An Ode to the King by SonOfMandos

An Ode to the King

Read An Ode to the King

I was born in southern Mirkwood, although the appellation is wrong because I was outside the woods rather than within. Still, part of the Great Lands belong to the Elvenking; the other half was the property of the country of Rhûn. As one can expect, the border was often disputed by the two countries. What is understood as Rhovânion belongs to the King and Rhûn belongs to its Mannish emperors and monarchs and leaders (I am not entirely certain how their politics work, it seems to be changing all the time). The maps drawn by Western ignorants depict Rhovânion and Rhûn as flat and empty—this is not true. There are steppes indeed (for proof: where I’m from), but there are many forests, hills, lakes, rivers, and even a desert in northern Rhûn! I wish folks of the West would travel more often, but that is difficult with that pesky mountain chain that blocks the way. Maybe stubborn Dwarves, but Dwarves, just like Orcs, Elves and Men, are diverse and their temper cannot be generalised to one people. Some are hospitable and gladly offer a way through the Misty Mountains. Some others may as well offer trespassers as an offering to the balrogs that live deeper underneath the ground. Balrogs are carnivores, I think.

I grew up in a Silvan family. I am of plain Silvan blood, which means my features are rather common, so are my hair and eye colour (brown. One could call it ‘hazelnut’ but I am very practical and lack poetic metaphors in my vocabulary). The Silvans of Mirkwood are different from the Silvans of Lothlórien—the Galadhrim, they like to call themselves. Us Eastern Silvans have many Green-Elves in our bloodline with a bit of Dark and Grey Elven ancestry; Galadhrim are taller and fairer than us due to their High Elven ancestors who mixed with the Laegrim. We are short and they mock us for it; in return, we say they want to mimic the Miniath of the Undying Lands but are failing miserably. Golden Woods protected by a Ring of Power in Middle Earth does not carry the same magic a Golden City on the foot of Amon Uilos, built by Spirits, does. Rivalry aside, Galadhrim are no taller than the Rohirrim. The tallest of Middle Earth are the Rangers of the North and the Elvenking of Mirkwood (he is extraordinarily tall).

Despite my features that are nowhere extraordinary (I have to admit, I am smitten by the features of my Rhûnian neighbours: their faces are oval, their skin is like tea with milk, their eyes are black and their noses are small. Their lips and hair are like ours, so this is not noteworthy), I am capable of gazing at my reflection without bursting into tears. There is an odd harmony that makes me not bad at all. My mother compared me to an awkward baby bird who transformed into a powerful eagle. It is true that eagle infants are pitiful to gaze at and so was I as an elfling. I thank Elbereth my face is nice and my smile can break many hearts. Sadly, there is only one heart I wish to make mine… Sorry, ladies.

I swear my vanity was caused by an enormous lack of self-confidence when I was a child. I am not vain despite what you are thinking of me.

I am Eastern Silvan from the Dark River clan and the House of Fuiril. I was born almost three hundred years ago. Here is the story of how I came to be a royal guard.

To start with, the Green Elvish tradition custom is that the father gives his children his clan and the mother her House. It was expected of the husband to move to his wife’s family and thus become a member of his wife’s House. If the talan or stonehouse was too small to welcome a new generation of elflings (it was usually the case), the newly wed couple was nevertheless socially pressure to move close to the wife’s mother’s place. We more or less kept this tradition; clan affiliation and our House follow these aforementioned rules. Couples move where they wish to—most likely, where there is the highest number of opportunities. My foremothers did not like to go outside the territory of the Eastern Silvans, but the coming of Oropher and his host of Grey and Green Elves alike forced expansion. Beleriand had sunk and the acclaimed King’s vision was to establish an Elven kingdom bigger than the woods of Doriath.

