Scenes From A Childhood In Doriath by Fernstrike

White Gem

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His mother wears a white jewel around her neck.

"Can I touch it?" he asks, voice hushed and reverent. It looks like the gem of a high queen, gleaming bright like the morning star. She laughs softly, and Thranduil reaches out to clasp it in his hands. At thirty-four, his fingers are no longer endearingly stubby as those of a toddler, and they are roughened from ceaseless tree climbing, but he still has the stature of a boy in the spring of his youth.

Spring, of course, is his season, and the spring in Doriath is unequaled in his eyes. It had all seemed to burst forth two moons ago, vigorous and thrilling, as the ice melted and turned the forest floor to mush, and suddenly there were flowers and green grass, fresh green, deep, new green, with dew upon the blades and strung on the gossamer between the trees.

Today, he and his mother are seated cross-legged and face to face in the woods outside Menegroth, within a cradle formed by the wide roots of the trees, and bedded by the soft new undergrowth. Thranduil's father is in court, and his mother has finished her morning duties. He himself is supposed to have a lesson in his letters soon, but his mother, ever his confidant, has helped spirit him away to the calm of this glen, away from the bustling halls. They sit peacefully, enjoying the good weather after the night's rain. Pale sunlight pierces the cool air and illuminates them both in a fragile beam. In Thranduil's hands, the white gem glistens.

"Your father gave it to me," says his mother, sweeping a lock of his fine platinum blond hair behind his ear, and running her fingers over his brow and his temples. He smiles contentedly, letting the gem fall back again against her collar, savouring her gentle touch that speaks of comfort and care and love of the green earth.

"What does it mean?" he asks. “The gem.”

"Does it have to mean something?"

"All gifts mean something," he says, trying to show her that he is wise about such things. "Even if it is just that you were forced to give one. But ada wouldn’t have given it to you out of duty. He wanted to give it to you for some reason. So what does it mean?"

“I do wonder how you land upon such thoughts,” she says. It is not reproach in her voice, however, but admiration, and that makes Thranduil's heart glow.

"We live in the court, nana," he says. "I've seen the lords from Lindon and Eglarest give gifts of courtesy to King Thingol, and ada rolls his eyes at them."

"Indeed. You see much, ion-nin. Not all can look so small yet speak so loftily," says his mother. Her eyes are vibrant, and her face seems to glow. It makes him immeasurably happy, that he could make her smile, and watch the spring sunlight set jewels in her hair.

"It won't sound so lofty when I'm full-grown, mother," he says sheepishly. "Then it'll just sound like the sort of wisdom everyone is supposed to know."

She laughs, the notes clear and high like a songbird. "You are right, penneth. And we call that sort of wisdom common sense." Her smile falters. "But such wisdom will not earn you everything. You perceive much, but have done little. You must be sure to do and learn as many things in your life as you can. Don’t be afraid to act, or to try.”

Thranduil frowns. "But there is so little to experience here. Nothing happens, no feuds between the lords or wars from outside. There’s nothing to act upon, nana.”

A strange, shadowed look passes over her face for a moment; then she shakes her head and moves her hand as if dispelling smoke. "You must count that among your blessings, ion-nin," she says. "And pray that when you have children of your own, it shall be the same."

"I don't understand." He trusts his mother to be straightforward with him. Never has she kept any secrets from him - save those she is bound to by Lady Melian, whom she serves - and though she may soften the truth, she never hides it.

She inhales deeply and points in a wide circle around them. "Do you know what protects our borders?"

"The march-wardens?" he asks eagerly. "Like Galion and Thandir?"

His mother shakes her head, smiling. "Other than our brave march-wardens."

Thranduil looks off into the dark green of the trees, uncertain. "Lady Melian's powers?" he tries. He doesn't like straight questions like this. If he doesn't know the answer, it’s more difficult to skirt around it.

