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Entry tags:
Ataraxion memories
Jadzia Dax: 1
Morgana: 1, 2
Mordecai: 1, 2
Heather Mason: 1, 2
Bail Organa: 1, 2
Sansa Stark: 1, 2, 3, 4
Catelyn Stark: 1, 2, 3, 4
AM: 1, 2
Tyke: 1, 2, 3, 4
Arya: 1, 2, 3
Sauron: 1, 2, 3
Legolas: 1
Fili: 1, 2
Kili: 1, 2
Nill: 1, 2
Robb: 1, 2
Sulu: 1
-----
They came for you, and you don't know why.
Something about the Silmaril, which they did not make or earn and have no right to. Something about their comrades who were killed trying to escape after murdering your king and bringing ruin and sorrow. Something about all that makes one of them swing his axe at your belly, teeth gnashing, blood on his face, the blood of your kin who he has slain.
You do not mean to cry out when his axe hits your sword as you block the strike. The force of it is shocking. You are but a young Elf, and the Dwarf is stout and unbearably strong and much, much faster than you ever thought a Dwarf could be. The battle--no, the slaughter--rages around you and your kinfolk are falling everywhere in these legendary halls and this Dwarf means to kill you--why? Because you wept at your king's funeral?
They gave you a sword. They shoved it into your hands and told you to swing it at them if they tried to come close. You don't know how you got from there to here. You think you killed one a moment ago and you don't know why beyond the fact that he would have killed you if you hadn't. And if he kills you, he'll go on to kill someone else. Someone you know, someone you love, someone you see every day, someone important. They say Mablung is dead, and if Mablung has fallen, what hope is there for anyone? The Dwarves take gold and jewels from the very walls, treasures they themselves set into these halls, stuff them into their pockets, and leave another corpse behind them. Menegroth is sacked, its glory chipped away for greed, and many of its people will never dance or sing again in its light. It is your home, and they are bound and determined that it will never be the same as it was.
And you don't know why.
-----
All of Sirion has seen it, for Elwing had not kept it secret. She used it as a symbol of hope and healing in spite of the horrors it had caused. Beren and Lúthien had won it and been united, she had said, and so may the refugees of Sirion put aside the hurt and terror of the past and start anew, together. The Silmaril, the bright jewel made by Fëanor, the one his sons sought to possess at any cost. Everyone in Sirion had already survived the fall of their homeland and the genocide of their people, so a thing of beauty was a thing to treasure.
You don't see it begin. You knew Maedhros and Maglor, sons of Fëanor, were coming with their armies to negotiate for the Silmaril, and the Doriathrin Sindar in particular know what it will lead to. It was exactly what it had led to, the slaughter of your people in Doriath. No, you do not see it begin, but you hear it. You will never forget the sound. Huddled in the house with your family, listening while all the city is silent, you hear the roar of voices and hoofbeats and the screams coming nearer and nearer. It is like waiting for a storm to come, uncertain if it will pass to the north or west or travel right over you. It is when you see smoke through a window that Father says quietly, that you have to run.
It is the same as the instructions in Doriath had been--take your mother and see her safely out. Only "out" this time means "to the ships," although Cirdan does not have enough for everyone. And at the docks there is panic, there are desperate people begging for a place to put their child, their spouse, their brother or sister aboard one of the ships. You do what your father told you to do and see your mother aboard, then turn back to find your father. Back into the slaughter, back to the people who are willing to kill you even though you have no power over anything they want. People who look like you, not orcs or Dwarves, but Elves who are not doing this in the name of the Valar or of Eru or of Morgoth or of anyone but themselves, their own volition.
Because they want to.
-----
"Oh come now, is the king's son too good to get wet?"
It's all friendly fun. You smile and shake your head mutely because you are not a wood-elf, but a Sinda of Doriath. You were not raised to swim mostly naked with your cohorts. But they're having fun, and you enjoy watching them from the sidelines. Isn't that all right?
"Then come in," another complains. "The water sounds fairer from underneath its surface!"
"Perhaps if you learnt to swim better, you might be able to stay above the surface," you tease right back. "I am entertained where I am."
"But you are the king's son!" they say. "You can't be one of us till we have measured your strength against our own. Or do you yield ere the fight has begun?"
You hesitate, considering. On the one hand, the sidelines are comfortable and entertaining. On the other, you don't want to be boring to your new friends. Maybe just one game. With a soft sigh and an exasperated look, you tear off your tunic and leggings and slip into the water in only your smallclothes. The cheers of your comrades can probably be heard all the way back on Amon Lanc.
"Hail the youngling!" they cry.
One wades up behind you. "Come, Thranduil. It's you against Arastor first. Ready?"
You nod. Under the water he goes, and you step back, sitting atop his shoulders. He rises as Arastor does the same with his partner, balancing easier than you and grinning mercilessly. Just because you are the king's son does not mean you will be allowed to win.
A neutral judge calls the beginning of the match. It does not last long--you both take each other down, tumbling in unison off the shoulders of your mounts. You emerge from the water laughing and sneezing water out of your sinuses and haven't caught your breath before Arastor is upon you again, ducking you under the water as if it counts, as if the match wasn't a draw and this proves something.