Understanding that the future of Elves was dire, my ancestors had no choice but to comply. Shortly after his coronation—my great-grandfather claimed he was born during Oropher’s reign, but I know this is factually false; he was born shortly after King Thranduil had been made the last Elvenking of Arda—Oropher’s son, Thranduil, opened his nation and welcomed Men and Orcs. Most of us protested; Men were potentially problematic, but Orcs were a menace. Our protests hit walls and faced deaf ears. Reality was that the Ancient Kingdom of Harad drew strength from the countless mixes among its citizens. Most of it remains unknown and undiscovered today, but it is considered the eldest kingdom of the world; it became a kingdom during the Great Journey. Of the God of Hunt travelled with the Firstborn Elves, the Fallen God was building an empire to the south. The Ancient King was at its lowest during Númenórean explorations. King Thranduil follows the Ancient Kingdom of Harad as a role model. But this is not a history lesson.

Orcs. Everyone believed they were unanimously evil, but we soon concluded just like Dwarves and Men, there were many sorts of them and their evil or benevolence was determined by political allignment and alliances.

There are very few Men and Orcs in the Woodland Kingdom in the present moment. I have not seen any.

What I have seen were the Men of Rhûn. I did not go to school with them. It was strictly forbidden because of our differences in growth and maturity. Two adults, Elf and Man, could form a bond of friendship (or romantic relationships for the rash ones), but friendship between two children was unthinkable. Men grow too fast! We go through adolescence in our thirties and forties and at the same age, Men are like Elves when Elves are between a few centuries old and a millennium. The maturity simply is not the same.

The need to maintain Rhovânion’s international presence as strong and important was what motivated my family to stay in the fields and not retreat to the woods. We had many trading ports. I was rather impressed by the variety of goods at the Red Market (it was called thusly because people of Rhûn exhibited their products and crafts in red tents and there were many of them. Elves of Rhovânion had semi-permanent wooden stores) and I wished to be a merchant when I was an elfling. There were rumours of a trade route expanding to Rohan and Mirkwood from Gondor and Northern Harad and it was all in my interest to participate to it. I dreamt of endless travels on a tall and strong Rohirric horse with spices from Harad, longbows from Rhûn, spider silk from Mirkwood in a bag on my back…

That dream was replaced by a crazier one: I wanted to meet the Elvenking. I had borrowed at the public library of our local cooperative a book on the important figures of Elu Thingol’s court. I was curious about the dead of another world, I suppose. I was flabbergasted to see Thranduil Oropherion figure as court members. I was under the impression then he was born in Mirkwood. It thrilled me to know our King was this old. And, oh, ai Elbereth, how beautiful was he!

My older brother and sister scoffed when I confessed them in all eagerness my burgeoning destiny. My mother said nothing. I know she did not want to hurt me with the plain facts of reality. My father only said, ‘If you succeed in living old enough.’ It is not true we are immortal: most of us Elves die under the age of one thousand years old. We are no immune to disease, rare they are (Elves lie when they say they never fall sick); food poisoning; eaten by a predator (hungry balrog, warg, dragon...); or fading. Fading is the most common cause of death (remember when I said that Men grow too fast? They also die too fast! What a waste! ‘Gift of the Allfather’, my arse! I’ve seen too many members of my community succumb to sorrow when their loved ones passed away. They were married to Rhûnians.)

Luck was on my side because in the year of my thirty-fourth birthday, my father was elected mayor of our county. There was an important reunion to attend two years later in central Mirkwood and he took me with him. I insisted for weeks to come, he rebutted by using the good old ‘What about school?’ argument. I never deterred. In front of my determination, my father agreed it would not harm to have me come over. After all, didn’t I want to become a merchant?

The trip was terrible. It rained heavily for days. We were lost in southern Mirkwood until locals took pity of us and guided us to the mayor of their county. I slept at peace knowing we no longer had to worry about being disoriented all day long in dense, foreign woods. The Gods were in our favour because it was sunny on the journey back home. Thankfully. I doubt we would have survived more rain.

The city was picturesque. Houses were built with both rocks and stones and covered with grass. There were a lot of colourful flags hanging around. This is where the meeting took place. Five inns had reserved rooms for us and the hunters and local farmers had stored enough food for all of us (we were easily forty). In return, we had many gifts for our hosts; such require tradition and politeness.

I ate like a Dwarf and dropped like a rock on the first night. The next day, I was so nervous I could not swallow a full meal. It was on my mind that the King himself would attend the meeting. My father asked me what was up with me and told me to finish my porridge.

