Chapter Text
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1
Two Elven guards escorted Amaleia through the labyrinth of palace corridors to the inner sanctum of the King’s private residence. Her calm walk belied her nervousness, luckily it was second nature thanks to the many hours of training. She had to focus on the task at hand, the contract with Lord Thranduil was crucial in restoring the coveted prestige of her House and she felt wholly inadequate. The Wood Elves’ ruler had reportedly not engaged the services of a courtesan often and the last time was over four hundred years ago. This was a rare honour, as well as having a significant financial arrangement that would last the duration of her service.
As they walked, she tried to forget Mestraya’s anger. They shouldn’t be rivals, but it was natural after being pitted against each other. Mestraya was the House’s most beautiful and gifted girl, and all of Madame Trewion’s energy had gone into preparing and promoting the senior courtesan to one of Middle Earth’s most noble and lucrative clients. Amaleia also keenly felt the Madame’s displeasure at her selection, despite her attempts to show otherwise, whilst giving Amaleia her much needed advice for this important first meeting.
Why had he chosen her? She had only just completed her training, but protocol dictated that thirty of her number be presented at the Choosing Ceremony. There had been three long weeks to discuss the notoriously ill-humoured and supposedly vain king as their large party was escorted by Elven soldiers to his palace in the heart of the Mirkwood. All she knew about him was that he had ruled the Woodland Realm with an iron fist for over 3000 years and was reputed to be about 6000 years. He had been married and the union bore a son, the handsome Prince Legolas, however, his wife was long dead, and the introverted King was reportedly even more attractive than his heir.
She replayed the Choosing Ceremony in her mind.
The palace was much grander than she had ever thought possible. The frisson of excitement she felt in being in such a place that so few had, was replaced by a stupefying awe as they were led deeper through twisting passageways into the very heart of the hidden palace. She took quick, stolen glances at a dazzling array of artefacts she’d only just read about and longed to stop and study them. Some knowledge was important as part of her training, but she had a passion for history and spent her precious free time in the House's cramped library.
Then, they arrived and she strained to see past her sister courtesans and could just make out the great throne, which towered commandingly in the Central Court. Its position forced all in attendance to tilt up their heads and pay homage to the seated ruler.
As she got nearer, the King, she noted, was wearing a heavily embroidered full-length silver coat that seemed to glisten and catch the light from an unknown source at the slightest movement. There was an intricate yet simple white-gold band around his head, and his straight white-blond hair hung down almost to his waist. He regarded the courtesans filing in solemnly, but she could feel the power radiating down and she, like many before her, found it hard not to be in his enthral, even from her position at the rear of the group. He was indeed undeniably beautiful, and she felt something stir inside her. She quickly remembered her training and forced her mind to clear. ‘You are a courtesan, there is no place for love.’ Her Madame’s voice chided her inside her head.
The ceremony itself was shockingly brief, she had been told that it would last for several days as the courtesans all entertained their potential client with their best talents, they sang, played music, danced and told stories. These were only parts of their training, and the most easily displayed. As their numbers diminished, each courtesan had the opportunity to have individual time with their potential benefactor, to practice the more subtle skills, such as dining etiquette and the art of conversation, but never those more intimate ones. While a courtesan was not a prostitute, sometimes the service was requested for an extra fee.
Amaleia’s best talent was singing, she was easily the best singer in her House, and this, along with her being a half-elf, seemed to be why she was now going to the Kings’ chambers.
He had acknowledged the Madame’s introduction with a curt nod. She was about to signal the first performances, when he spoke, ‘Gracious Madame, excuse all but the half-elves.’ His voice was rich, low and accustomed to being obeyed. It reverberated around the hall and caused vibrations deep in the pit of Amaleia’s stomach.
There was a quiet but still audible gasp from the assembled courtesans. This was highly irregular, they had been practising day and night to perfect their turns and in one foul swoop, their opportunity had vanished. But he had fulfilled the requirement to receive thirty of them, there was no rule as too how long before he dismissed them. Twelve girls slowly exited the great hall. If Madame Trewion was flustered, she did a remarkable job of hiding it, and besides, her beloved Mestraya was a half-elf.
‘May I commence, my Lord?’ she inquired in her most honeyed tones, when the unfortunate ones had left.
The King made her wait for his reply while he considered the simple the request. Amaleia sensed the palpable tension rising amongst the remaining number, as from her position, she could see their shoulder blades stiffen. Other than this small adjustment, there was no other discernible movement and their faces were carefully arranged with smiles.
It took all their skill born from many years of training to do so. The tradition of the Choosing Ceremony required that their most impressive and heavy silken robes be worn, which got more elaborate as the ceremony wore on. The luggage procession had been sizable, and she lamented the fine garments that now would never be worn and displayed. What a waste of time and money, she’d thought, annoyed at the distant and aloof figure. The sole reason they were all there.
Their current robes were full-length and tied tightly around the waist, intricately knotted at the back with a broad sway of material that cinched them in at the waists and forcing them into a stiff upright posture. This was teamed with seemingly precariously high sandals, elaborately woven hair and skin made-up with the obligatory pale paste smoothed over all save one exposed patch at the nape of neck. Their eyes and mouths were then carefully painted with black and red respectively. This tradition had arisen to render each courtesan the same and protect not only their real identities, but as a mask to separate emotions from the role they played for their benefactors. Their company and bodies were given for a price, but everything else was theirs.
‘Only those most gifted in the art of singing will remain.’ At last Thranduil spoke and there was an edge, almost of menace to his voice that she couldn’t understand.