You never find out which of you is the stronger, because the improvised second round causes a free-for all. When you get home, your father doesn't ask about the bruises when he sees how broad your smile is.
-----
This used to be a field. Now it is a swamp.
You wade through blood and bodies in a quiet daze, eyes sweeping for any signs of life. There is no time for the dead--the earth will take them, repurpose them as it must be. The Alliance must press the advantage while it can.
Many of these corpses are unrecognizable, face hacked to bloodied meat, hands and feet cut off. Orc-work, of course, to strike horror into the hearts of their enemies. It works, but you do not let it show on your face. Nothing can show on your face. You learned that when you realized that looking upset made your father even more upset, and you don't want to feed the despair your people already strain beneath.
At last you find the body you were searching for. At least they spared this one, for his face is recognizable and he still has his arms and legs intact. You stare down at the body you cradled in your arms when he could not stop weeping and held until he fell asleep. He used to do the same for you, until he survived one too many genocides. His sword lies just beyond his grasp, his eyes are barely open and glinting in the fading light. Seeing him so still and lifeless who used to have such passion is unsettling, but nothing more at the moment. This isn't him, really. This doesn't feel like it's happening. There's a dreamlike veil between you and him, and this shell is only a shell, your father is alive somewhere and any moment you will turn and see him.
A hand brushes your shoulder, making you jump.
"My lord?"
You blink at the soldier's face, trying to recall his name, trying to recall why he's calling you that. After a moment, you look back at your father's corpse. Three heartbeats later, you kneel in the red mud and begin to wrap his cloak around him, covering the horrible wound that took his life. You arrange his shimmering hair, close his weary eyes, and place his sword on his chest, clasping his hands around the hilt. He perished as a warrior, fighting a terrible evil, fighting for the freedom of Middle-earth. Last, you pluck his crown of leaves from the ground and place it upon his cold brow. This is all you can do for him. One last time, you will send him to sleep.
You stand at last and look upon his face for your last moment together. You still feel the presence of your fellow soldiers--your soldiers. Your soldiers, as they were his. There is no time to bury the dead, but there is time to sing for them.
So you begin in a soft voice that grows stronger as the haze grows thicker around you. You know you will feel it all later, you already feel some of it now, but now is a time for others to feel, not you.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath.
Na-chaered palan-díriel
Other voices rise with yours, and the weeping begins. And the weeping becomes keening, loud wails of sorrow that reach to the skies.
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon.
You kneel once more, press a kiss to his forehead, and touch your foreheads together. Novaer, Adar. Goodbye, Father.
Someone reaches to take the crown from Oropher's head, to place it upon yours, but you snarl softly at him and he backs away. You do not wear your father's crown. You will have your own, or none, but Oropher was the first King of the Woodland Realm, and he will wear his crown until the world is remade.
Translation: O Elbereth Star-kindler/(white) glittering slants down sparkling like jewels/from [the] firmament [the] glory [of] the star-host!/To-remote distance far-having gazed/from [the] tree-tangled middle-lands,/Fanuilos, to thee I will chant/on this side of sea, here on this side of the Great Sea!
-----
They look so bright they don't look real.
The Elven soldier--your soldier holds a helmet with wildflowers planted in it. Little blue blossoms on long, almost scraggly stems, nothing that grows in the Greenwood. Here in the South, they might grow outside the mountainous walls of Mordor, but nothing grows from this dusty ground where you have lain siege for these last years. They are the first green life you have seen in years.
You glance up to the nervous face of the soldier. "Where did you find them?"
The soldier wets his lips. His face is smudged with the soot and black dust, the only thing that is plentiful in this land. "My lord, scouts brought them back from outside. We have cared for them ever since--passed them from camp to camp, for each wanted his turn to care for them. Each of us donates a little of his water to keep them alive. But the earth here will not nourish them, so we do not plant them. And the little earth they are planted in will fail one day, we know not when."
You reach out a long, pale hand to gently loosen the earth around the roots of the precious flowers. The leaves brush the tops of your fingers. They are soft and tender, like the touch of an infant's cheek. Once, you were surrounded by such life in the cool halls of the woods. This little plant reminds the men of home, reminds them that there is something beyond this poisoned wasteland. It's something they can see and have hope in when they can no longer bring to mind any place but this one, because the years have been long, and sometimes it feels to them as though they have always been here, and anything from before is only a dream.
"We thought," the soldier ventures, "to make you a crown of them, my lord. Since you haven't one yet. We needn't use them all, and the Golodhrim would see you as a true king."
Your own people would see you as a true king.
No, that hadn't been the subtext. It was much closer to home than that.
You would be able to see yourself as a true king.
You hesitate a moment, then nod. "Very well. It shall be."
It is your first crown as King Thranduil.
-----
It happens fast. That's something they will never tell in the histories, in the stories and legends. They will tell this part slowly, dramatically, in excruciating detail, when no one saw the details because it happened so quickly.
One minute, Gil-galad is there, then he's not.
Then Elendil is there, and then he's not.