But his mother strokes his hair and nods. "The Girdle of Melian. That is its proper name. It keeps the shadows at bay." The radiance is all but gone from her face now, and Thranduil can read fear in her honest, open face. It makes his skin prickle. For one thing, he hates seeing her anything but happy; if she could but veil the crease in her brows and the tremble in her voice, that would be all. And for anther thing, he doesn't like the way she said shadows; it did not sound like they were the sort cast by the sun. Rather, the sort given existence by something markedly more sinister.

"There is darkness in the world, my son," his mother says softly, staring off into the gloomy woods and absentmindedly twirling locks of his hair. "We have done much in the past to fight it. It sleeps now, but in time it shall rear up again. Foul things always do. I can only pray it sleeps long enough for you to grow big and strong."

He holds her hands in his, determination set in his brow, dispelling the dark mantle of worry settled upon their little wooded clearing. "I won't allow them to harm you,” he says, as confidently as he can muster. “They may be foul but we are fairer."

She smiles again, and he is pleased. "Ever you have been stubborn," she murmurs. She says kisses the top of his head and says nothing more.

After a few silent minutes, listening to the quiet movement of nature and feeling the nip of cool spring breezes on his cheeks, he senses his mother rouse herself next to him. "The warmest part of the day is passed,” she remarks, looking to the sky, overrun by white-grey clouds that lend the illusion of light, while hiding the sun.

“We should go inside before the chill comes in,” she continues. “You can see Galion too - the midday watch will have returned."

She is smiling, but Thranduil knows it is not honest, for it stays far from her eyes. His gaze finds its back to the beautiful white gem at her neck.

"You didn't answer my question nana. Why are you wearing this today?"

She considers him for a moment, before replying. ”Because I haven't worn it in so long."

"But why today?" he frowns.

At that, gently shaking her head, she rises, dusting grass off her silver skirt, and reaches a hand down to pull him up.

“Your father is weary," she replies. "Much happens in the court of Thingol - many people come and go, and say and demand all sorts of things. It takes its toll."

At the mention of his father and the court, Thranduil shifts his legs and presses his hands together, disconcerted. Certainly, he respects his father - for his wisdom, for his work ethic. But mention of him is always tinged with a heavy undercurrent of unease. Every moment of theirs together is at once a joy and a test to him, and whenever he thinks of his father, it is like it is a test in itself.

And, unlike his mother, his father's face is always guarded, and he is never sure whether his words are truly honest. He cannot easily see between his father and the royal advisor.

"Thranduil?"

His head whips up to look at his mother. Her expression is kind, but something else too - sympathetic, perhaps. He doesn't like it. He wants her to hide that from him too. He just wants to look at the beautiful radiant part of her and ignore any concern for himself or the worries of the world.

"Your father troubles you," she presses. He feels a rush of something unpleasant. Shame? That his own face was so open to her? That he failed to envision his father as he should have - that he saw him only through his narrow view as a son? He looks down at the gem at her neck, not wanting to meet her eyes, but caring about her too much to turn away. He wishes he could articulate his confusion, but words escape him. It has always been so around those he loves the most.

"He loves you dearly, you know," says his mother, but he shakes his head in response. He clearly does not see as much as his mother believes he does. What he notices is neither wise nor revelatory - simply trivial. If she sees love, then he must surely be a blind boy walking.

"I don't see it," he says, feeling his heart sink.

"Oh, my son…"

Her fingers - slender, but rough from being pricked by sewing needles - gently touch his chin, and move his face up to meet her eyes. They are grey, but not like stone - more like the bright, overcast sky above them, with the silver lining of the clouds just out of the range of his vision.

"Sometimes we just need to remind those we love, that we do truly love them. That may be all that is needed to lift any burden from their shoulders," she says.

A soft horn blows out from beyond them, signaling the changing of the guard. She moves her hand to rest on his back and nudges him back towards Menegroth.

"That's why I wear the jewel penneth," she says softly, walking beside him, her delicate feet making no sound upon the new, damp grass. “Not because today is any special day, but because your father sometimes forgets to love, to display it beyond where he keeps it in his heart. I, however, have the peace of mind to remember to love deeply. And a little thing like this could make him smile for the first time in days.” Sorrow tinges the edges of each word; and Thranduil wonders, for a brief moment, whether it is as difficult for her, loving his father as unconditionally as she does, every day.

