Sing me a Song of the Queen who is Gone by Raiyana

The organized chaos of war was all around her. Nínimeth did not understand her good-father's fury at his return from the Council of Leaders but she feared what the morning might bring. They had come here, following the Anduin south and met with her distant kin from Lindorinand, had joined with the forces of the Númenorians and the Elves of Rhovanion, those who had come from Gil-galad’s realm to push back the vast armies of Sauron.

"You are uneasy, beloved," her husband said quietly, pushing open the entrance to their tent. She nodded into his chest, feeling the safety of his arms around her. Uneasy was not enough, she thought, worried was far too pale a descriptor for the dread that filled her heart when she looked south, seeing the blackness of sooty clouds over the horizon, knowing the foes awaiting them beneath the shadow.

"I am afraid, Hwin," she whispered. "The fear has haunted us so long and I do not know what we will have lost before all this is ended. Betimes, I cannot see an end, cannot find the heart to believe we may yet defeat the foe that threatens our lives - our peace." So many had been lost already; Celebrimbor had perished cruelly, her Naneth was gone, leaving her Adar a silent shadow, ever watchful, protective, but never speaking, not even smiling for her sons, for her.

"Your fears are mine, beloved," he admitted against her crimson tresses; she felt him tremble. "If," he drew back slightly, cupping her face and refused to let her green eyes silence his words, "if I should fall... know that you have brought me more joy than I ever expected in this life. You have given me what I did not think to dream of, when my first home was destroyed... I thank the Valar you found me all those yîn ago, beloved." Nínimeth kissed him softly. They did not often feel the need for more than fleeting caresses; their souls so entwined by now as to render physical touch almost unimportant, their love glowing strongly between them.

"'In my heart you will find a home'," she whispered, repeating one of the vows she had made him on the night of their first Joining. Sometimes it felt unreal, to have this haven of light to lose herself in, when all around them there was the darkening of the world.

"'In my strength you will find shelter'," he replied, a gentle smile in his eyes. Nínimeth closed her eyes, leaning into his strength and taking the comfort he offered, however brief.

"Our sons, Hwin... promise me you will protect them.” She sighed her plea against his throat, tracing his swallow with her lips. She felt the sound of his voice vibrate against the tip of her tongue, tasted his words before they were spoken.

"I will." Thranduil - only his wife now used his mother-name, after Nenglessel sailed West - did not point out that her request might prove futile; his Nínimeth knew that better than most. He would certainly try to keep his sons from harm, but they were able warriors all, and he knew each of them would deny any request he might make that they remain in the healing areas of their camp with their mother. They had raised honourable ellyn, after all, even if they did not always act like it. He chuckled suddenly, breaking the sombre mood.

"What?" Green eyes found blue, confusion seeking sudden amusement. Thranduil wanted to chase the shadow of fear from her eyes.

"Do you remember when Thonnon and Thandir pinched Rhonith’s mithril clasps and decorated Thalion with them while he slept?" Thranduil chuckled lightly, seeing again the small spitfire of a peredhel chasing the much taller Thalion through their woodland dwelling. Nínimeth’s clear laughter joined his.

"Gwathel-nîn was furious," she smiled. "I think my favourite part was when she pushed him into the pond..."

Thranduil knew that her fears were no less potent for the release of joyful laughter, but he tried to keep her mind occupied with happier times through the hours of the night, revelling in her smiles and her laughter. Around them, separated by no more than walls of canvas, the rest of King Oropher’s army rested, most of them in the company of loved ones, doing just the same thing he was: trying to keep the spectre of death away with the warmth of love and happiness.

The morning brought grief and ruin and pain stronger than he had ever felt, but the last night before everything shattered was spent warm and cosy, tracing the veins beneath his wife's skin with fingers and lips and daring to hope that they might emerge from the coming war - if not unharmed, then at least unbroken - and banishing the fear that they might not.

“No,” he whispered, staring at the gory sight before him. “No!” he screamed, running even as he knew that no matter how swiftly he ran, it would still be too late. The elleth with crimson hair looked up at the sound of his cry, but the ellon she held did not stir, his chest did not rise. “Thalion,” Thranduil moaned, falling to his knees beside his wife and his oldest son. “Thalion!” Shaking the prince’s shoulder did nothing but make his head loll. Thranduil became aware of a low keening sound, surprised to hear it emanating from his own throat. He reached for his Nínimeth, needing her to be real, be warm, alive.

