Roswehn of Mirkwood

Nightmares

She woke up in the middle of the night.

Thranduil was beside her, asleep. He was covered only by the sheet, and this surprised her: the king never slept naked. He usually wore a long, very light satin robe, which laid softly at the bottom of the bed.

Roswehn observed the perfection of his muscular chest. There was a great difference with the bodies of mortal men she had seen: when she lived in Laketown and every now and then in the summer she walked on the piers, she used to stop to watch the fishermen. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but when she approached the dock, they immediately removed the jackets, with the excuse of the heat, and revealed fat, soft bellies, or too skinny chests.

Compared to them, the Elven King was a kind of statue made by Eru's personal sculptor. The only feature that the girl could not get used to was the lack of nipples: it gave his body a look a bit weird, almost grotesque, albeit beautiful.

And that wonderful face. Thranduil had a profile designed by the gods. She began to feel the urge to throw herself on him, but she had to resist.

The girl had the distinct feeling that his decision to interrupt sexual intercourses with her had been an order. Going against that order could have had some new, unpleasant consequences.

Roswehn did not want to end up in a dark cell again, partly because this time the Prince would not come to free her.

Legolas was not stupid. He loved her, but, hey, she had made fun of him without much compliment with that pantomime of the scratched wrists. Now, he could be a good boy, but he was not a fool.

She looked around the room. Her attention was captured by something in a corner, near the heavy red velvet drapery.

There was a man over there.
She felt terrified as never before in her life. Her body, already suffocated by the summer heat, released sweat from all the pores. Roswehn did not even notice. No cry or groan came from her mouth. The panic had tilted her mind, as well as the ability to produce sounds.

She felt dangerously close to fainting.

A man.
A creature, over there.

He was watching them, or rather, she had the impression that he was staring at them.

"Thranduil ..." she tried to whisper, realizing that her throat had suddenly dried up. "Thranduil, wake up, please ..."

But she knew it was useless: the elf had sunk in that phase of heavy sleep that occurred a few hours before dawn. A condition that a modern-day doctor would have defined as very similar to a comatose state. Even if she had shaken him with all her strength, he would not have woken up.

Instinctively, she lifted her legs and bent her knees against her chest . She brought her hands to her lap, to protect herself, and to protect her son.

The being was still there in the corner, motionless, and was watching them. At that point the girl was sure of it. Roswehn tried to focus on the creature.

Actually, she could not distinguish definite features. She got the impression to see a very tall figure, with very long arms and very long fingers. White hands, similar to those of a corpse. And the head, the head looked like a skull. Black orbits, a mutilated nose, and a mouth already open in a terrible grimace.

No, wait a moment, she suddenly thought. Maybe it's just a game of lights. Maybe it's the moon's rays that have penetrated here and are creating a fantasy of shadows. Maybe it's my imagination. Why should there be someone who is spying on us? How would he dare to come this far, to Thranduil's private room? What crazy suicidal person would penetrate to the most inaccessible point of all Eryn Galen?