The Madame bowed and turned to the waiting girls abruptly, she began signalling some more to leave. From the eighteen, a scant eight remained and they smoothly moved into a new line.
Girls were still filing out as the Madame silkily asked, ‘Sire, what is your wish?’ She tried a different tact, showing that she understood who was in charge, and gave him a deep bow, which she hoped would conceal her annoyance about the change in proceedings.
Thranduil shifted slightly, and he seemed, Amaleia remembered feeling quite shocked as the realisation hit her, he seemed irritated. How could that be? He had requested a courtesan; he was indeed fickle. Her mind reeled with the revelation.
He looked away and signalled to someone out of sight, a glass was quickly proffered and accepted. Thranduil settled back further on his throne.
‘You may commence the songs, Madame. Only - one - each.’ The last part was said lightly, but with a palpable threat.
The Madame bowed again, ‘Thank you, my Liege.’ She turned to the girls with her eyes wide, imploring each of her charges. They all knew this was the crucial moment. Of course, Mestraya still remained, as she was highly accomplished. All the courtesans had at least one song in their repertoire in Sindarin, the King’s first language. Each hoped this would curry favour with him, but in truth, they deferred to the orders of their Madame for the greater good of their House. Mestraya, would sing the most famous and cherished Sindarin song.
She was last in the line-up and Amaleia was sixth. While she knew numerous songs in Sindarin, the language of her mother, she had not thought it would come down to one solitary song. She had only prepared two and was not sure which one to choose. She regretted spending so much time practising her worst skill, dancing en route.
As each song was performed, Amaleia had a chance to study the King more. He took an occasional measured sip from his glass as he watched them, his face was impassive, and she found it hard to read him. When the third girl started, she was shocked to hear to one of her chosen songs. There had been no time to agree which songs would be sung by whom. Her panic rose further when, the next girl, Lithereil, who was one of her friends at the House, began singing Amaleia’s second song choice. She forced herself to ignore the growing dread as she mentally went through other songs to find a suitable replacement. She quickly realised that the only one she could confidently recite in full was a lullaby sang to her by her mother.
As the courtesan next to her was just about to finish, Amaleia prepared herself. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a small movement and she allowed her eyes to quickly look at the Madame, who was halfway between the King and the courtesans. She understood her silent message, warning her not to out-sing Mestraya. She felt more relieved in her choice now, as lullabies were made to soothe children to sleep, not show off singing skills to mighty Kings.
She began to sing softly as to a babe in arms. The song was simple and had a gentle refrain for the chorus, but she had to go to her rarely used lower range for the verses. She closed her eyes as she moved back into the chorus. Memories of her beloved mother filled her thoughts and the sadness reached her voice. She suddenly caught herself, and opened her eyes to find the King staring at her. His intense scrutiny almost made her miss the key change. Was it her imagination but had he just sat up straighter?
Soon her turn ended, and the courtesan, Mnewee, started her sweet lament to the fallen Elven heroes of old. The King relaxed back again, raising his glass to drink and gave his attention to the pretty halfling.
Amaleia was surprised to see his eyes flick back to her over the top of his wine and their eyes met again briefly. She felt rooted to the spot until he broke the spell by looking away.
Next it was Mestraya.
She curtsied deeply all the time boldly holding the King’s gaze. She stayed in position until he released her by bowing his head, allowing her to continue. It was a flawless start, and she had his full attention. Her song was a rousing ballad about Elven glory and legends of the hallowed afterlife in the Blessed Realm. It was a technically difficult song and showed off her abilities perfectly. Mestraya even added some intricate hand movements and then dipped and whirled sinuously in time to the sombre rhythm.
For the first time in the proceedings, Amaleia could hear shouts of encouragement from the few assembled courtiers, along with clapping and stomping. The King looked away suddenly narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw. Using just her eyes, Amaleia followed his but saw nothing. Then he quickly returned to the star courtesan’s immaculate performance. She felt a pang of jealousy when he lightly applauded as she ended and theatrically curtsied to him again.
Madame Trewion turned to the ruler with shining eyes and gushed, ‘My Lord, thank you so much for your time. Shall we withdraw and prepare the next stage for the morrow?’ She bowed her head as she touched heart in respect and waited for his permission.
The King stood and descended from his lofty throne, and Amaleia realised that he was much taller than other ellons [male-elves] she’d encountered. He walked unhurriedly to the Madame and offered her his hand. She took it, kissing his ring.
‘Thank you, my lady.’ he said to her, and he half-turned to the courtesans, ‘Thank you, my ladies. It has been most … entertaining.’ Although, his eyes lacked the same conviction. Thranduil then seemed to address the entire court, ‘There is no need, I have made my decision.’
Amaleia’s heart sank, she knew who would be picked. Her disappointed turned to scorn, he was supposed to be wise and yet had been easily seduced.
The King moved deliberately along the line. He stopped directly in front of her and gestured to the Madame. In disbelief, she heard him say, ‘Have her prepared for the full Initiation tonight.’ He met her eyes again and she saw a brief crinkle appeared at the corner of his mouth before it disappeared. Had he just read her mind?
Thranduil abruptly turned and waved his hand in dismissal without another glance.
The Madame called after him, ‘My Lord…?’ It was supposed to be an acknowledgement of his decision, but it came out as a faltering question. She found she was talking to a quickly retreating figure, and he was now listening to a red-haired elleth soldier [elf-woman] who was in-step with him.
Amaleia stared blankly in front of her unable to move, until she felt gentle hands take her. ‘Come on, muinthel [sister],’ said Lithereil.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------