“You promised me, Thranduil,” she hissed, throwing off his touch and bending over their son’s corpse once more. “You promised me you would protect them!” She screamed; the sound of a wounded animal as she pulled away from him. Thranduil stared. “My son, my son,” Nínimeth crooned, looking half-crazed as she sobbed into Thalion’s hair, so similar to her own. “You killed my son!” This time, her scream were words, sharper than the blades he had wielded in battle until he thought the strength of his arms would fail him. He flinched back from her, her usually green and laughing eyes turned black with something he couldn’t bear to call hatred, but which looked like nothing else. Her words reverberated in his mind. My son, my son, you killed MY son!

“Nínimeth,” he croaked, again reaching for her, attempting to offer some sort of comfort, some kind of solace with his presence as he needed her to grant him the solace of her touch, but she drew away from him, rocking back and forth as she cradled their dead firstborn. “Meleth-nîn,” he tried again, drawing back in shock when she slashed at him. Thranduil could only stare at her, his hand still half-stretched towards her.

“I grieve for your loss,” Captain Bronwe said quietly behind him. Thranduil nodded woodenly, fearful that he had lost more than just the life of his son. “… my King,” Bronwe continued, making Thranduil stare up at him. The words did not make sense to him, at first, but when Bronwe bent his knee, bowing as a vassal to his liege, Thranduil knew.

“Adar…?” he whispered, feeling woefully unable to cope with the grief that enveloped him when Bronwe nodded solemnly. His father was dead, and his eldest son too. Thranduil had watched so many fall, but these losses would haunt him forever, he knew, too numb to let the anger he felt at Oropher’s recklessness flare properly to life. Instead, he could only sit, staring at his wife as the blood that had spilled upon the ground soaked into his clothes. His son’s blood. Thranduil shuddered. Nínimeth did not seem to have heard either of them, only capable of rocking Thalion’s dead body back and forth, as though he were still small and had suffered a nightmare, seeking the safety of his parents’ bed. Thranduil did not know where he found the strength to get to his feet, moving to where Nínimeth was still sat. “Come on, meleth-nîn,” he whispered, pulling her up by the elbow. Nínimeth rose, staggering like a drunken mortal, but she refused to let go of Thalion, hoisting him into her arms. Bronwe stared. Thranduil shrugged. He did not wish to see if her eyes were still black, did not wish to hear her repeat the words that had already carved scars in his soul. You killed MY son!

He had delivered Nínimeth to the care of Avornien, who had looked at him with undisguised sympathy but said nothing. It did not surprise him; the handmaiden was notorious for speaking as little as possible. She bowed to him, her hand over her heart, and he nodded back, leaving her to help Nínimeth with caring for their son’s body. Thranduil felt numb, still, as though this might all be a horrible dream – but he knew he would never waken to a world where Thalion would smile at him, would shake wild crimson hair out of his eyes and tease his younger brothers.

“I must go to the Council,” he heard himself say, but his wife – his Queen, now – did not look up from the still face of their son. “Nínimeth,” he whispered, but she did not seem to hear him. Thranduil felt afraid, in ways the bone-rattling terror of the day had not managed. For a moment, he wanted to shake her, force her to acknowledge his presence somehow, but the impulse disappeared under his numb fog in an instant. “This battle is not over.”

And it was not, indeed. Thranduil did not know where Amdír had gone, his forces had been split away from Oropher’s after the first charge, but he had no time to search for him, knowing that Gil-galad and his commanders would be waiting, waiting for something he did not know to give, some defence of his Adar’s actions that Thranduil did not have. As he walked to the tent where the Council of War met, he wished for Nínimeth’s presence, wished to have her stand behind him, give him the strength of her love to help him through whatever was coming next.

The ceramic bowl crashed against the wall.

“Get away from me!” the red-haired elleth screamed, retreating into a corner and hiding her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking in sobs. Silence ruled for a moment, broken by the loud wail of a startled infant and the gooey sound of porridge running down the wall and splattering across the stone floor.

