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

Woodland Woes

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.