knew from Beleriand; they appreciated the naturalness and hiddenness of a simple forest path more. Several even narrower paths branched off from the track, reminding him of those left by deer in the forest.
He turned to her to hide the fact that he didn't quite know which of the paths to take. "What about Lórinand? Do you think Amroth would have some flowers left for us?"
Corwen frowned. "In one day? The ride to the Anduin alone will take several hours. If we send wagons to transport the flowers, double that."
"Do you always have to paint my plans so black?" He sighed theatrically. "Sometimes I think you just disagree with me on principle."
"When your plans are so poorly thought out, yes. Who actually thought to give you the task of caring for flowers? Doesn't your father have enough other vassals who could have planned it? Where are we going anyway?"
Thranduil, now faced with finally having to take a path, headed for the first one that looked familiar. He didn't know where the forge was, as his father had changed the contractor every week for the last month. At first he had chosen a few Sindar from those who had come with them from Doriath, but it had turned out that they lacked materials as well as furnaces, and in the end he had sent them out to ask among the Silvan Elves who was most skilled in smithcraft.
"It's not that the task was given directly to me," he explained to Corwen, whose dark hair he could see bobbing up and down in the corner of his eye as she tried to keep up with him. "Rather, it was forgotten altogether. It was only when I asked today what flowers they were thinking of using to match the colours of the decorations that they realised they hadn't thought of flowers before. I thought I'd better do it myself; I can't rely on my father's advisors when it comes to taste anyway."
"Oh, I forgot," Corwen said weightily, her voice singing with mockery. "You are always the only one whose opinion is the right one in all matters of taste - whether wine, jewellery, fabrics or art."
"That's right," he explained lightly, deliberately ignoring her irony, and looked into her humorously sparkling eyes. They were unusually dark, not pale grey like those of the Sindar, silver-blue like his own, or mixed green and light brown like those of the Wood-elves, but almost black, so that their pupil was impossible to distinguish from the iris. Some Sindar distrusted her gaze, as it reminded them all too strongly of Eöl the Dark Elf. If she wasn't listening, they called her Crabaniel, Raven's Daughter, and perhaps she really was related to the gloomy Elf who had forged the black sword Anglachel. Certainly, she could have a certain darkness about her, she rarely smiled for joy and often had a dark view of the world, but Thranduil did not mind her mannerisms and he had never heard her utter a single malicious thought.
"Are we in the right place?" she asked as the path ahead of them tapered and seemingly ended in nothing. It was lost in the faint twilight of a dense grove of fir trees that not even Elven eyes could fully penetrate and Thranduil wondered if the path continued here at all. It was not the path to the forge, of that he was now certain.
Corwen narrowed her dark eyes. "I can see someone."
He knew she saw almost perfectly in the darkness, so he trusted her judgement and strode through the pine thicket. She followed him in silence.
As his eyes quickly adjusted to the sparse twilight, he also recognised a figure walking through the forest. It seemed to be coming towards them. "Is someone there?" he said aloud, hoping it was a solitary Elf who could at least show them the way to the forge.
"It's me," came the reply from a bright voice and the pine branches were pushed aside by a delicate hand.
"Ah, Helethien," said Corwen, recognising the Elf first. "What are you doing here alone in the forest? Shouldn't you be helping with the decorations?"
Helethien glided lightly through the last of the dark green branches and wiped a few needles from her shoulders that had got caught in her white sleeves. Her light golden hair was slightly dishevelled, although it still fell in beautiful waves down her back. She wore a white and yellow dress, contrary to most Sindar's preference for grey and silver, and golden rings dangled from her ears. She wore decidedly impractical clothes for a walk in the forest, but Thranduil admired her good taste.
She smiled apologetically, but her blue eyes sparkled merrily. They were the same colour as his, the result of some Vanyarin blood on his father's side, which she had also inherited.
"Hello, cousin," was how she always addressed him, even if they were only distant relatives. "I've been sent to check on the progress at the forge."
Why are we both being sent out to do the same job?, he wanted to ask her, but what he blurted out was a triumphant, "So this is really the way to the forge!"
Corwen gave him an annoyed look, her only comment on the fact that he had so far led her along random paths without a clue.