“Nínimeth,” her husband tried, aiming for gentle but knowing it would make no difference to his wife however he spoke to her, if she even heard him at all. Wrapping his arms around her, he tried to pull her close, tried to offer her comfort he knew she would not accept, his mind flashing back to the darkest day of his life and wondering if her eyes would turn black with hatred once more if he dared look. “Please, meleth, you must eat.”

“I want my son!” she screamed, pushing him away. Thranduil bit his lip, staring helplessly at the mithril-haired elleth across the room.

“He is right here, gwathel-nîn[1],” Rhonith murmured, rocking the fussy elfling in her arms. She did not move closer, however, hushing Legolas’ cries with gentle humming, stroking the pale hair that so resembled Thranduil’s own locks.

“That is not my son.” The Queen of Green wood fought her way free of her husband’s arms, pointing a shaking finger at the elfling she had brought into this world only a few months before.

“It is, meleth,” Thranduil murmured, “this is our leafling; you named him Legolas.”

“No! My son is Hwinion, I WANT MY SON!” she bellowed, collapsing in tears again, covering her ears when her outburst made the little boy cry in fear. “I want my leaf! Where is he?!”

Rhonith tried to hush the screaming babe, but eventually Thranduil waved her out of the room, kneeling by his distraught wife. It hurt him to see her so… not herself, not his fierce and fiery Nínimeth, see her reduced to this whimpering bundle of fear and mindless rage.

“I cannot give you our firstborn, my Queen,” he said, daring to reach out to stroke her hand. Now that the babe was gone, she leaned into his touch, her big green eyes watery and grief-stricken when she looked up at him.

“Where is he, Hwin?” she whispered, gripping his wrist. Thranduil swallowed. He had believed – once – that he would never hear her voice call him by that name again, but now it struck him with a thousand sharp knives, to hear it coated in despair he had believed she had conquered; grief they had survived at long last together. “Where is our son?”

“Thalion is dead, Nínimeth,” he said, as kindly as he could; grief still pulling on his soul whenever he remembered the bloodied body lying so very still in his Naneth’s arms, too still for life – especially a life that had been spent in nearly constant motion, even when their son was just an elfling. “He was lost in the War.” Her wailing did not surprise him; it was not the first time they had this discussion. At least, this time she had not asked him if he would give ‘that strange elfling’ back in return for their son. Thranduil did not understand; Nínimeth had been so happy about having a new leafling, even if it was not something they’d planned for – they had several grandchildren, after all! – but ever since the accident she had grown more and more despondent, retreating into herself. The birth had not – as he had silently hoped – relieved her fears that the little leaf would be harmed, had not convinced her that he would be well and grow up happy. Instead, she had developed a severely unstable mood; smiling and happy in one minute and bursting into tears in the next with an intensity that scared him. He could not reach her soul, not really, her brightness marred by shadow-like rends and scars that would not heal no matter how much love he poured into the bond between them. He did not know what to do, who to ask; part of him wished his Naneth had not returned to Aman, longing for her gentle calmness. This was a sickness for which he knew no cure and nor did Nestor, even if Nínimeth had been willing to talk to her former apprentice about what she was going through. Some days, she did nothing but sleep, others she would wander the hallways at night, snarling at those who attempted to speak to her. Of the gentle Queen and Healer there was precious little left, Thranduil feared, staring at the person who felt like a stranger in his wife’s body, felt like a wild creature; untameable and furious at times, deceptively docile at others.

“Get out.” Nínimeth said, her voice deadened. Thranduil stiffened. He had known she did not wish for his comfort, but she had never so bluntly stated that she did not desire his company.

“Nínimeth, please,” he whispered, “tell me how to help you.”

“Get out!” she bellowed, pushing him away. “Get out and don’t come back!”

He left; he did not wish to hear her tell him it was his fault their son died. Not again. Behind him, something else clattered against the door, a wounded scream following in his wake.

Thranduil was losing hope.

“We must do something!” Rhonith exclaimed, pacing with little Legolas in her arms, when Thranduil returned to the sitting rooms that connected his study with their bedroom before Nínimeth banished him from sharing her bed and forcing him to furnish a second bedroom for himself. Thranduil sighed.