And then Isildur, the rash fool, is flinging himself at Sauron, and he falls. But this time, you hear a terrible cry. Your sight is blocked by the legions in front of you and you cannot see what is happening on the ground, but what seemed like the end of everything suddenly becomes the beginning of a new age as Sauron falls back--and keeps falling, his armor but an empty suit. Isildur stands tall above the crowd, and in a moment, a seven-year war is over.
And you don't feel any different.
There is no joy or elation. Relief, once it all sinks in, but mostly the same exhaustion that has plagued you since the beginning. You have lost so many lives under your command that this barely feels like a victory, and you can no longer imagine life outside this place, this dead land that birthed who you will be as a king.
How will you live again, on the outside?
-----
The mountain fortress was built to be open to the air and sky and the woods your people all but worship, and you have never been so glad for it. This sparkling emerald paradise could not be more different from Mordor, newly abandoned after seven years of siege spent between its black skies and its lifeless ground. From every outer room, you can look out the windows and see the endless expanse of forest, shimmering in the Sun and reaching to the borders of your vision as though it is basking in the light you fought so hard to protect. The beauty does not move you the way it used to. You can see it, in a way, but only with your eyes.
There are certain rooms you have begun to avoid, certain windows you avoid with your gaze. You can spend long hours staring blankly Westward or Northward towards mountains high and lands filled with strangers, wondering if they know that you gave up the ability to see beauty in order to save them. Most likely they have only heard rumors of the Woodland King in Greenwood, if even that. If they've heard of him, they probably don't even realize he died during the war and was replaced by his son. Those in the West in Arnor and the South in Gondor may know, may remember, may think of you now as the one who was just out of reach when their king was slaughtered. It does not matter what you accomplished in the war--if you accomplished anything--when you have that one failure on your head.
There is one room, an open, airy council chamber, with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing South. Stepping outside leads to a sheltered veranda overlooking the trees far below. Elven-sight and the advantage of altitude allow a good look at the world, something your father thought might grant him perspective during times when important choices must be made. The Sun is high and the sky is clear, and for some reason, you are drawn to a window. Perhaps it is a grotesque fascination with your own fears, or a sudden sick feeling that you have become a coward running from shadows and must defeat this Shadow by looking it in the eye. And so you look at it, and you're not quite sure what happens next.
You're in Mordor again.
The ash and dust grind beneath your feet, the sky above dark as night. The hilt of your sword sticks to your hand from the black orc blood, and thousands of the people you are bound to protect lie dead around you. Hacked, mutilated, barely recognizable, fair faces sliced open and bright eyes gouged out, voices stilled that once rose in most beautiful song. They had been merry folk, some not even warriors, whose only crime had been the desire to be free. You knew their names, their families, had to watch their families keen and wail for those many they lost. Two-thirds of those who trusted you are dead, hated so viciously by your enemies that they no longer have faces, or hands, or feet. Some of them have been hastily butchered for food and you know it is because you have lain siege, you have ordered the raids on the supply parties, you are starving the orcs who are killing and eating your people.
It is said that orcs were once Elves. How different does that make you, who killed so many of theirs? Who killed so many Men who were not evil, only misled, but who hated you as much as the orcs did? Were you not all Children of Ilúvatar? Did that make this not so different from the Kinslayings?
And always looming, taller than mountains, that black tower where the Dark Lord dwells. You see it when you wake in the mornings, you see it when you close your eyes to blink, you see it in your dreams. You are so small beside it, so insignificant and powerless against such a stronghold, and it is folly to believe such a thing can ever fall by any power short of the Valar. But the Valar have no hand in this war. They have left you to struggle alone, and this time for no reason at all.
The dust and ash dissolve into stone tile beneath your feet, and the black tower vanishes. You become aware that there are several faces hovering in front of yours, lips speaking words you cannot hear. You are home and you are not home, for you have carried the Shadow here with you. You have defiled the place you love, and it will never again be the same.
Her face breaks through the others as she presses them all aside.
"Leave us alone," she says, reaching forward to cup your face in her hands. The touch makes you freeze, though you know she is safe, she will not hurt you, she is one of the ones you fought to protect. In a moment, it is only you and her, and she is drawing you into her arms. You're not sure how you both end up kneeling on the floor, or when your cheek rested on her bosom, or when her fingers began to thread through your hair.
"Breathe, Thranduil my love," she murmurs, and you try to obey, but you only want to weep, to cling to her, to claw the memories out of your mind so you can be to her what you once were and not only a burden. "I am here. You will not face this Shadow alone."
-----
You will never get used to the feeling of utter terror.
The Watchful Peace has felt like a world holding its breath. A world that is beautiful again, where the Shadow is no more and your people are safe and your woods are untainted--for now. But the more beautiful something is, the more you love it, the more it can destroy you when it is snatched away, when the Shadow returns, when the world ends and all you have made is unraveled.
The tiny child in your arms is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen and the most wondrous thing you will ever make.
-----
"Climb up further. Trust me, dear son."
He hesitantly inches up the tree angled out over the water. He's still only about two and a half feet over the water, but to a small child, it seems very far indeed. "Don't miss me, Papa," he says nervously.