“Enough of this," she says suddenly, the sad note in her voice evaporating. "We should go meet your friends. I expect they're tired from their duty; it would do them good to see you."

Her face is once again glowing with an inner light, and Thranduil feels a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. The grass gives way under their feet as they walk, cool and soft, and what little light comes from the sky dapples his skin where it falls through the trees. He is silent for a while, mulling over everything his mother has told him. Finally, he looks up at her and speaks.

"Well, nana, I’ve decided. One day, when I'm grown and have a wife of my own, I shall give her a whole string of jewels just like yours.”

So she doesn't forget, and in case he does.

Marchwardens

This chapter we get to meet Galion. I’ve never believed he spent all his long life as a butler (not that spending your whole life as a butler is a bad thing) so I hope you’ll like what I’m going to do with his character.

Read Marchwardens

The gates of Menegroth close gently behind Galion as he and the other march-wardens step inside, shutting out the light of the bright midday sun. Despite this, the glow of the great lanterns and luminescent plants and creatures renders the great atrium as well-lit as the day outside. 

Thandir comes behind him and claps him on the back. "I think you nearly fell asleep for a few moments out there." 

 

Galion turns round and grins. "Only because your conversation was tiresome enough to lull even a dragon back to slumber." 

Thandir fakes a box to his friend's ears, and their squad of eight march-wardens laughs. Wearing a broad grin, Galion smooths down his hair and looks about his small troop, content and pleased. Within and without their underground city, there is at least a semblance of peace. Everyone is at ease, enjoying their calm isolation within Doriath. And at the borders, even obscured as they are by Melian's Girdle, there is peace enough to converse and doze and enjoy one another's company. 

The group arrive at the central guardhouse within a few minutes. It lies near to the gates, and is very quiet, with little activity within. In the central hall, poring over a light stack of reports from the border, Galion sees his father. He presses a hand to his heart and bows. "Captain Ferion." 

His father looks up, and Galion sees, with gladness, that for the first time in decades it is not drawn and wan, but rested, if no less aged by years of toil and worry. He steps forward and offers the squad a rare smile. They are favourites of his, and not just because of the presence of his son. They work hard, report promptly, and do their duty unimpeachably.  

Ferion nods in acknowledgement of his son's greeting. "What news from the east bank?"

“The marches of the Esgalduin remain quiet. No sight, sound, or trace of any creature, save our own people enjoying the good weather by the water."

“Hmph.” He smiles. "In other words, nothing happened whatsoever and you were all left to your own devices for the better part of the morning?"

"A fair assessment, Captain," says Thandir, bowing slightly, eyes twinkling in acknowledgement of Ferion’s good humour. "Although we always marked our watch keenly, despite our merriment."

"I've no doubt you did," says Ferion, raising his eyebrows. "And I mean it," he says in response to the worried look on the face of one of the other wardens. He smiles again and waves a hand in dismissal. "Go now and make merry once more, before it's time for your next watch. I'll pass your report on to Mablung." The soldiers all bow, and make to adjourn, but Ferion calls out Galion's name.

"A word, please," he says, gesturing to himself. Galion looks at Thandir, who nods, and steps outside to wait for him.

Ferion claps his son on the shoulder in greeting, and leans against the worktable. "How has it been?"

"Good, as we told you," he says.

"Not with the watch, my son, with yourself."

Galion gives a short laugh, running his hand across the back of his neck. "Well enough as well, I suppose."

Ferion looks at him skeptically. “That doesn’t sound confident. Is it your new position?"

Galion hesitates for a moment, and then sighs. "Any position of command comes with its own new responsibilities." He shifts his feet, unsure how to explain how he feels. "I'm glad you made Thandir watch leader instead of me, but even to be squad leader...it just feels harder to manage them when you've spent so many hours in the past trading jokes and barbs as equals."