“It is clear that things cannot continue,” he whispered, staring out of his window at the rapidly darkening night outside the Halls. “But I am at a loss, sellig, I do not know how to help her. She does not respond to me, pushes me away whenever I try to bring her comfort.”

“Do you think… Elrond might be able to help? They say he is a great healer.” Rhonith asked. Thranduil shook his head.

“If she will not speak to myself, or you, or Avornien, will not even accept Nestor entering her room, I do not think she would feel any more amenable to an almost stranger.” Furthermore, he wasn’t sure this was a disease that had a true cure; had he not thought she had been healed from her grief after Dagorlad, only now to suffer through a resurgence of that same grief once more? Perhaps this, too, would run its course. He did not say it out loud, however, failing to sound convincing even in his own mind. “I do not know what we can do, Rhonith,” he whispered, hopeless. “She… she is not Nínimeth, and I am afraid she will… hurt… Legolas,” Rhonith snarled, tightening her protective hold, “or herself.” He had not told her of the times she spoke of offering up one leaf for the gods to return their first one, filling his soul with revulsion; the Valar would not listen to such a prayer, and if she were in her right mind, Nínimeth would have been horrified at the very idea.

“She won’t harm him,” Rhonith swore, stroking the pale hair with a gentleness that belied the strength of her oath. Thranduil smiled knowingly, though she did not see the brief flash of humour in his blue eyes. He had not believed her when Nínimeth told him what she suspected about their adopted daughter’s response to having the new-born leaf placed in her arms, but he was beginning to see just how tightly his son had already wound himself into her heart; a bond that would only grow stronger as the boy aged.

“She would not want to, sellig,” he murmured, stroking her ear to calm her down, “yet I cannot silence the voice that sounds like a warning in my heart not to leave our son alone with her… but he needs her, there are no others who could feed him.” Even if the end of the War meant peace, it had as yet only resulted in a few pregnancies being announced – after the Queen had already given birth.

“He won’t be,” Rhonith said, her voice steely, “I’ll sleep in her room, trade off watches with Avornien.”

Thranduil just nodded, taking the leaf from her arms and attempting to smile at his son, who looked up at him with his own clear blue eyes. ‘Eyes like water’, Naneth had once told him, ‘my son who is so like the sea’. Will you be like the sea, ionneg, he asked silently, calm and tempestuous at once, ever-changing? He did not even notice when Rhonith left the room on silent feet, her soft leather boots making no sound on the stone.

“Gwathel-nîn is not getting better, Atheg.” The young elleth’s voice was quiet and sad. “She does not recognise the elfling as Legolas. As her son. She refuses to feed him, and she has little milk to do so either way. Maeassel has acquired a milk goat, she claims it should be possible to feed him with goat’s milk instead.” Thranduil looked down at the little leaf; he did look smaller than his brothers had when they were his age, he thought.

“Is she… otherwise well?” he asked, stroking the elfling’s cheek. Thranduil had not been allowed to visit for more than a month, but the reports he received from the servants who cleaned her room on the rare occasions the Queen allowed visitors other than her handmaiden, Avornien, were disturbing. Rhonith shook her head, joining him on the sofa and running her fingers across the ears of both father and son.

“No,” she sighed, leaning against him. Thranduil wrapped his arm around her shoulders, though he did not know whether he was receiving or offering comfort with the touch. “Today she did not seem to recognise my face,” she whispered, her sapphire eyes shiny with tears. “The one who has called me sister since the hour of my birth…and she did not know who I was.” Thranduil’s face crumbled as he looked at the younger elleth, pleading with his eyes for her to give him better news, but his despair was echoed in her drawn features. In his arms Legolas stirred, the leafling no more than 6 months old. Little Legolas was a quiet child, studying the world through large blue eyes.

“I will not lose her, Rhonith. I cannot.” The admission pained him, because it inevitable begged the question he dared not voice: Is Nínimeth already lost? He hugged his son tighter, tracing one finger along the cheek of his last leafling.

“I don’t know what we could do for her that we have not already tried, Atheg,” Rhonith replied, tears of sheer exhaustion sliding slowly down her face. Legolas gave her a gummy smile, oblivious to the turmoil in her mind. Almost despite herself, Rhonith returned the smile.