You laugh softly. "I will catch you. Why wouldn't I?"
Legolas chews his bottom lip and doesn't answer, too young to really know what an irrational fear is. Chubby little legs are slightly scratched by the bark of the tree, but he pays it no heed. As if to prove his bravery, he climbs the tree another six inches or so. Then, he stops and stares down at the water.
"You'll have no revelry from up there!" you call up to him, holding your hands up to him. "Jump!"
Mustering himself as though he is about to plunge into battle, Legolas coils himself and springs. You catch him as his feet hit the water and guide him as gravity carries him under, then lift him to the surface. He sputters, sneezes, and then takes a deep breath.
"AGAIN!" he screams in delight. "PAPA, LET ME GO AGAIN! AGAIN!"
-----
"Don't point it at anything you're not willing to kill."
Your eyes are trained on the target. Your right arm is straining to keep the bow drawn. The tip of the arrow is drawing crazy lines in the air, dancing around the center of the target instead of remaining steady on it. Nevertheless, your father sounds proud.
"Good! Don't move till the arrow is in the target. Now loose."
It's a relief to let go of the bowstring and a disappointment when the arrow flips a few feet through the air before flopping to the ground like it has given up on life. You stare at it in dismay, horrified to think you have disappointed your father's expectations. But your father bursts out laughing.
"A fine shot indeed! Better than my first, for my first arrow landed on the ground behind me. At least yours went in the proper direction. Now pick it up."
You look up at him, a fair face with golden hair braided back, and he grabs you from the back of your neck and leans in to give you a loud kiss on the top of your head. Feeling somewhat placated, you dart forward to retrieve the arrow.
"Father, I am wed."
You're much taller now, much older, and your father is a king. But he looks the same, apart from more lines of care on his face, and a solemnity from the proceedings of the day. And the surprise when he hears those words.
"Now?" He blinks rapidly a few times. "Now, on the eve of war?"
You take a deep breath, hands balling into fists at your sides, but your voice remains even. That's all that matters--you appear calm, so you won't feed his emotions. "I know it is not our way, but it is what we wanted. If I do not return, she wishes to have taken the chance to be mine unto the ending of the world. And I would be hers, Father, whether or not I survive this war."
There is a long silence between you. You have always been able to read him like a book, but not now. Now, you have no idea what he is thinking until he breaks into a grin and it is like the sun is rising.
"Then...let it be a joy to me on this dark day, for I now have a daughter I love well."
A little sadness gleams in his eyes, and you know he's disappointed he didn't get a ceremony, but something unclenches from around your heart. Before you know it, he is moving forward to throw his arms around you. Every muscle unknots and you go boneless in his arms, resting your cheek against his shoulder.
"Ilúvatar smile upon your union, my beloved son," he whispers. "May he who is the father of us all share in my joy."
FROM THE BOOK
-----
At the head of a long line of feasters, a woodland king sat with a crown of leaves upon his golden hair. The elvish folk were passing bowls from hand to hand and across the fires, and some were harping and many were singing. Their gleaming hair was twined with flowers; green and white gems glinted on their collars and their belts; and their faces and their songs were filled with mirth. Loud and clear and fair were those songs...
-----
In the camp all was now astir, as if for battle; for the dwarves of Dain were advancing along the eastern bank.
"Fools!" laughed Bard, " to come thus beneath the Mountain's arm! They do not understand war above ground, whatever they may know of battle in the mines. There are many of our archers and spearmen now hidden in the rocks upon their right flank. Dwarf-mail may be good, but they will soon be hard put to it. Let us set on them now from both sides, before they are fully rested!"
But the Elvenking said: "Long will I tarry, ere I begin this war for gold. The dwarves cannot pass es, unless we will, or do anything that we cannot mark. Let us hope still for something that will bring reconciliation. Our advantage in numbers will be enough, if in the end it must come to unhappy blows."
-----
They buried Thorin deep beneath the Mountain, and Bard laid the Arkenstone upon his breast.
"There let it lie till the Mountain falls!" he said. "May it bring good fortune to all his folk that dwell here after!"
Upon his tomb the Elvenking then laid Orcrist, the Elvish sword that had been taken from Thorin in captivity. It is said in songs that it gleamed ever in the dark if foes approached, and the fortress of the dwarves could not be taken by surprise.
-----
"Farewell! O Elvenking!" said Gandalf. "Merry be the greenwood, while the world is yet young! And merry be all your folk!"
"Farewell! O Gandalf!" said the king. "May you ever appear where you are most needed and least expected! The oftener you appear in my halls the better shall I be pleased!"
"I beg of you," said Bilbo stammering and standing on one foot, "to accept this gift!" and he brought out a necklace of silver and pearls that Dain had given him at their parting.
"In what way have I earned such a gift, O hobbit?" said the king.
"Well, er, I thought, don't you know," said Bilbo rather confused, "that, er, some little return should be made for your, er, hospitality. I mean even a burglar has his feelings. I have drunk much of your wine and eaten much of your bread."
"I will take your gift, O Bilbo the Magnificent!" said the king gravely. "And I name you Elf-friend and blessed. May your shadow never grow less (or stealing would be too easy)! Farewell!"