"You're still equals," points out Ferion. "And you are lucky to have a rapport. They listened to you then. They listen to you now. As a friend, and now as a squad leader. So what troubles you?"

Galion shrugs. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do," says Ferion, grasping his son's shoulder. "And you must stop believing it. ‘Unworthy’ and ‘incapable’ are foreign titles to you, and ever it shall remain so. Don't bear them when they are not yours to bear."

Galion has always been amazed by his father's perception, and this moment is no different. He has never voiced his insecurity, and he thought he hid it well, but obviously not from the keen eyes of his father. He puts a hand to his heart and bows humbly, mouth numb and unable to respond. Ferion pats his arm and bids him depart. He meets Thandir outside, and they walk together in the direction of the main hall of Menegroth, the hub of activity.

"What did he say to you?" asks Thandir. 

"Nothing of consequence."

Thandir nods and doesn't press the matter. He has ever been the wisest of their squad, perhaps of all their host under Lord Oropher. Galion is glad of it. He is still trying to wrap his head around his father's advice, and would rather do it alone, untainted by the interpretations of others.

"He is keen to let us act so freely with our time," says Thandir.

“He knows what it is to live in times that are less peaceful."

"Well, so do we, even if we were too young to truly remember them.” Thandir pauses before the junction leading to another part of the cave system. "Are you off to the training fields now?"

"Hopefully, but I expect I'm soon to be waylaid by a certain elfling looking out for me." He glances at Thandir. "Your cousin."

Thandir's smile doesn't meet his eyes. "You really oughtn't encourage him."

"Excuse me?"

Thandir fixes him with a kind but serious look. "I know you're going to bring him to the fields with you." Galion opens his mouth to protest but Thandir holds up a hand. "You mean well, but I don't think it's wise anymore. Thranduil is not far now from coming of age, and he'll have to decide his profession."

"So why not?" asks Galion, genuinely confused. "He'd make an excellent march-warden when his time comes. He's swift, agile - he's got sharper eyes than any of us. It was he who saw when you first started courting Meressel and let all of us in on the secret."

Thandir scowls. "I admit, I'd rather put his keen eyes to the spying of orcs than ratting out young lovers. But my point is, for all his skill, it's not his father's will."

"Since when did Thranduil listen to anybody's will?" says Galion, but he understand's Thandir's point perfectly, and works to quell the anxiety that spikes his heart.

"You're his confidant," says Thandir. "You know better than anyone that in spite of all that show of defiance he is scared of displeasing his father."

"It wouldn't happen," says Galion, but now he fears he's just trying to convince himself. He couldn't bear the disappointment of thinking the little elfling wouldn't be joining him out on patrols. How many promises they’d made on the sunny summer days, jumping between trees; how many adventures they’d dreamt up, sitting round the blazing fire in winter. By now, they were brothers in everything but blood. 

"Lord Oropher will need all his wiles to convince his son of anything,” Galion concludes. "It'll be a contest of wills, and I don't think hîr Oropher would win it. He's too wise to fight that much."

"Thranduil is a child. He will change."

"And the borderlands between Doriath and Dorthonion will one day be completely safe. Some things don't change," says Galion, a touch testily, and leaves it at that.

Thandir just shrugs. "Sorry if I offended you. I'll leave you to cool down and entertain the whims of an elfling a quarter your age. I'm going to see Meressel - make sure he doesn't follow."

Before Galion can reply, Thandir has taken off down one of the many pathways leading off the central hall, and he is left standing there, bothered by his own unnecessary annoyance and by the thought that maybe Thandir is right. He doesn't have long to ponder it. A shout from the path they had just come down turns him round, and he stoops quick enough to grab Thranduil as the elfling barrels into him. Galion picks him up and flips him over; Thranduil screams, and his mother, standing a little way off, puts a hand over her mouth, shaking with laughter.

"Put me down!" cries Thranduil. 

“Hello, little spider,” he laughs. “Did you crawl up any trees today?"

“You’re horrible!” he shouts, ignoring Galion. "Put me down or I'll kick your face!"

