A New Tradition by Kaylee Arafinwiel

A New Tradition

Read A New Tradition

“Unto the King of the Greenwood from the High Queen of the Dúnedain, greetings. I trust this missive finds you as well as may be expected.”

Thranduil read the words without really taking them in, twice, three times, then blinked. Why would Meduieth be writing to him? He shook his head, gaze flicking to the box that had come into his study in his mother’s hands with the letter. He stood idly rubbing the silken wrapping. What was Meduieth playing at?

“You will not solve the mystery by staring at it.”
Looking up, Thranduil met Queen Felith’s eyes. His mother was right. He nodded numbly and returned to the letter.

“…finds you as well as may be expected. Of course, Valandil and I are still guests of Master Elrond, our kinsman, who sends you his greetings as well. He has lately explained my boy’s true parentage to him, and Valandil is, to put it mildly…distressed.”

Distressed! Well, Thranduil would think he would be. He still remembered riding hard alongside Ohtar, delivering the news of his failure and the shards of Narsil to Elrond as though it were yesterday. Tell him, Thranduil had told Elrond, tell him of his father, his brothers. The boy has the right to know. But Elrond had not. He had waited until now, until Valandil was twenty, to explain.

“Know that Valandil does not blame you, and I never have. My Isildur was a good man, a brave man,” Queen Meduieth had written next, and a knot in Thranduil’s chest slowly began to undo itself. “He was impetuous and foolish, to be sure, but he staunchly loved those he counted as friends. That includes you. Valandil knows you fought heroically alongside his brothers, and he would begin a tradition, if you will.”

Tradition? Thranduil frowned and turned to the box, unwrapping it at last. He was reminded of just such a parcel Isildur and his three sons – Thranduil’s human brothers-in-arms – had sent just before they set out to Imladris, meaning to visit Thranduil before. Crossing the Anduin at the Gladden Fields, they had been lost – but their last gift had not. This, then, was Valandil’s first gift, years later. What could it be? Thranduil looked to see.

The black wrapping unfurled to reveal the banner of the Dúnedain; seven stars, seven stones, and one White Tree. Inside the box…the item on top seemed to be a garment of some kind. Thranduil lifted it out and unfurled a warm winter cloak. The seasons were turning, and leaf-fall had come. Though Thranduil rarely if ever felt a chill these days, it was kind of Valandil to think of him. He slid the wine-red fabric through his fingers, admiring its softness, and draped it over his shoulders. It was just the right length. Elrond’s tailors must have been consulted.

Next, Thranduil uncovered a circlet, worked in mithril and enameled to resemble a wreath of fallen leaves in red, orange, and gold. He flashed back to something he had told Isildur when they had been at war:

“I hate circlets, Isildur. I am so glad Adar does not force me to wear them in the Black Land! They are impractical.”

The Prince – soon to be all too briefly High King – had laughed and told Thranduil, “In that case, I will ensure you have a circlet for every season of the year once this war is done.”

Typical Isildur, Thranduil had thought. He must have written to Meduieth and told her. He had to admit, though, this one was beautifully done, and smiled to himself.

Underneath the leafy circlet was a journal with a beautifully crafted goose-feather quill, and bottles of ink. The box was stuffed with loose bits of paper to keep everything in place, and once Thranduil had taken it all out he blinked back tears, dashing them away. If Valandil was really following Isildur’s word, a new circlet, and Belain knew what else, would arrive every season in Greenwood. He must find something to send back in thanks.

“So, what is all this, then, ion nin?” Queen Felith asked, studying the gifts.

“A new tradition,” Thranduil replied. “I must find something to send Queen Meduieth and Valandil.”

“I will help you,” Felith promised, smiling on her son. She crowned him with the circlet, eliciting a playful protest, and Thranduil put the writing materials away before leaving his study with his mother beside him.