“She must take the ships,” Thranduil whispered, stiffening as the words passed his lips. Legolas grumbled in his arms, picking up on the distress the thought caused him. “Perhaps she will find peace in Valinor, find healing I cannot give her.” It was a terrible choice to make, but in his heart he had known the truth to his question for some time: Nínimeth would not recover, not this time, her mind was too far gone. Rocking the leafling gently, Thranduil tried to soothe, to protect his son from the grief that permeated the air. Little Legolas gave his adar a gummy smile, which did not make him feel better.

“Will you take her West?” Rhonith whispered, hardly daring to voice the words. This was the last resort; it was Valinor or fading entirely, a fate she did not wish upon either of them. If he sent her west, at least there was a chance of swifter reunion; if Nínimeth faded into death, she would be locked in the Halls of Mandos awaiting her Doom, her judgement. There was no guarantee that she would choose to be reborn as all that she was, and – even if she did – no way to return from across the Sea. Thranduil shook his head.

“No. I cannot.” The tall elf stood to face the window, through which the two could see the green leaves of spring. Hugging the elfling to his breast, he murmured quietly, despair in every syllable, “I cannot bear to stand on the piers of the Grey Havens and watch her leave without me.” Thranduil sighed. “I cannot recall her fëa, Rhonith. Not this time.” He had barely been enough, before, when she was battling only the grief of their son, but this… this was madness and rage mingled with grief so powerful he could not touch it, could not shelter her from the storm, light her path out of the darkness. “Sellig, she is almost lost and I… I do not know what else to do.”

“Will you not go with her?” Rhonith asked, though she hoped the answer was no; if they both left, she would have no kin among her father’s people but their twin sons, one of whom disliked her greatly.

“My sons are not ready to rule, Rhonith, you know that.” Thranduil sighed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and stroking her ear gently. “Ninimeth must go West, to Valinor, if she is to live, and I must stay here until one of my sons can take the crown.” In his arms, Legolas cooed. “I do not wish for him to grow up without his Naneth,” Thranduil whispered, “but I do not wish to take this world from him before he is ready, either. Nínimeth said he would range far, and I feel our last son will have a destiny beyond this forest.”

“I will take her,” Rhonith sighed, knowing she would feel no peace on the journey, knowing that this was not what Nínimeth would have chosen if she still could – but Nínimeth no longer inhabited her body, replaced by an unrecognisable creature of rage. They both stiffened in surprise, but she did not take back her offer.

“Sellig…” Thranduil trailed off, staring at her. Rhonith gave him a pale smile.

“Perhaps, Avornien will join us,” she murmured, which gave him some hope that she did not intend to follow her sister to the Undying Lands. “I will take Nínimeth to the Grey Havens and put her on one of the swan-prowed ships with the white sails.”

Thranduil said nothing, simply stared at the small face of his son; the elfling he had never thought he would have, and in some ways the catalyst of his wife’s suffering. He wondered if his love for this leaf would be enough to counter the absence of his Naneth.

[1] My sworn sister

Fare-thee-well

A week later, the small party was ready to leave; the Queen was mounted on one of the most docile elks in the stables, rather than her usual mount, and a contingent of guards were riding along for protection. Avornien had chosen to accompany her friend, though Nínimeth had not reacted to that news any more than she had understood where they were heading. Behind him, their dark-haired twins stood in silence. Thonnon disagreed with his decision, Thranduil knew, his hot-head son often at odds with him; Thandir had not offered an opinion either way, but that didn’t surprise his adar. As confrontational and temperamental as Thonnon was, Thandir was a deeper well, his emotions often hidden beneath a layer of stoicism. Sometimes, he thought his third elfling was too easily influenced by his louder brother, but secretly he preferred Thandir’s gentleness over Thonnon’s brash nature.

“No gelin idh raid dhîn, a no adel dhen i chwest[1],” Thranduil called, standing by the Forest Gate. Legolas made a gurgling noise in his arms; the leafling was the only one who was happy today, Thranduil thought. Nínimeth had ignored him entirely, had ignored everything, in fact, staring at nothing and reacting to no one. Thranduil tightened the grip on his sceptre. Rhonith was mounted on a spirited elk, one of old Dairon’s gets, Thranduil thought, distracting himself from the vacant look in his beloved’s eyes.