The elfling's boots are worrisomely near Galion's face, so he flips him back over and onto the floor, and ruffles his straight blond hair until it is unruly. "It's good to see you too, little one."

He raises a hand in greeting to Thranduil's mother. "Good day to you, my lady Caladwen."

She is still surpressing her laughter. Her face is fair and shines like the sun in the amber-hued torchlight. "Will you bring him back by dinnertime?"

"Without fail."

Caladwen waves a hand in farewell and makes her way to her own home.

Thranduil is looking up expectantly at Galion. The latter smiles and takes the elfling's hand. Thranduil beams, and they walk briskly to the door that leads to the great outdoor training field.

"Have you been at the watch?" asks Thranduil eagerly. "What news?"

"Nothing exciting to report," sighs Galion. "No big trolls or orcs or other unsavoury creatures within a hundred miles of our forest."

"Oh." Thranduil goes quiet for a second, then gives a small smile. "That's a good thing I suppose."

Galion is surprised. Usually the elfling would be quick to scowl and lament the absence of anything to swing a sword at. Whatever changed his reaction, Galion does not have a chance to ask, because Thranduil speaks again.

"Aren't you weary then? From all that sitting around?"

"Well, no. Though for certain I may have dropped off for a few moments."

"Then it's good we're going to the training fields."

"So I can finally fire off a few arrows?"

"So you don't get all stiff and out of practice like those old Edain."

Galion ruffles his hair again, laughing at the elfling's protest. The doors to the outside approach, flung open, and Galion nods at the guards, both of whom he recognises, before stepping through.

A short march through the trees later, and they arrive at the training field. They both inhale deeply the scent of the fresh, dewy earth, warmed a little by the sun and still ripe with newness. Nobody is there, despite the good weather. Likely all have abandoned such dutiful pursuits and are singing and dancing in the glens, thinks Galion.

He still has his quiver and bow, and sets the former into the ground where he can quickly grab and string the arrows. Thranduil settles himself in the roots of a nearby tree and watches eagerly.

The targets are far off, but generous in their width. Galion strings an arrow, inhales and exhales, and then fires. It hits its mark just off dead centre. Thranduil applauds from his place at the roots of the tree, and Galion feels a burst of pride blossom in his chest. He fires off another, and another, grabbing a few arrows in his hand and moving, running, jumping as he fires, pretending he's fighting an enemy, all the while spurred on by little cheers and clapping from his companion. He feels fantastic, and he is so thrilled by the notion that his young friend is watching this and loving it, wanting to be a part of it.

That thought gives him sudden pause, and his next arrow misses the centre of the target.

His thoughts are troubled now, and muddy, and he lowers his bow and turns back to Thranduil, who has his head put to the side in a wordless question.

"I do believe my arm is tired," says Galion, bluffing his way through an explanation 

"You're still half asleep I think," laughs Thranduil. "Come sit with me."

Galion joins him, leaning against the tree trunk rather than sitting down. Thranduil beams up at him.

"That was brilliant," he breathes. "When I'm grown I should like to be a march-warden the same as you."

Galion feels his breath still in his lungs, unsure what to say. Despite his own heart, he recalls Thandir's words, and knows his friend is sound in his wisdom. But he doesn't know how to say it. "I'm not sure what your father will think of that," he tries.

Thranduil's smile slips instantly, and Galion curses inwardly. He'd made it a personal rule - never bring up Oropher if he could help it - but he couldn't find a way of avoiding it this time. How else did he justify Thandir's - no, his own - misgivings?

Thranduil looks away and shrugs. “He may think what he likes. I've heard him speak in court and found it to be boring. I don't want to be a lord or an advisor or a council member like him."

"You have the wit for it, you know, if not the tact." And Galion is being honest, because the elfling before him is the farthest thing from dull.

"Maybe," replies Thranduil. "But which one, I ask you, is more useful?"

"Well, once you have greater wisdom, you shall know."

"I've wisdom enough to know I'll never be suited to it."

Galion is about to respond - whether to agree or to feebly try and further Thandir's - no, his own - case, when he freezes suddenly and quickly snaps to attention.

