A Web of Stars by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 1

"The Silvan Elves were hardy and valiant, but ill-equipped with armour or weapons in comparison with the Eldar of the West; also they were independent, and not disposed to place themselves under the supreme command of Gil-galad. Their losses were thus more grievous than they need have been, even in that terrible war... Oropher was slain in the first assault upon Mordor, rushing forward at the head of his most doughty warriors before Gil-galad had given the signal to advance. Thranduil his son survived, but when the war ended and Sauron was slain (as it seemed) he led back home barely a third of the army that had marched to war."

Unfinished Tales, History of Galadriel and Celeborn

Amon Lanc, the year 109 of the Third Age.

Haldir loosed a sharp hiss of annoyance as he wrenched a finger beneath his collar. His livery was so new that the starched velvet still chafed his throat as he paced the royal antechamber. The stuffed head of a great warg snarled down at him from the wall.

A lock’s subtle click was his only warning, and he had barely straightened his clothes before the doors of Amon Lanc’s great hall were thrown open.

A black-clad herald smote his silver-shod rod of office against the tiles. “Haldir son of Ardil, envoy of Lord Celeborn of Lórien!”

After the twilit antechamber, the hall’s brightness was dazzling. High windows bathed the vaulted space in light. Beneath Haldir’s feet water sang in a rill amidst tiles shaped like many-coloured flowers. High up in the white arches of the ceiling, living birds twittered from branches carved of stone. 

Amidst such lavish beauty, Thranduil Oropherion stuck out like an inkstain. His robes were fine silk from Khand, but they were of deepest obsidian and wholly unadorned. Thranduil’s pale face and the spun gold of his hair looked strangely out of place against the sombre raiment. Even his crown was austere, a circlet of braided leafless boughs.

Haldir wavered; he had not expected to find Greenwood's court still in mourning. Their losses at the Last Alliance had been great and grievous, but that slaughter was a long-year past — surely the grief had somewhat faded?

But no. In Thranduil’s eyes stood that same desperate sorrow Haldir witnessed just after Oropher’s death. The king was all spikes and edges, hard and sharp. Fury shone from him like light glinting off a blade.

There was nothing for it but a bow, formal with a studied flourish, his heart leaping in his chest as he struggled to master his voice. “Greetings, sire! I bear a message from Lord Celeborn.” 

“Then read it.” Thranduil’s voice was flat, but his eyes burned. About him the knot of black-garbed courtiers withdrew and coalesced until they formed a near-circle, as if watching a duel.

Somewhere above Haldir’s head, a nightingale flapped from her perch with a wild rustle of wings. He found his fingers suddenly stiff, struggling with the scroll’s silk ties. Gilded runes danced before his eyes, and it was all he could do to recall the address he had so carefully learned by heart. 

“To his highness Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Greenwood, salutations!”

Thranduil’s face betrayed nothing. 

Haldir cleared his throat, then read on. “The Lord Celeborn son of Galadhon and Lady Galadriel daughter of Finarfin ...” 

Thranduil’s mouth twisted, as if something repulsive had crawled before his feet. 

“... have the honour and pleasure of inviting you to the wedding of their daughter Celebrían to Elrond son of Elwing. The feast shall be held at … ”

“Silence!” Thranduil stood, his eyes wild. “This … this Half-Golodh stood by as our people were slaughtered. Is Celeborn so quick to forgive, that he whores out his daughter to a kinslayer?!”

Haldir opened and closed his mouth, torn between his diplomatic mission and the Lady Celebrían’s honour. If any reply existed that might salvage both, he could not think of it.

Quick as a striking hawk, Thranduil leapt to snatch the scroll from Haldir’s hand. He balled the precious vellum with twisting motions, as were he strangling some small creature. The gilding flickered madly in the hall’s bright light. A sharp flick of his wrist and the clump landed in one of the braziers lining the hall. 

Black smoke curled up, and soon the stench of burning skin stood thick in the air.

Haldir would have leapt to rescue the precious document, but Galion’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Do not vex him further, lad,” he breathed into Haldir’s ear.  

Thranduil paid them no heed. “Let Celebrían wed the usurper, if she must! I have not the stomach to go and watch.”

Galion stretched forth his hands, palms up in a pleading gesture, but then thought the better of it and stopped short of actually touching his king. “Sire, surely you wish to extend some—”

“This is the whole of my reply,” Thranduil cut off his castellan. He breathed deeply, and his sudden calm as he addressed Haldir was unnerving. “See that you pass it on.”