“Atheg,” Rhonith hesitated, running her fingers over his ear and down his jaw, trailing a gentle touch along Legolas’ cheek. The leaf smiled at her. “I do not know when I can bear to return here without her – without you,” she whispered, looking back at the statue-like elleth, whose crimson hair shone in the bright morning sun. Thranduil could hardly bear to look at her himself; he had tried to say farewell earlier, but he wasn’t truly convinced she had even registered his presence. She had allowed the boys into her room, which was even more painful when held against her utter refusal to acknowledge his existence.

“My sons will care for their brother when I cannot, sellig[2].” Thranduil soothed, stroking her ear in return. She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one, he knew. “I am glad you will be with her until the ship sails,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I know Nínimeth will appreciate your presence, even if she does not currently seem aware of anything. I will miss you.” In his arms, Legolas was watching peacefully. The twins kept quiet, though he could feel Thonnon’s anger simmering behind him.

“I will miss you too,” she replied softly, “all of you.”

“Farewell, Rhonith,” Thandir called; the first words he had spoken all day. Rhonith smiled at him. With a final wave at the gathered crowd of well-wishers – sombre and already mourning the absence of their beloved Queen – she called for the small group to move. She did not look back at the elf who had become her father in all but blood more than a millennium before.

Thranduil stood by the Forest Gate, staring after them until long after they had passed into obscurity among the trees. It was fitting, he thought, that he would be staring south as his wife left him, his mind turning towards the dark lands to the far south where their oldest son had perished.

When he finally moved from his spot, the King of Greenwood simply returned to his rooms, closing and locking the door that led to the Queen’s private chambers, and sank into a chair, his arms cradling his sleeping son as he wept silently.

“It’s that Noldorin witchling’s doing!” Thonnon seethed, pacing through the quarters he had been offered. Leaning against the wall, his twin, Thandir, flinched.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that, brother,” he said, twisting a lock of his hair between his fingers, “Rhonith loves Naneth and Adar-”

“Don’t call her that!” Thonnon snarled. “She is not our sister!”

“But she is naneth’s,” Thandir objected, though he flinched again when Thonnon whirled on him.

“Naneth is gone, Thandir, and I bet it was her fault!” Thonnon grimaced. “Adar has always been weak when it came to her; Noldorin witch!”

“She’s always been nice to us,” Thandir tried, but Thonnon ignored him, “Thalion loved her, too.”

“Pffft!” Thonnon scoffed. “Thalion was as great a fool as Adar, and he’s dead, along with grandfather and so many others. Yet she survived.” Pacing to the other end of their room, he continued his angry gesturing. “Now Naneth is going to Valinor; how many members of our family will have to be lost before you see reason? She’s the one who told Adar to send off our mother, I’m sure of it.”

“We were not here, Thonnon, we did not see what happened.” Thandir tried to soothe, though he knew it would do little good. It had been some years since either of the twin Princes had seen their parents. Thonnon lived in the small village by the forest road, with his wife and two daughters, while Thandir had been up north, where a small group of Silvans – intermingled Nandorin and Sindarin Elves – had made their home. That was where he had met Arassiel, and fallen in love. He had worried, once, that his parents would not approve of his wife – certainly Thonnon would have preferred his twin marry a Sindar, like he had – but they had seen the quiet happiness emanating from their third son, and welcomed her easily.

“We met with Naneth, though, brother, did you see anything wrong with her?” Thonnon reasoned.

“She was a little quiet,” Thandir admitted. “And more sad than I expected from a new mother.” He and Arassiel had discussed elflings lately; and the thought still filled him with joyous hope for the future, even if it was slightly marred by the sorrow of knowing that his son or daughter would not meet their grandmother until they were reunited in Aman.

“Because the witchling wouldn’t let her hold the leaf!” Thonnon exploded, startling Thandir out of his thoughts. “That half-dwarf has already begun working her magic on the little one; you saw how he cried until she took him away.” Thandir shook his head silently. He had seen that, yes, but he had also seen how relieved their Naneth had looked when Rhonith took the leafling away. There was a darkness in their Naneth that he had not seen before; a darkness that had not been present even when she was lost in her grief for their older brother.