Thranduil turns around and Galion can see the whirl of emotions that suddenly springs up in his eyes.

He can say no words of reassurance, though, and simply puts a hand over his heart and bows. "Hîr-nin Oropher.”

Night Whispers

It felt prudent to mention that in this chronology, I've set Thranduil's birth year as 306 of the First Age, in the spring. Thus, this fic took place in FA 340. 

Read Night Whispers

Thranduil feels ashamed.

He doesn't know what causes him to feel it so keenly - why he feels as if he's been caught in a shameful act, or broken a law. Perhaps it is the look in his father's eyes - veiled as always, subtle in their expression, but with a cool stillness that smacks of quiet judgment. It weighs heavy on him as he rises, bows neatly to Galion, and wordlessly approaches his father, who stands stern and straight in the middle of the pathway leading to the training fields. 

His face is not grim, but his manner is cold, as he takes Thranduil's hand in his and leads the both of them back down the path, towards Menegroth, leaving the march-warden behind, dumbstruck and dismayed. Thranduil wants to call back an assurance but he is silenced by his father's presence, and walks humbled beside him. Oropher towers over him, still dressed in the simple yet regal green robes of his council session. Thranduil subtly attempts to adjust his unkempt braid, his eyes ever on the straight sheet of blonde hair that falls down his father's back, slicked back from his face, adorned by a plain bronze circlet.

Tension fizzes through the air, but Thranduil cannot identify its root - is his father angry, or disappointed? Bemused, or incensed? Upset, or resigned? He cannot read him, and his young mind does not know him well enough to guess.

"Are you angry that I'm spending time with the march-wardens?" asks Thranduil quietly, for anger this surely could be.

Oropher's stern face softens a mite. "No. But it displeases me to learn that yet again you're shirking your duties. You had a lesson with Daeron this afternoon."

Thranduil says nothing.

"Not every elfling is so privileged as to have such a learned tutor,” Oropher insists. "You must make the most of your opportunities."

"But…" Thranduil hesitates. His last thought at this moment is to displease his father any further - but ever has his tongue found issue with restraint when he is in disagreement with someone else. "But Daeron is so sentimental," he says quickly.

Oropher looks down at him, eyebrows raised, eyes yet unreadable. "He is a minstrel," he says, with an air of the obvious. "Sentiment is their province. I admit I would have thought you more likely to complain of boredom. What does he speak of?" 

His tone is hardly disapproving, and Thranduil can't discern the look in his father's eyes. Thus, his voice is clearer and steadier when he replies, "Of the beauty of Lady Luthien."

"Many people speak of it," says Oropher, turning away. "Beauty is a common muse for the artist." 

"But you don't see him," insists Thranduil, because he does. Daeron doesn't school his emotions like the ellyn of the court. They are set down in his face as clear as the letters and melodies wrought by him daily. It is not reverence in the ellon's voice, but adoration. "I truly believe he loves her ada." 

Thranduil falls silent. Ada. The word comes naturally, but somehow doesn't roll off his tongue with the same ease as nana. 

They walk in silence for a time, and Thranduil's hand feels hot in his father's. He has an urge to sprint from his grasp and run to his room and lie beneath the covers, reading some lay of bold deeds and exotic climes to forget about this unsolvable riddle walking next to him.

"Such things are beyond the realm of your concern," says Oropher at last. "Think not of it. We cannot readily make others cease actions we dislike, but we can overcome them to an extent." 

"How?"

"Simply assert your position."

"What does assert mean?"

"Present your view with conviction. Tell him firmly that you'd rather speak of letters than fair Luthien." 

"But I wouldn't rather speak of letters, really." That comes out too hastily, and Thranduil swiftly averts his eyes. 

His father fixes him with a firm look that causes Thranduil's breath to hitch in his throat. "What would you rather speak of?" he asks.

He doesn't wish to answer, but his father's glare compels him to. “There are many beautiful things in the forest," he mumbles, with distinct reticence. "The deer; the earth. But there’s darkness beyond it. I know that. So I want to know how to keep the beautiful things. How to rid the forests of evil. How the great kings won their battles. How the wardens mark the borders." 

