The Last Light of the Star

5 - Never Does Anything Good Come from One-on-Ones with Kings

The healers had re-stitched Arryin's wound, wrapped it in firm dressings, and gave her potions to take daily. She was told that within two weeks she would be healed enough to return to her regular activities—a valued perk of elven medicine.

Arryin now stood, before the light-haired king, in the intimidation of the throne room. But unlike her previous visit, there were no guards or officials witnessing the interaction. It was simply just the two of them. This matter caused the Ranger's thoughts to wind and curve—twisting like the troubles that always inhabited it so. Never does anything good come from one-on-ones with Kings.

Thranduil stared down at her with a gaze as icy as the Caradhras peak. He crossed his legs and leaned back against the wood before addressing her bluntly, "You are a skilled warrior. I want you to join the Mirkwood guard."

Arryin raised her brows for he was rather quick to get to the point, yet she responded with the same tone. "Why? What is in it for you?"

"I gain a warrior," he stated simply.

The Ranger scoffed, "A warrior with unknown loyalty. Why would you want that?"

The King did not respond.

Arryin paused for a moment, letting her curious gaze examine Thranduil, before continuing once again as it was clear he was not going to answer. "Throughout my life, I have met many Kings of Arda and it is never as simple as what you claim. You must benefit in another way or you would not ask."

He smirked, "You are smart to perceive kings in a such a way.

"Well, living as I do, it is about survival."

Thranduil tilted his head, "Survival you say. If it is truly about survival, you will take me up on my offer."

Arryin clenched her jaw and sent him a glare, "And if I refuse?"

Thranduil stood up and began descending the stairs, "You, Ranger, could have a home—safety, food, drink, warmth." He paused, "Or you could find comfort in the dungeons of Mirkwood."

She snorted before muttering under her breath, "typical."

Thranduil rolled his eyes for the comment did not escape his elvish ears.

Arryin stood still for a moment as she evaluated the options. She was always the one to lash out and fight, but in times like these—in arrangements like these—it wasn't about strength. It was about manipulation, deceit, trickery—a war of cunning wit. Of course, she was light on her feet and sneaky, but slipping out of steel bars is never an easy feat—even with such a skill set as herself. However, ducking away from a patrol group wouldn't be so difficult. 

The green eyed elleth ground her teeth and chose her words carefully, for Thranduil could not become aware of her scheme. "So I suppose, I have no choice in this matter?"

Thranduil smiled, "You do have a choice: life or death."

Arryin shook her head as a spiteful chuckle sounded from her chest. Asshole.

Her thoughts began to swirl once again. What was the purpose of having a fickle warrior? Why did he care? Was it just such a pleasure to snatch up rangers who wandered into his woods? Or was it something else that implored him to do so? Could it be possible that Thranduil had an incline of knowledge into her past?

Her thoughts froze at that specific notion, for if Thranduil knew of her abilities, she was in trouble; and quite frankly, so was he.

Why else would he want her so?

A clarity struck her as she came to a resolution.

If the Elven King knew, he needed to die.