By Dawn's Early Light by Grundy

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Not A Fairytale

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When they reached his halls at dusk, the King of the Woodland Realm was unsurprised to find a messenger waiting for him along with his son. Over the years, Thranduil had had plenty of experience with Galadriel’s ability to know what was passing far from her own lands. Under the circumstances, he was somewhat relieved to find it was only a messenger and not Celeborn himself. He imagined that if their positions were reversed, he would be waiting impatiently for his erring younger kinsman and grandchildren in person.

Even if he hadn’t erred so much as misjudged the situation…

“Adar,” Legolas greeted him with barely restrained joy.

The younger ellon was aware, of course, that his father had survived the battle, but ‘survived’ did not necessarily mean ‘whole’ or ‘unharmed’. It pained Thranduil that his son had known that distinction from his earliest years- though he has always been thankful that he has largely succeeded in keeping his only child safe. Legolas has known danger, yes, and suffered the loss of his mother, but his youth was not marred by destruction and war as Thranduil’s was.

The king embraced his son, murmuring a few reassuring words for his ears only, before turning to the Galadhrim messenger.

“What news from Lorien?” he asked calmly, watching out of the corner of his eye as his son also welcomed the twins and their younger sister back. The boy is still disconcerted by Anariel, but he can sympathize. Celebrían’s middle daughter is nothing Ennor has seen before.

“My lady congratulates you on your victory at Erebor,” the messenger replied. “She has also charged me to return swiftly with word of how her grandchildren fare.”

The other ellon’s chilly look conveyed all too clearly that Finarfiniel was not pleased.

Thranduil smirked. If he is ever reproved for his actions face to face, he is quite ready to suggest that Anariel is every bit as willful and headstrong as her grandmother was when she first came to Beleriand. It’s perfectly true if the tales his father told him are anything to judge by. And if the remnants of the Exiles wish to claim the girl as completely as they claim her brothers- they can hardly lay sole claim to Arwen when all who have seen both agree she is the likeness of her foremother Luthien come again- then her extraordinary talent for involving herself in trouble is theirs as well.

“My lord has sent a letter to his grandchildren and bid me deliver also to the lady Anariel the things he has sent, knowing that she did not bring clothing fit for a feast such as will be had this night.”

Now Thranduil did raise an eyebrow.

Anariel stepped forward, looking surprised, to receive two packages. One contains a dress more fitting for the princess she is than the warrior she prefers to be. Thranduil hoped this gift was a sign that Celeborn also believes his granddaughter should learn that lady and warrior need not be mutually exclusive- not so far as the Sindar and the wood elves are concerned, at least. (If the Golodhrim think otherwise, Thranduil will very much enjoy watching them try to fight that battle when the girl reaches the Undying Lands.)

Celeborn’s gesture promised to simplify Thranduil’s evening considerably. He had needed the help of both her brothers to convince Anariel to sit still for the fittings necessary for a dress to be hastily made for her before the kings’ dinner to mark the return the Arkenstone to the dwarves of Erebor and reaffirm their alliance in the wake of their victory. But even she can hardly argue when her grandfather has had a dress sent for her.

The other package for her contains something Thranduil had thought lost long ago – something he has not seen since the days of his youth in Doriath.

Anariel looked from the elegant circlet, its silver bands studded with finely wrought leaves tinted delicate shades of green and sparkling jewels cunningly set to look like living flowers, to her brothers. They are just as mystified. How could they not be? They are children of the Third Age, who never saw Nimloth wear this circlet as she danced with her cousins in the great hall of Menegroth.

Thranduil cannot help but smile at the memory, and think how lovely it will look on Nimloth’s great-granddaughter. It was made for a silver head, but will be set off just as well by a golden one.

“It seems your grandfather wishes to remind us all that you are a princess of the Sindar as well as of the Noldor,” he said, noting the twins’ startled look. “That belonged to your father’s grandmother in the days before the Kinslaying.”

He was irritated to see the faint traces of confusion in her eyes. Perhaps Celeborn’s reminder is sorely needed, if the girl was so unaware of her Sindarin heritage. He will have words with his singers. There will be songs of Doriath and Menegroth this evening, and not merely the ones of Beren and Luthien. His young kinswoman should know all of who she is, not merely what the golodhrim deign to acknowledge.

 

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Buffy tried not to groan out loud as they rounded the bend and caught sight of Thranduil’s gates. Legolas was waiting for them, but so was an all too familiar Galadhrim face.

This means we’re in trouble, doesn’t it? she asked her brothers silently.

Possibly not. Haldir may just be irritated at being made to wait. Or had you forgotten your first impression of him? Elladan replied.

Buffy sighed. It was easy to get the idea that the marchwarden disapproved of something or someone. His natural expression tended to stern and his emotions were usually well guarded.

Although he does disapprove of Legolas. Far too flighty, these wild wood elves, all too prone to not taking situations seriously, Elrohir added with a suppressed snicker.

Buffy would dearly love to know what Thranduil’s very proper son and heir had done for Haldir to be so snippy about him. It must have been good, and suggested that buried deep beneath the public face of Mirkwood’s prince was an ellon who could match her brothers prank for prank.

You have no idea, little sister, Elrohir told her, his mental voice dancing with laughter. He has been on his absolute best behavior with you around – we think he is trying very hard not to corrupt the young.

It has been quite amusing, Elladan agreed. Though we have been wondering how much longer he can keep it up. Especially as it should now be quite clear to the elves of the Greenwood that you are not an elfling.

Buffy caught sight of the fierce glare Haldir had just favored the three of them with.