His father sighs, and Thranduil is certain he's overstepped a bound here, beyond what he has already done. And what has he done? What has he done that feels so criminal? A quiet anger sits latent in his gut. 

"You want to preserve goodness," observes his father, almost wearily. "I will not say that is naive - perhaps simply innocent." Thranduil does not understand what he means - his father almost seems to be speaking to himself - but he doesn't press.  

“The wars of kings are necessary in its preservation, Thranduil," continues Oropher. “They are not the only way, however. You must know that. What you learn in your lessons - what I have been trying to teach you - is that you need your swords in equal measure to skills of a decidedly less confrontational manner." 

And Thranduil knows then - or has the inkling of knowing - that his father will never cease condemning his constant forays into the lifestyle of the march-wardens. 

"I can already read and write," he says in defiant response. "What more do I need to know? 

"Composition. The structuring of words in pleasing phrases. Presence. Command of voice." Oropher speaks simply but with great power in his speech. Each word feels like a blow against Thranduil's ears, his heart rate keeping pace with them. 

His mouth is dry, but he swallows, and hits back once more. "To what end?" he mumbles. 

Oropher is silent for a moment. "I simply wish you to succeed in any field," he says at last - measured and veiled to the end. 

And Thranduil knows it then, without a doubt, that the uncertainty in his gut matches the truth of Galion's words - there will be no support from here to go into the forest, as he wishes. Oropher wants to school his son in mental tact and wisdom rather than swordsmanship, in the ways of the court rather than the ways of the woods. That in drawing him away from the fields to the studies, his father places a future with the march-wardens lower than second place. And that goes irreconcilably against the grain of Thranduil’s heart. 

"Why does this trouble you so?" asks Oropher, obviously sensing his son's disquiet. 

"It doesn’t,” he asserts, holding his father’s eyes. At last the veil over them cracks, just a tad, and disapproval slips through.

"You've yet to school yourself in the art of lying through your teeth," he hisses instead.

The words bite Thranduil, and he feels sickly cold. He keeps his mouth tight shut, angry and dismayed, as they re-enter Menegroth. Oropher passes the two guards without any sign of acknowledgment. 

"I will bring you for what remains of your lesson," says Oropher, his voice stiff. "You may try and enjoy what you can, and attempt to remedy that which you do not. I will neither do nor advise any more." 

"Yes, father," says Thranduil. He doesn't ask his father how the council meeting passed. He doesn't tell him stories of watching Galion hit the centre of the target. He doesn't mention the necklace Caladwen is wearing today. Rather, he kicks himself internally for laying down in the face of Oropher's detached and unflinching authority. What sort of would-be march-warden succumbs to fear? 

Yes, would-be march-warden. He would not deny his heart from that hope. If he could not be certain of himself, he would at least allow certainty to be the guise that others understood. 

---

That evening, he lies ensconced in his silken bedsheets, staring at the ceiling. A thousand angry, upset thoughts swarm his mind, rendering him still where he lies. Sleep has eluded him since he'd lain down, and shows no signs of coming any moment soon. His room is darkened, the candles doused by Caladwen’s gentle hand an hour ago. His door remains unlocked and ajar, an old habit from when he was younger. Oropher had tried to phase it out; Caladwen had never acquiesced.  

A shadow cuts the dim candlelight in the hall for a moment, and Thranduil sits up. He slips carefully out from between his sheets. The stone floor is cool beneath his feet, but he doesn’t bother to don his indoor boots, even though he knows Caladwen would fuss over his cold toes. He moves soundlessly to the door, and with one delicate finger, widens the gap and peers out.  

His room is near the end of the corridor, which opens out to the sitting room of their family’s private quarters. Only half the room is visible, but within he can see his mother's silhouette, framed by the golden glow of the fire, her hair cast in shadow hues of purple. Her head is turned to the side, and she is speaking.  

"I appreciate that we need to discipline him. But don't tear him so harshly away from what he loves, Oropher." 