“They say she has gone mad,” he offered instead, but Thonnon waved off the words like buzzing flies.

“Rumours and gossip, brother,” he retorted. “Did she seem mad to you?” Thandir sighed.

“No…” but she did not seem altogether sane, either. Thandir left the thought unsaid. Thonnon smiled triumphantly.

“I told you it was all a trick.”

The journey proved uneventful, though no less heart breaking for that, Rhonith thought. Avornien rode double with Nínimeth, controlling their mount, because the Queen simply stared into the air, staring at a world only she could see and rebuffing all who came near her. Even Avornien struggled to maintain her famously stoic façade, and more than once Rhonith found herself wishing that she had left this task to someone else, simultaneously aware that she would have hated herself if she had stayed in Greenwood.

Imladris – the newly established home of Lord Elrond, and a fair number of her own ada’s subjects – was as welcoming and homely as any place she had ever been; filled with spirit of Eregion long-gone. The Elves there – many of whom knew her well – were welcoming, but quietly horrified to see the condition of the once-proud Queen of the Forest.

“I do not believe I can help her, Lady Pethril,” Lord Elrond admitted quietly, which was only what Rhonith – they called her Pethril, here, if they did not use her father-name – had expected.

“I am grieved, mellon,” Lady Celebrían added, “but I believe you are doing the right thing.” The only daughter of Galadriel had long been a friend, but her words were no true comfort. Rhonith nodded tightly. Celebrían’s gentle embrace did little to soothe her heartache, nor did the sudden arrival of Nurtalëon help much, aside from reassuring her that she was not going to be doing this alone.

Leaving Imladris with a heavy heart, the small group of woodland Elves felt weary. The land here was too open for their tastes, missing their native forests and tempers were strained.

By the time they reached the Grey Havens, having crossed through Arnor, Rhonith was pleased to be met by the Shipwright, who’d long been a friend to her adar, giving them a chance to rest in one of the houses that overlooked the Gulf of Lune – not all equally well-constructed, her dwarven eyes said, immediately choosing the best one for Nínimeth. The warriors had to stay in a different building, their absence soothing her frazzled nerves, though Nurtalëon remained.

[1] May your paths be green and the breeze behind you

[2] My daughter

Woodland woes

The stars were beautiful so far above him; it was a clear night, only wisps of clouds to obscure the brilliance of Elbereth’s work. In his arm, the elfling slept quietly, unaware of the tears that travelled down his ada’s face as he stared West, as though he could catch sight of the one who was probably already past the Misty Mountains. His hand clenched around the sceptre of his rule, white knuckles standing out against pale skin as he battled with himself; as always warring with the side of him that wanted to abandon those far below, those who were his to care for, his duty… all to follow the one he had promised his heart, the one who should have stood beside him, enjoying the cool night breeze and the glitter of stars. The promontory was his, his alone, now, though once it had been her favourite place in their home; new as the permanent dwelling was, this promontory had been here for untold scores of years and they had come here often, before elflings and wars and crowns got in the way, just to talk and be together, bathe in the starlight and stare across the vast forest. Rhonith’s kin had left it alone – he hadn’t thought to ask for it, but he appreciated the undisturbed feeling of this place even more now that he was alone to enjoy it; alone but for the sleeping elfling in his free arm, the little life he cherished as the last remnant of his wife, his Nínimeth, left behind when she began the long journey west. The red silk billowed when a playful breeze caught the hem, but Thranduil did not move. He was Thranduil now, only Thranduil. Almost all those who had known his other name; who had used the name his Naneth gave him were gone, passed beyond the sea or perished in war. Only Bronwe was left, and his old friend had seen the pain of it the first time he used it, trying to offer comfort as the Captain stood by his King, waving farewell to the keeper of his heart. Bronwe had not used the name since.

In his arms, the elfling murmured something, lost in a dream and kicking his small feet against Thranduil’s chest, breaking the spell of the night and his memories. Smiling down at his son, Thranduil hushed him gently, watching those blue eyes slide shut once more, returning his son to the world of dreams.

