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

Prologue - Dagorlad

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.