Maybe not an elfling, but I’d say we’re definitely in trouble, she replied in a subdued tone.

Unlike previous instances of getting in trouble for things she’d done in the course of Slaying, she had company this time. Unfortunately, she also had more in the way of parental and other family figures to dish out said trouble, and the only one she was truly familiar with was her mother. She had a feeling her grandmother will back her against the world after her time in Lorien, but she is less confident about her grandfather and father. And she’s not even completely sure how her mother is going to take this.

Although Joyce had been more laid back about Slaying the last couple years in Sunnydale, Buffy couldn’t help the icy tendril of fear curling around a deep down part of her that hasn’t been able to forget the time her mother hadn’t been ok with what she had to do to save the world. And she doesn’t exactly have the excuse that it was about saving the world this time. She knows darn well that most elves aren’t going to agree that wiping out a bunch of dwarves and men is apocalypse level.

She tuned back in to the spoken conversation to find that Haldir had been sent by their grandparents to get an eyes-on. She was certain Galadriel already knew they were fine, she’s felt the soothing brush of her grandmother’s mind several times over the last few days, but she suspected Celeborn wanted the reassurance that his littlest granddaughter’s definition of ‘fine’ actually overlaps with everyone else’s.

In this case it does, but she’s pretty sure that some of what she’s described as ‘fine’ over the past few years would not be counted as such by even her brothers, who are of similar mind to her when it comes to self-assessment of injuries that are not life-threatening.

The frosty look on his face said that Haldir has plenty of experience in determining how injured the gwenyn are, and he will not be foolish enough to ask their opinion on the state of their own health.

On the bright side, Haldir will be able to honestly report that of the three of them, she’s the healthiest. What small scratches she picked up in the battle had healed before they had even set out on the return journey to the Woodland Realm. Elrohir had been slightly envious, given that the angry red line on his leg had not completely faded yet - he assured her that in another week or so, it would be as invisible any of her wounds. Elladan’s arm was in a sling, and Thranduil had decreed it would stay there until Gandalf said otherwise. (The wizard had simply smiled and declined to involve himself in the matter thus far.)

“My lord has sent a letter to his grandchildren and bid me deliver also to the lady Anariel the things he has sent, knowing that she did not bring clothing fit for a feast such as will be had this night,” Haldir added, and she just knew from the spark in his eyes that he expected a reaction and was greatly pleased that he was the one here to see it.

Her brothers took the letter – she is not good enough with tengwar yet to make out more than her own name or her brothers’, and those she recognized mainly due to repetition – and skimmed it rapidly while she opened the larger of the two parcels, a clothbound package.

The dress – and it’s definitely a dress, she knows without looking that she will find no leggings to go with it – has to be the work of her sister and her grandmother. She doesn’t know anyone else who does such amazing embroidery. She was hugely relieved to discover that neither one of them expected her to develop such a talent, although Arwen had remarked thoughtfully that learning to stitch herself up might be a useful skill for someone who managed to find yrch so regularly.

She’s fairly sure Haldir was expecting a protest, as everyone in Lorien knows she’s much more comfortable in pants for day to day wear. But she’s still a fashion lover at heart, and she’ll be the first to admit that Arwen has an unmatched eye for what will suit her sisters.

The dress was lovely, and Buffy had never seen its like before – the color starts the blue of a summer sky at midday by the shoulders, with ornaments of silver leaves, but darkens over the length of the dress until it is night at the hemline, broidered and edged with stars. It’s super soft, to the point where she could happily sit there and snuggle it. To her relief, the sleeves weren’t the long trailing type that Arwen favored – Buffy could just see herself snagging sleeves like that on everything – so either Galadriel had a say or Arwen realized that her little sister would prefer something fitted.

She actually can’t wait to wear it, and she trusts her brothers to know how exactly it’s meant to look – unlike at Erebor, where she’d been trussed into something quickly made for her by the wood elves, who had attempted to make her look as ethereal as her grandmother but more delicate. She’d been afraid to move in that dress and hadn’t felt like herself at all.

But the real stunner was the other package. It was a small box, its contents carefully padded for the journey. Inside was nestled an exquisite circlet, different from what she’s seen her parents, grandparents, and sister wear. (Thus far the twins have managed to avoid them.)

This one looked more like something Thranduil or Legolas would have, with jeweled flowers in deep reds and frosty white, and leaves in such realistic shades of green that it was only when she cautiously touched one with a single careful finger that she realized they were wrought of metal.

This cannot be for me, she whispered in awe. Haldir made a mistake, El, he brought the wrong box. This must be grandmother’s.

Niphredil and seregon, Elladan replied thoughtfully. Those are flowers of Beleriand, not Lindon or Eldamar. I do not think this is something grandmother would wear.

Thranduil spoke at nearly the same time.

“It seems your grandfather wishes to remind us all that you are a princess of the Sindar as well as of the Noldor,” he told them. “That belonged to your father’s grandmother in the days before the Kinslaying.”

Buffy blinked. She really doubted Thranduil would joke about such things. Nor did she believe he would he make her the butt of the joke, as careful as he has been of her these past few weeks. His kindness after the battle more than made up for his sternness before, to the point where she has started to think of him as an uncle of sorts.

Brothers, when did I become a princess? she demanded fiercely, because it’s news to her.

She could feel nothing but pure astonishment from the pair of them. Apparently she’s just walked straight into the wall of ‘things everyone else expected her to know already’. She wondered if she could enlist Legolas’ help tying her brothers up for spider bait. They’d said he’d been on his best behavior for too long…

Was anyone planning on telling me at any point? And as long as we’re taking a tour through family history, which grandmother does he mean?