Morgana: 1, 2
Mordecai: 1, 2
Heather Mason: 1, 2
Bail Organa: 1, 2
Sansa Stark: 1, 2, 3, 4
Catelyn Stark: 1, 2, 3, 4
AM: 1, 2
Tyke: 1, 2, 3, 4
Arya: 1, 2, 3
Sauron: 1, 2, 3
Legolas: 1
Fili: 1, 2
Kili: 1, 2
Nill: 1, 2
Robb: 1, 2
Sulu: 1
-----
They came for you, and you don't know why.
Something about the Silmaril, which they did not make or earn and have no right to. Something about their comrades who were killed trying to escape after murdering your king and bringing ruin and sorrow. Something about all that makes one of them swing his axe at your belly, teeth gnashing, blood on his face, the blood of your kin who he has slain.
You do not mean to cry out when his axe hits your sword as you block the strike. The force of it is shocking. You are but a young Elf, and the Dwarf is stout and unbearably strong and much, much faster than you ever thought a Dwarf could be. The battle--no, the slaughter--rages around you and your kinfolk are falling everywhere in these legendary halls and this Dwarf means to kill you--why? Because you wept at your king's funeral?
They gave you a sword. They shoved it into your hands and told you to swing it at them if they tried to come close. You don't know how you got from there to here. You think you killed one a moment ago and you don't know why beyond the fact that he would have killed you if you hadn't. And if he kills you, he'll go on to kill someone else. Someone you know, someone you love, someone you see every day, someone important. They say Mablung is dead, and if Mablung has fallen, what hope is there for anyone? The Dwarves take gold and jewels from the very walls, treasures they themselves set into these halls, stuff them into their pockets, and leave another corpse behind them. Menegroth is sacked, its glory chipped away for greed, and many of its people will never dance or sing again in its light. It is your home, and they are bound and determined that it will never be the same as it was.
And you don't know why.
-----
All of Sirion has seen it, for Elwing had not kept it secret. She used it as a symbol of hope and healing in spite of the horrors it had caused. Beren and Lúthien had won it and been united, she had said, and so may the refugees of Sirion put aside the hurt and terror of the past and start anew, together. The Silmaril, the bright jewel made by Fëanor, the one his sons sought to possess at any cost. Everyone in Sirion had already survived the fall of their homeland and the genocide of their people, so a thing of beauty was a thing to treasure.
You don't see it begin. You knew Maedhros and Maglor, sons of Fëanor, were coming with their armies to negotiate for the Silmaril, and the Doriathrin Sindar in particular know what it will lead to. It was exactly what it had led to, the slaughter of your people in Doriath. No, you do not see it begin, but you hear it. You will never forget the sound. Huddled in the house with your family, listening while all the city is silent, you hear the roar of voices and hoofbeats and the screams coming nearer and nearer. It is like waiting for a storm to come, uncertain if it will pass to the north or west or travel right over you. It is when you see smoke through a window that Father says quietly, that you have to run.
It is the same as the instructions in Doriath had been--take your mother and see her safely out. Only "out" this time means "to the ships," although Cirdan does not have enough for everyone. And at the docks there is panic, there are desperate people begging for a place to put their child, their spouse, their brother or sister aboard one of the ships. You do what your father told you to do and see your mother aboard, then turn back to find your father. Back into the slaughter, back to the people who are willing to kill you even though you have no power over anything they want. People who look like you, not orcs or Dwarves, but Elves who are not doing this in the name of the Valar or of Eru or of Morgoth or of anyone but themselves, their own volition.
Because they want to.
-----
"Oh come now, is the king's son too good to get wet?"
It's all friendly fun. You smile and shake your head mutely because you are not a wood-elf, but a Sinda of Doriath. You were not raised to swim mostly naked with your cohorts. But they're having fun, and you enjoy watching them from the sidelines. Isn't that all right?
"Then come in," another complains. "The water sounds fairer from underneath its surface!"
"Perhaps if you learnt to swim better, you might be able to stay above the surface," you tease right back. "I am entertained where I am."
"But you are the king's son!" they say. "You can't be one of us till we have measured your strength against our own. Or do you yield ere the fight has begun?"
You hesitate, considering. On the one hand, the sidelines are comfortable and entertaining. On the other, you don't want to be boring to your new friends. Maybe just one game. With a soft sigh and an exasperated look, you tear off your tunic and leggings and slip into the water in only your smallclothes. The cheers of your comrades can probably be heard all the way back on Amon Lanc.
"Hail the youngling!" they cry.
One wades up behind you. "Come, Thranduil. It's you against Arastor first. Ready?"
You nod. Under the water he goes, and you step back, sitting atop his shoulders. He rises as Arastor does the same with his partner, balancing easier than you and grinning mercilessly. Just because you are the king's son does not mean you will be allowed to win.
A neutral judge calls the beginning of the match. It does not last long--you both take each other down, tumbling in unison off the shoulders of your mounts. You emerge from the water laughing and sneezing water out of your sinuses and haven't caught your breath before Arastor is upon you again, ducking you under the water as if it counts, as if the match wasn't a draw and this proves something.