"Yes," Helethien replied, but stopped him when he tried to continue straight ahead. "But not that way. That way!"
She steered him a little off the beaten track towards a hidden forest path that veered off their route in a westerly direction. "I know where the smithy is, I'll just go with you. What are you doing there?"
"The same as you," he said, shrugging his shoulders. If his father had sent them both to the forge, it had to be important enough for him to get both their opinions. Thranduil understood him; after all, the future king's crown was at stake here, and Helethien and he were known to be exceptionally knowledgeable in matters of silver, jewellery and gemstones. It's our good taste, Thranduil told himself, your vanity, Corwen would have replied, but he didn't ask her about it.
"I see," Helethien piped. "The expertise of several connoisseurs for the best result."
"Too many Elves draw a bow and the arrow stays in their hand," they heard Corwen mutter behind them.
Helethien had slipped her arm through Thranduil’s and shot a playfully indignant glance over her shoulder. "Oh, nonsense. My cousin and I are always of one mind."
They walked toward the smithy, Thranduil and Helethien leading, Corwen shadowing them like a silent wraith. The well-trodden forest path widened into a clearing where the trees coiled like branches around a bird’s nest. At its center stood a long, rectangular building of stone and wood. Its roof arched steeply upward like a horse’s saddle, and from the central furnace jutted a broad chimney. Simple wooden shingles covered it, extending into wide eaves that sheltered an array of tools from the rain. Thranduil noted hammers of varying sizes, an anvil, tongs (all indistinguishable to his eyes), and other metal implements whose purposes eluded him.
Adjacent to the structure stood a small wooden shed—likely storing fuel for the furnace. Its door hung open, and shortly after their arrival, an Elf emerged, his light-brown hair tied back. He wore a thick leather apron, armguards reaching to his wrists, gloves, and high boots. The edges of his garments were embroidered with silver thread and fastened with iron-gray buckles. A load of firewood balanced in his arms, but upon spotting them, he paused mid-stride and approached.
"Ernil nín¹," he said, his Silvan accent still unfamiliar to Thranduil’s ears—gruffer and deeper than the fluid Sindarin of the Iathrim. The Wood-elf attempted a bow, thwarted by the wood in his arms, resulting in an awkward nod instead.
Thranduil acknowledged him with a gentle tilt of his head. He might have pressed a hand to his heart in traditional Elven greeting, had Helethien not still clung to his arm. She beamed at the stranger, prompting a flustered "hiril nín²" in reply.
Corwen pushed past them, eyeing the Elf critically. "You’ve something there," she said, pointing to the soot smudge on his forehead Thranduil had also noted (though courtesy had kept him silent).
The brown-haired Elf glanced upward, though seeing the mark was impossible, and his hands remained full. Unfazed, Corwen pressed on: "Are you the smith?"
He opened his mouth to answer when a sharp shout from the smithy’s main building made him flinch.
"Ninglor! Where’s that firewood?"
The voice was female but darkened by metal dust and smoke. Ninglor threw them an apologetic look and hurried to obey. "Alas, I’m no smith yet," he called over his shoulder, expecting them to follow. "But I apprentice under Mistress Duniel and often aid her in her work. Your father’s crown is nearly finished—I even assisted with it. She may be the greatest smith in Greenwood the Great. And since learning techniques from your people—knowledge that never crossed the Misty Mountains before—her craft has only refined."
Thranduil cast a hopeful glance at his companions, amused by the apprentice’s hammered-out praises. If Duniel’s skill matched her disciple’s verse, at least part of the coronation lay in capable hands.
Helethien released his arm to follow Ninglor through the smithy’s open door. Thranduil and Corwen trailed more cautiously, noses wrinkling at the scents of scorched iron, smoke, and earth. Heat-hazed air shimmered above the forge, and it took Thranduil a moment to discern the figure bent over it.
Duniel was taller and broader than her apprentice—unusual for an Elf-maid, yet fitting for one who wielded heavy hammers and bent stubborn metal. Her apron was gray with soot and filings; even in her braided dark-brown hair, glinting metallic dust clung like pollen.