Thranduil quails back as his father's shape passes across the hall from the room's other side. He sighs heavily, a goblet in his hand, and sits down beside Caladwen.  

She places a gentle hand on his bowed head. “What has become of you, meleth?”  

“Doriath is sick,” he says, his voice hollow and more despairing than Thranduil has ever heard it. “King Thingol is good, but I fear he is mistaking complacency for pragmatism. If darkness should rise again, we will not be ready for it. He believes that by shutting out the world, he is doing us a service.” 

“He’s doing what works best for our lands right now,” Caladwen placates. “The isolation has not harmed us. We have been able to raise a son. Can you imagine if he’d been born just a few hundred years ago?” 

“He wasn’t. We decided not to for the exact reason-” 

“Can you imagine?”    

Silence. “He would have died on the front.” 

A chill slides down Thranduil’s spine, and he for a moment he steps back from the door. Death - he has never known this elusive thing. He’s heard it mentioned of the Edain, those mortals with barely long enough to see the world. But he has never seen it. He does not know what this ‘death’ is. To hear his father say such a thing - that it could have happened to him - to lie still in the earth like an aged Edain - that an elf could succumb to the darkness and depart this world for Mandos - could such a thing have ever been? Could the world have ever been so dark, that the light of the Eldar could be so easily snuffed out? 

He steps close again to the light as his mother speaks again. 

“Exactly.” Her eyes soften in the firelight. "If our world changes, then it will be your duty, and the duty of the other councillors, to work with him, advise him, and find a solution. ’Til then, why do you let yourself by eaten away by worry? The Girdle -” 

“-is not infallible,” Oropher says. “It will not last forever, and neither will the peace.” 

“Then you cross that bridge when you come to it. You are not the king, Oropher,” she says firmly. “I wish you would stop taking on all these burdens.” 

“Somebody has to,” Oropher insists. “Even with the wisdom of Melian by his side, he has made mistakes. He cannot be alone in spending every hour thinking of how to protect a kingdom built on a fragile peace.”  

He turns his head, and Thranduil can see his eyes at last, bright in the firelight. “That’s why I want him away from the borders, you know,” he whispers.

Caladwen shakes her head and drops her eyes. “Meleth-nîn…” 

“When it happens - and it will happen - I want him to be here, using his intelligence to counsel how to defend the city, rather than out there, to face the swords and spears and arrows.”  

“And how would he feel?” she says. “You think you’d be sparing him. But you know as well as I, that even if he somehow agreed to be active in the court, the moment any war started, he would find a sword and sneak out.” 

Oropher is silent, not denying it. A bittersweet feeling wraps round Thranduil’s heart. That his mother knows him so well. That his father - all his coldness, his anger, his dismay - it was fear. Thranduil didn’t have to like it - but now, somehow, in some small way, he understands his father, just a little bit.  

Oropher lays against Caladwen’s shoulder, looking more tired than he ever has. She kisses the top of his head, the fire flickering in her eyes, setting light to the worry and sorrow in them. 

Suddenly, Oropher stirs. “You’re wearing the necklace.” 

“Yes,” says Caladwen, looking down at him with a love that makes Thranduil’s own heart clench. 

“I’d forgotten how beautiful you look with it." 

They fall silent, the sadness banished, for the moment, from Caladwen’s eyes. 

Thranduil backs away from the door, and silent as a mouse, crawls back under the covers, burying his head in his pillow, shutting his eyes, and pulling the sheets over him despite the stuffiness.

Some hours later, however many hours later, he senses his door opening. He keeps his eyes tight shut, his eyelids lit by the faint light from the hall. A delicate hand, rough from pinpricks, ghosts over his cheek, then pulls the sheets down, letting the cool air touch his face. Suddenly, the hand on his cheek is smooth - the hand of a scholar, a councilman. He feels the lightest, gentlest kiss on his temple. Then, the quietest footsteps depart from his bedside. He opens his eyes just a crack, in time to see Oropher leaving the door slightly ajar, enough for the light to come through.