You never find out which of you is the stronger, because the improvised second round causes a free-for all. When you get home, your father doesn't ask about the bruises when he sees how broad your smile is.
-----
This used to be a field. Now it is a swamp.
You wade through blood and bodies in a quiet daze, eyes sweeping for any signs of life. There is no time for the dead--the earth will take them, repurpose them as it must be. The Alliance must press the advantage while it can.
Many of these corpses are unrecognizable, face hacked to bloodied meat, hands and feet cut off. Orc-work, of course, to strike horror into the hearts of their enemies. It works, but you do not let it show on your face. Nothing can show on your face. You learned that when you realized that looking upset made your father even more upset, and you don't want to feed the despair your people already strain beneath.
At last you find the body you were searching for. At least they spared this one, for his face is recognizable and he still has his arms and legs intact. You stare down at the body you cradled in your arms when he could not stop weeping and held until he fell asleep. He used to do the same for you, until he survived one too many genocides. His sword lies just beyond his grasp, his eyes are barely open and glinting in the fading light. Seeing him so still and lifeless who used to have such passion is unsettling, but nothing more at the moment. This isn't him, really. This doesn't feel like it's happening. There's a dreamlike veil between you and him, and this shell is only a shell, your father is alive somewhere and any moment you will turn and see him.
A hand brushes your shoulder, making you jump.
"My lord?"
You blink at the soldier's face, trying to recall his name, trying to recall why he's calling you that. After a moment, you look back at your father's corpse. Three heartbeats later, you kneel in the red mud and begin to wrap his cloak around him, covering the horrible wound that took his life. You arrange his shimmering hair, close his weary eyes, and place his sword on his chest, clasping his hands around the hilt. He perished as a warrior, fighting a terrible evil, fighting for the freedom of Middle-earth. Last, you pluck his crown of leaves from the ground and place it upon his cold brow. This is all you can do for him. One last time, you will send him to sleep.
You stand at last and look upon his face for your last moment together. You still feel the presence of your fellow soldiers--your soldiers. Your soldiers, as they were his. There is no time to bury the dead, but there is time to sing for them.
So you begin in a soft voice that grows stronger as the haze grows thicker around you. You know you will feel it all later, you already feel some of it now, but now is a time for others to feel, not you.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath.
Na-chaered palan-díriel
Other voices rise with yours, and the weeping begins. And the weeping becomes keening, loud wails of sorrow that reach to the skies.
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon.
You kneel once more, press a kiss to his forehead, and touch your foreheads together. Novaer, Adar. Goodbye, Father.
Someone reaches to take the crown from Oropher's head, to place it upon yours, but you snarl softly at him and he backs away. You do not wear your father's crown. You will have your own, or none, but Oropher was the first King of the Woodland Realm, and he will wear his crown until the world is remade.
Translation: O Elbereth Star-kindler/(white) glittering slants down sparkling like jewels/from [the] firmament [the] glory [of] the star-host!/To-remote distance far-having gazed/from [the] tree-tangled middle-lands,/Fanuilos, to thee I will chant/on this side of sea, here on this side of the Great Sea!
-----
They look so bright they don't look real.
The Elven soldier--your soldier holds a helmet with wildflowers planted in it. Little blue blossoms on long, almost scraggly stems, nothing that grows in the Greenwood. Here in the South, they might grow outside the mountainous walls of Mordor, but nothing grows from this dusty ground where you have lain siege for these last years. They are the first green life you have seen in years.
You glance up to the nervous face of the soldier. "Where did you find them?"
The soldier wets his lips. His face is smudged with the soot and black dust, the only thing that is plentiful in this land. "My lord, scouts brought them back from outside. We have cared for them ever since--passed them from camp to camp, for each wanted his turn to care for them. Each of us donates a little of his water to keep them alive. But the earth here will not nourish them, so we do not plant them. And the little earth they are planted in will fail one day, we know not when."
You reach out a long, pale hand to gently loosen the earth around the roots of the precious flowers. The leaves brush the tops of your fingers. They are soft and tender, like the touch of an infant's cheek. Once, you were surrounded by such life in the cool halls of the woods. This little plant reminds the men of home, reminds them that there is something beyond this poisoned wasteland. It's something they can see and have hope in when they can no longer bring to mind any place but this one, because the years have been long, and sometimes it feels to them as though they have always been here, and anything from before is only a dream.
"We thought," the soldier ventures, "to make you a crown of them, my lord. Since you haven't one yet. We needn't use them all, and the Golodhrim would see you as a true king."
Your own people would see you as a true king.
No, that hadn't been the subtext. It was much closer to home than that.
You would be able to see yourself as a true king.
You hesitate a moment, then nod. "Very well. It shall be."
It is your first crown as King Thranduil.
-----
It happens fast. That's something they will never tell in the histories, in the stories and legends. They will tell this part slowly, dramatically, in excruciating detail, when no one saw the details because it happened so quickly.
One minute, Gil-galad is there, then he's not.
Then Elendil is there, and then he's not.