If Thranduil had noticed Ninglor’s soot smudge, Duniel was unclean in every conceivable way. Streaks of grimy black-gray marred her arms and face, leaving scarcely a patch of skin untouched. Suddenly, Thranduil was grateful Elven custom forbade the tactile greetings he’d often observed among Men or Dwarves. He drew his sleeves and the hem of his robes snugly against his body, wary of brushing against rusted tools or dust-coated surfaces as he approached.
Helethien and Corwen harbored no such concerns for cleanliness. His kinswomen’s vanity subdued by curiosity, they wandered between shelves and tables, admiring the displayed craftsmanship. A smudge of soot already darkened Helethien’s white gown, though she seemed oblivious. Corwen, who never fretted over attire, strode ahead to Duniel and briskly inquired about the crown’s progress.
Thranduil, lagging slightly behind, heard the smith’s reply as she bent over a thin metal rod with her tongs. "King Oropher’s crown rests in the left cabinet, if you insist on inspecting it unfinished. I’ll have it done by dawn if I work through the night."
She hadn’t glanced up, but Thranduil caught her impatient tone. "You imply the delay is our fault for commissioning you so late," he said, arching a brow.
At last, she looked up, meeting his gaze. A soot stain darkened the bridge of her nose, lending her glare a shadowed intensity. "If you phrase it thus, my lord—then yes. Even kings and princes must respect my craft."
"Don’t mind her," Ninglor interjected, breathless from depositing the firewood by the furnace. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "My mistress’s words aren’t meant to offend. Like all artisans, she grumbles about everything."
A sharp glance from Duniel silenced him, sending him scurrying back to work. Thranduil smirked. "I took no offense," he assured her. "Even princes understand humor."
She snorted and jerked her chin toward the left, where Helethien and Corwen had already opened the cabinet to examine the unfinished crown. Thranduil interpreted the gesture correctly: If you must snoop, at least let me work. He joined his friends.
"It’s exquisite," Helethien whispered, drawing back the cloth wrapping the crown. Even Corwen withheld criticism as the gleam of pure silver caught her eye.
Thranduil leaned over their shoulders to study Duniel’s work. More a circlet than a traditional crown, it echoed Elu Thingol’s design from ages past. At its center lay a white moonstone, rounded and polished, bright and clear as a drop of ice. From this gem, the silver band branched outward like a stag’s antlers or young beech boughs. Twin strands arched toward the crown’s rear, their widened filigree nearly meeting—a halo of silver that would rise behind the king’s head like a crown of light.
"Looks near-perfect to me," he murmured to Helethien and Corwen, wondering what alterations Duniel could possibly deem necessary.
"That’s because you know nothing of smithing." Duniel had overheard him and now stepped forward, rewrapping the crown in its protective cloth before returning it to the cabinet. "Come back tomorrow. It’ll be done then."
Thranduil inclined his head. "I gladly leave the domain of smithcraft to you—provided the results remain satisfactory." He sighed. "At least this aspect of the coronation seems to trouble us little."
"Why?" Helethien tossed her pale gold hair back. "What other problems could there be? When I left the festival grounds, all seemed ready."
"We’ve still no flowers," Corwen explained, a hint of irritation in her voice. "Our florists barely understand Greenwood’s soil, and thus far, no one’s bothered to arrange how we’ll procure blossoms for the ceremony."
Helethien arched a bemused brow. "Why not ask the Wood-elves? They’ve lived here for millennia—surely they know where to find pretty flowers fit for a king’s crowning."
Thranduil exchanged a startled glance with Corwen. In all their planning, this simple solution had eluded them. He’d mentally reviewed every Sindar Elf with knowledge of plants, overlooking that his new subjects knew these woods far better.
"You’re right," he admitted. "But where do we find a Wood-elf who can gather so many flowers on such short notice?"
Duniel, who’d returned to her work but listened nonetheless, lifted her head. "On the settlement’s edge, deep in the wood, live a few solitary Elves in small houses. They rarely visit town, but I’ve seen some selling flowers at times. Perhaps they’ll aid you."
"Thank you," Thranduil said, surprised by the gruff smith’s unexpected helpfulness.
