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

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The Queen Lost

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

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