And then Isildur, the rash fool, is flinging himself at Sauron, and he falls. But this time, you hear a terrible cry. Your sight is blocked by the legions in front of you and you cannot see what is happening on the ground, but what seemed like the end of everything suddenly becomes the beginning of a new age as Sauron falls back--and keeps falling, his armor but an empty suit. Isildur stands tall above the crowd, and in a moment, a seven-year war is over.
And you don't feel any different.
There is no joy or elation. Relief, once it all sinks in, but mostly the same exhaustion that has plagued you since the beginning. You have lost so many lives under your command that this barely feels like a victory, and you can no longer imagine life outside this place, this dead land that birthed who you will be as a king.
How will you live again, on the outside?
-----
The mountain fortress was built to be open to the air and sky and the woods your people all but worship, and you have never been so glad for it. This sparkling emerald paradise could not be more different from Mordor, newly abandoned after seven years of siege spent between its black skies and its lifeless ground. From every outer room, you can look out the windows and see the endless expanse of forest, shimmering in the Sun and reaching to the borders of your vision as though it is basking in the light you fought so hard to protect. The beauty does not move you the way it used to. You can see it, in a way, but only with your eyes.
There are certain rooms you have begun to avoid, certain windows you avoid with your gaze. You can spend long hours staring blankly Westward or Northward towards mountains high and lands filled with strangers, wondering if they know that you gave up the ability to see beauty in order to save them. Most likely they have only heard rumors of the Woodland King in Greenwood, if even that. If they've heard of him, they probably don't even realize he died during the war and was replaced by his son. Those in the West in Arnor and the South in Gondor may know, may remember, may think of you now as the one who was just out of reach when their king was slaughtered. It does not matter what you accomplished in the war--if you accomplished anything--when you have that one failure on your head.
There is one room, an open, airy council chamber, with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing South. Stepping outside leads to a sheltered veranda overlooking the trees far below. Elven-sight and the advantage of altitude allow a good look at the world, something your father thought might grant him perspective during times when important choices must be made. The Sun is high and the sky is clear, and for some reason, you are drawn to a window. Perhaps it is a grotesque fascination with your own fears, or a sudden sick feeling that you have become a coward running from shadows and must defeat this Shadow by looking it in the eye. And so you look at it, and you're not quite sure what happens next.
You're in Mordor again.
The ash and dust grind beneath your feet, the sky above dark as night. The hilt of your sword sticks to your hand from the black orc blood, and thousands of the people you are bound to protect lie dead around you. Hacked, mutilated, barely recognizable, fair faces sliced open and bright eyes gouged out, voices stilled that once rose in most beautiful song. They had been merry folk, some not even warriors, whose only crime had been the desire to be free. You knew their names, their families, had to watch their families keen and wail for those many they lost. Two-thirds of those who trusted you are dead, hated so viciously by your enemies that they no longer have faces, or hands, or feet. Some of them have been hastily butchered for food and you know it is because you have lain siege, you have ordered the raids on the supply parties, you are starving the orcs who are killing and eating your people.
It is said that orcs were once Elves. How different does that make you, who killed so many of theirs? Who killed so many Men who were not evil, only misled, but who hated you as much as the orcs did? Were you not all Children of Ilúvatar? Did that make this not so different from the Kinslayings?
And always looming, taller than mountains, that black tower where the Dark Lord dwells. You see it when you wake in the mornings, you see it when you close your eyes to blink, you see it in your dreams. You are so small beside it, so insignificant and powerless against such a stronghold, and it is folly to believe such a thing can ever fall by any power short of the Valar. But the Valar have no hand in this war. They have left you to struggle alone, and this time for no reason at all.
The dust and ash dissolve into stone tile beneath your feet, and the black tower vanishes. You become aware that there are several faces hovering in front of yours, lips speaking words you cannot hear. You are home and you are not home, for you have carried the Shadow here with you. You have defiled the place you love, and it will never again be the same.
Her face breaks through the others as she presses them all aside.
"Leave us alone," she says, reaching forward to cup your face in her hands. The touch makes you freeze, though you know she is safe, she will not hurt you, she is one of the ones you fought to protect. In a moment, it is only you and her, and she is drawing you into her arms. You're not sure how you both end up kneeling on the floor, or when your cheek rested on her bosom, or when her fingers began to thread through your hair.
"Breathe, Thranduil my love," she murmurs, and you try to obey, but you only want to weep, to cling to her, to claw the memories out of your mind so you can be to her what you once were and not only a burden. "I am here. You will not face this Shadow alone."
-----
You will never get used to the feeling of utter terror.
The Watchful Peace has felt like a world holding its breath. A world that is beautiful again, where the Shadow is no more and your people are safe and your woods are untainted--for now. But the more beautiful something is, the more you love it, the more it can destroy you when it is snatched away, when the Shadow returns, when the world ends and all you have made is unraveled.
The tiny child in your arms is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen and the most wondrous thing you will ever make.
-----
"Climb up further. Trust me, dear son."
He hesitantly inches up the tree angled out over the water. He's still only about two and a half feet over the water, but to a small child, it seems very far indeed. "Don't miss me, Papa," he says nervously.
You laugh softly. "I will catch you. Why wouldn't I?"
