Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Protective

Two hundred and fifty years ago...

Thranduil knocked the sword out of her hand. Again.

Narylfiel huffed as she leaned down to pick it back up and dusted off the dirt. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

He smirked a little. "I always enjoy our special times together," he said and laughed. "Remember, it was your idea to come down here in the first place!"

She rubbed her backside where she had fallen on it. Again. Smiling, she shook her head and then swung her sword lazily in her hand. "Best out of seven?" she quipped.

Thranduil held up his hand, as if to pause their game. "Show me the grip again," he instructed her. She came over to him and aligned her hands over the hilt of her sword, just how he had shown her earlier.

"That is a good start," he coached her, "but I noticed on your follow-through that your hands were sliding."

Narylfiel's eyes narrowed in frustration. "Ugh!" she exclaimed. "If only I had gigantic hands like yours." She tried the grip again and showed Thranduil.

"Better," he said with a nod and then grinned slyly. "And Narylfiel, if you had huge hands, then that would be a little off-putting to any future suitors."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. All those future suitors lining up at my door," she retorted.

Thranduil shook his head. "You are adorable," he told her, "even if you do have a sloppy grip." He leaned in, whispered conspiratorially, "I hear some elves in the guard could even learn to look past that sort of thing." Thranduil turned and reached for the pitcher of water.

"Well, there's only one possible elf that I would consider courting," she told him frankly.

Thranduil straightened, glanced at her from over his shoulder. "Oh? Who?" he asked.

"Trust me when I say that he is not interested," Narylfiel said glumly. She sheathed her sword and took the offered cup from the king's hand.

"Hmm, secretive," Thranduil observed. "Just tell me his name, and I would throw him in the dungeons for you." He winked at her, and then offered his arm to return back to the palace from the range.

Narylfiel could only smile wryly. "Perhaps one of these days I will let you know," she said.
. . . . . . . . .
November, 3018:

From possibly the most uncomfortable man-made seat, a too-small rocking chair with spindles carved at just the right pitch and angle to dig into his back, the elven king of the Woodland Realm watched his young charge sleep fitfully all night. Perhaps he could have summoned the servants who ran the household for a cushion or a more comfortable seat, but Thranduil did not budge from his post. He was far too deep in thought.

His mind drifted to all the times over the past year that she had come to him, popping into his study with a charming smile or story to tell or meeting him at the range to practice, of all the hours they had sat and visited over tea. Narylfiel made him laugh. She always found a way to lighten his mood. He thought of all the occasions when he had teased her about having a suitor. She had always hinted that there was one who held her fancy, but she had never named any elf. Thranduil now knew the source of her reticence-for surely she had meant him! He massaged his temples, and exasperatedly noted that he had caught himself staring at her again. He tried to focus on all the possible times that he should have realized how Narylfiel felt for him, but instead his mind kept going back to how she had clung to him in the dream, how her body had felt against his.