“I love you, pinig,” he whispered, the words carried off with the breeze that flicked his robe around his legs, disturbed the pale locks of his hair. “Your Naneth loves you, too,” he promised, holding the swaddled elfling close to his chest. “One day, I will tell you about her; tell you all the things she loved, and you will ask why I weep with the telling, I know, but you will not understand, even if I tell you. I am sorry,” he murmured, but the leafling did not awake at his soft voice. Thranduil sighed. “I wish you could remember her; at least a little. I am afraid, ionneg, so afraid that you will hate me for the choice I have made.”

When the first light of approaching dawn coloured the eastern sky, Thranduil sighed, turning on his heel. Walking back into his halls, he was not surprised to find Bronwe falling into step with him. They exchanged no words, but the Captain walked him all the way to his door, watched him put Legolas in the crib that had once been carved by a Dwarf who grumbled that it ought to have been stone, her dark-haired husband laughing at her from where he sat, making silver moulds for casting the glittering shapes that hung above Legolas’ head as they had hung above Rhonith once, and above Thandir and Thonnon. Thalion had not had a crib, of course, sleeping in between his parents until he was big enough to merit his own bed. Thranduil smiled, stroking the tiny point of his last son’s ear. Legolas wrinkled his nose, but he leaned into the touch even though he did not wake. The King of the Woodland Realm walked through the slowly waking hallways, nodding at those he passed; he knew that they knew his grief, but he also knew that his people accepted the devotion he showed them, the safety and sanctuary he offered after so much horror. He felt the love of hundreds every time he walked through his Realm, and while it did not heal the heartache, it told him he was doing the right thing by staying.

There was no one but him they would look to, no one who might convince such different tribes to co-existent under his banners, wear the maple leaf of his sigil and swear him allegiance with such devotion as Thranduil felt from his subjects.

Far away, he could hear the voices of washerwomen rise in working song, a peaceful thing; no one had sung washing blood from still-usable clothing during the war, nor had there been much joy to find during the seven year siege of the Black Gates, but they had peace now, even if he personally did not believe it would last; he avoided looking south, feeling the sun’s warmth fade from his thoughts whenever he did, felt the echo of the Shadow once more. He had seen the horrors of Mordor, and though it lay now under watchful guard by Men, Barad-dur’s dark stones scattered and its power broken, Thranduil did not think it truly vanquished. The Shadow would rise again… and his people would be far better prepared than they had been at the beginning of the war; he had already begun negotiations with the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm, who claimed his mountains had some of the finest silver they had seen; perfectly willing to mine it and give him steel-and-mithril mail and armour in return. Durin had even promised to make the armour look Elven, making it light but strong, which would hopefully convince his guards and soldiers to wear it, even without his direct orders.

Picking up his goblet, he sipped the sweet but tart juice of cordof that always brought a gentle smile to his face in the morning, nodding silently at the serving girl who brought him a platter of nibbles to replace his breakfast; Thranduil knew it was Maeassel’s hands at work, ensuring that he fed himself appropriately, even though he no longer felt like sitting down to eat his meals at the table he had shared with Nínimeth. The girl – he thought her name was Morineth, but it was better to be certain before he called out the wrong name to thank her – bowed gracefully, slipping away in silence. Making a note to confirm her name with his steward, Thranduil waved at the door guards, signalling the day of his court to begin.

He would be the King, and he would protect his peoples, shelter them from harm. His was not the power of one of the Rings – and after the war that had so recently been fought, he would not have trusted such magicks to guard his Realm – the power of the Elvenking of the great Forest had always been that which was found in the land, in trees and deep roots, and the sound of birds singing and the joy of Elves dancing. Nínimeth had been the one to teach him that, in truth, she had been the main reason Oropher’s fledgling kingdom grew beyond Amon Lanc at all, bringing the Nandorin chieftains together under their rule in a slow and laborious process that had eventually seen them rulers of all the forest; from the Mountains in the north, to the marshes in the south.

Starlight Prince, the son of the Beech Tree King, they had called him at first, but he had chosen his new name in a ceremony older than he was; a remnant of the Nandorin culture that had survived – and still survived in this day; tying him to this land of trees that had borne his wife as though he too had been born beneath their boughs.

Thranduil. Ever the great river runs across.