Legolas chews his bottom lip and doesn't answer, too young to really know what an irrational fear is. Chubby little legs are slightly scratched by the bark of the tree, but he pays it no heed. As if to prove his bravery, he climbs the tree another six inches or so. Then, he stops and stares down at the water.
"You'll have no revelry from up there!" you call up to him, holding your hands up to him. "Jump!"
Mustering himself as though he is about to plunge into battle, Legolas coils himself and springs. You catch him as his feet hit the water and guide him as gravity carries him under, then lift him to the surface. He sputters, sneezes, and then takes a deep breath.
"AGAIN!" he screams in delight. "PAPA, LET ME GO AGAIN! AGAIN!"
-----
"Don't point it at anything you're not willing to kill."
Your eyes are trained on the target. Your right arm is straining to keep the bow drawn. The tip of the arrow is drawing crazy lines in the air, dancing around the center of the target instead of remaining steady on it. Nevertheless, your father sounds proud.
"Good! Don't move till the arrow is in the target. Now loose."
It's a relief to let go of the bowstring and a disappointment when the arrow flips a few feet through the air before flopping to the ground like it has given up on life. You stare at it in dismay, horrified to think you have disappointed your father's expectations. But your father bursts out laughing.
"A fine shot indeed! Better than my first, for my first arrow landed on the ground behind me. At least yours went in the proper direction. Now pick it up."
You look up at him, a fair face with golden hair braided back, and he grabs you from the back of your neck and leans in to give you a loud kiss on the top of your head. Feeling somewhat placated, you dart forward to retrieve the arrow.
"Father, I am wed."
You're much taller now, much older, and your father is a king. But he looks the same, apart from more lines of care on his face, and a solemnity from the proceedings of the day. And the surprise when he hears those words.
"Now?" He blinks rapidly a few times. "Now, on the eve of war?"
You take a deep breath, hands balling into fists at your sides, but your voice remains even. That's all that matters--you appear calm, so you won't feed his emotions. "I know it is not our way, but it is what we wanted. If I do not return, she wishes to have taken the chance to be mine unto the ending of the world. And I would be hers, Father, whether or not I survive this war."
There is a long silence between you. You have always been able to read him like a book, but not now. Now, you have no idea what he is thinking until he breaks into a grin and it is like the sun is rising.
"Then...let it be a joy to me on this dark day, for I now have a daughter I love well."
A little sadness gleams in his eyes, and you know he's disappointed he didn't get a ceremony, but something unclenches from around your heart. Before you know it, he is moving forward to throw his arms around you. Every muscle unknots and you go boneless in his arms, resting your cheek against his shoulder.
"Ilúvatar smile upon your union, my beloved son," he whispers. "May he who is the father of us all share in my joy."
FROM THE BOOK
-----
At the head of a long line of feasters, a woodland king sat with a crown of leaves upon his golden hair. The elvish folk were passing bowls from hand to hand and across the fires, and some were harping and many were singing. Their gleaming hair was twined with flowers; green and white gems glinted on their collars and their belts; and their faces and their songs were filled with mirth. Loud and clear and fair were those songs...
-----
In the camp all was now astir, as if for battle; for the dwarves of Dain were advancing along the eastern bank.
"Fools!" laughed Bard, " to come thus beneath the Mountain's arm! They do not understand war above ground, whatever they may know of battle in the mines. There are many of our archers and spearmen now hidden in the rocks upon their right flank. Dwarf-mail may be good, but they will soon be hard put to it. Let us set on them now from both sides, before they are fully rested!"
But the Elvenking said: "Long will I tarry, ere I begin this war for gold. The dwarves cannot pass es, unless we will, or do anything that we cannot mark. Let us hope still for something that will bring reconciliation. Our advantage in numbers will be enough, if in the end it must come to unhappy blows."
-----
They buried Thorin deep beneath the Mountain, and Bard laid the Arkenstone upon his breast.
"There let it lie till the Mountain falls!" he said. "May it bring good fortune to all his folk that dwell here after!"
Upon his tomb the Elvenking then laid Orcrist, the Elvish sword that had been taken from Thorin in captivity. It is said in songs that it gleamed ever in the dark if foes approached, and the fortress of the dwarves could not be taken by surprise.
-----
"Farewell! O Elvenking!" said Gandalf. "Merry be the greenwood, while the world is yet young! And merry be all your folk!"
"Farewell! O Gandalf!" said the king. "May you ever appear where you are most needed and least expected! The oftener you appear in my halls the better shall I be pleased!"
"I beg of you," said Bilbo stammering and standing on one foot, "to accept this gift!" and he brought out a necklace of silver and pearls that Dain had given him at their parting.
"In what way have I earned such a gift, O hobbit?" said the king.
"Well, er, I thought, don't you know," said Bilbo rather confused, "that, er, some little return should be made for your, er, hospitality. I mean even a burglar has his feelings. I have drunk much of your wine and eaten much of your bread."
"I will take your gift, O Bilbo the Magnificent!" said the king gravely. "And I name you Elf-friend and blessed. May your shadow never grow less (or stealing would be too easy)! Farewell!"