"So we’re off to the wild wood!" Helethien cheered, seizing Corwen and Thranduil by their arms. "What a lovely adventure!"
Thranduil doubted tracking down a few reclusive Elves would prove thrilling—but he offered no protest as Helethien hauled them from the smithy toward a branching path. How she knew the way, he decided not to question. His cousin had her own methods, and any criticism would only be met with a dismissive smile.
At midday, a knock sounded at Nelisteth’s door. An unusual hour for visitors—most Elves were either at meals or preparing for the king’s coronation. Besides, she rarely received guests this far beyond the settlement. Only hunters strayed here, and even her two friends (the sole souls who knew her dwelling’s location) preferred meeting her in the livelier town.
She’d been mending a pale pink gown, needle halfway through the fabric, when the knock echoed through her small house. Startled, she hesitated—Who could it be at this hour, save youths playing pranks?—until the rapping came again, sharper now, and a male voice called through the door:
"It’s me, Nel. Open up! I’ve thrilling news!"
Nelisteth shook her head with a smile, setting aside her sewing. Of course—who but Rusgon would visit now? She crossed her snug parlor and unlatched the dark-stained door to let him in.
Rusgon stood beaming, his green eyes alight. His red hair streamed behind him like a veil as he barreled past the threshold, barely pausing for greetings. "Guess what I’ve just heard from the Achassionath! No, wait—you’ll never guess. Melchanar learned it from Agarwenion, who heard it from some Sinda in the king’s retinue—or was it the other way? Agarwenion heard it from Melchanar, who spoke to the Sinda—never mind! The young prince is coming here!"
Nelisteth, who’d only half-listened, absently let the door swing shut. "Here?" she repeated, voice tinged with panic. Her gaze darted about the cottage: tidy but cramped, the window hanging crooked in its frame (she’d yet to find someone to fix it), the rug worn thin. What would the Sindar think—Elves accustomed to the shattered kingdom’s grand halls? Even the half-built fortress on Amon Lanc was said to outshine all Wood-elven homes.
"Well, not here here," Rusgon amended, and she exhaled. "He’s visiting the settlement’s edges. He’d never trek this far. But you could go to him!"
Nelisteth lived farther out than most Wood-elves. Years ago, after her father’s death, she’d left the settlement for this solitary house—once owned by a bachelor who’d wed and moved to town. He’d sold it to her cheaply, and she’d cherished the forest’s quiet. Her flowers thrived here, outselling rivals’ at market.
Only then did Rusgon’s last words strike her. "Go to him? Why would I?"
He smacked his forehead. "I forgot the crux! They need coronation flowers. Their own florists failed, so they’re scouring the outskirts for gardeners."
Nelisteth cast a fearful glance outside, half-expecting a royal guard to materialize. Her gaze snagged on her garden: this spring’s new blooms—pale violets, white narcissus, yellow roses from Lórinand, irises with tripartite petals—bursting in riotous color. Some might suit a king’s crown: the primroses, perhaps, or the peonies…
"You’re already choosing which to offer," Rusgon teased gently.
She turned from the window, shaking her head to dispel the fantasy. "I can’t march up to the king and propose my flowers for his coronation. That’s presumptuous."
"Hence I was suggesting the prince first."
She gave Rusgon a piercing look. "I’ll impose on neither king nor prince."
"Come," she said, preempting his protest, "let’s feed the deer."
Rusgon sighed but let her tug him outside into Lothron’s³ crisp air. A fair spring day, still cool, though the sun peeking through clouds promised warmth. The shed behind her house smelled of last summer’s hay, cut from forest meadows. She used it to feed deer through winter—a small price to keep them from her blooms. The herd seemed to understand; they avoided her garden unless she forgot to fill their trough. Some had even grown tame, waiting for her now as she loaded hay onto the handcart.
Rusgon took the cart’s handle, resigned. "You could do it," he said as they walked through the beechwood. "Everyone knows your flowers are the finest. None would blink if you offered them to the king."
"Hush," said Nelisteth, studying the ground to hide her flattered smile. "I’ll hear no more of it."
She was just a simple elleth, a flower-girl without rank or family. What king or prince would stoop to accept her naive gift?