When we reached the Parliament of the city, I peered everywhere and could not contain my excitement. I shifted on my chair at each passing minute, hoping to see the Elvenking bless us with his magnanimous presence.

In the end, he never came.

He was busy in the north. There was a new Dwarvish settlement he had to check on. This settlement disappeared after two centuries. There are still objects left—the Royal Museum kept them. I saw them when I first came to the Underworld (the name given by locals to the caves where the King and his people live. The caves were built by the Dwarves that were temporarily installed in northern Mirkwood. I still remember Thranduil’s bitter snark when he mentioned Menegroth… He said times have changed and he would never allow this to happen again. I believe him.)

The blade of disappointment pierced through me. I distinctly remember barely holding my tears back and ask my father’s permission to explore the woods near the city. I did not explore much of it. I cried, cried and cried. I hated myself for holding onto a fictional situation I had never confirmed with anyone. I held the certainty he would come—this certainty was enough.

I hold on too many things. I can’t let go. It’s my biggest flaw. Thranduil told me many times to explore the world and become a merchant and a trader. I replied as many times, if not more, that I would never leave his side. The slow darkening of southern Mirkwood give me a reason so now. At least I never foolishly motivated myself to challenge Sauron and defeat him. I am no magician nor a God.

Still, I could not give up on my wish to meet the King. It was an obsession. After finishing my studies, I ended lustful adventures with the Rhûnian neighbours, and got over unsatisfactory relationships with the daughter of the leather craftsman and the daughter of the butcher (not simultaneously, of course not! I did the work of two men to please one lady and even so, I failed miserably), I set on to the royal palace.

I got lost a few times. I consider myself lucky I have never inadvertently found myself in Khazad-dûm. Knowing my poor sense of orientation, getting lost in the middle of the Misty Mountains and die from cold and hunger was more realistic than stepping into the Dwarrowdelf.

This time, I knew I would not meet the King on the first day of my arrival. I was older and more mature. I was one-hundred-and-twelve years old, I had by all means reached Elvish maturity. They hired me as a soldier right away. I did not start from the very bottom because of my small experience of the son of a deputy (I had described in lengths my trips with my father. The officials were rather impressed! They also said my knowledge of the Rhûnic language would come in handy). I trained and worked. There was something new to do everyday. We were assigned various tasks from saving a stupid cat stuck in a tree to help build a new settlement. I was upset my position would upgrade slowly.

I met the King on my fifth year here. ‘Meeting’ is a big word, I saw him from afar and there was no way I could exchange a courtesy or two with him. I was disappointed once again, but a little flame in me brightened. I doubled the efforts at work and was rewarded a year later. I officially met the King on my sixth year as a soldier (though I was then some sort of official. I never bothered to properly learn the full military hierarchy. Too complicated for absolutely nothing. We all are one way or the other on a tree cooing at a stupid, terrified cat anyways!) They required a translator.

Rather than presenting myself in a wonderful manner, I made a fool of myself. The tongue of the Grey Elves is not my forte and I was ashamed of my accent tarnished my neatly crafted presentation. Nervousness only contributed to whatever spectacle I offered. The King took pity of me, laughed and said he spoke Silvan. He invited me to introduce myself in my native tongue. I was never one to defy the orders of a King, so I obeyed.

We met a few times afterwards. I exchanged words with him. I was scared to misstep in his presence. He was so handsome! Truly, a creature of legend from history books! That might be why he offered me a cup of Dorwinion wine on one occasion… I needed to loosen up.

He was away from my sight for another two years afterwards. I did not despair in his absence.

That’s not true. I despaired. I had realised my dream, why was I not happier? I wanted more of the King and despised myself for such frivolous desire. I was close to drop everything and become a monk of Elbereth. Sentimentality had reason of me.

The Gods answered my laments and prayers because months later, my superior asked me if I were willing to enter the Royal Guard. I was so stunned I forgot to say ‘yes’ immediately. My superior patted me on the arm and gave me a few days to think about it.

I said, ‘yes’.

The job as a royal guard has nothing to do with illustrations in books. Granted, illustrations in book cannot move. If you see a picture that moves, I announce you’ve eaten a shroom enchanted by Morgoth or one of those wizards. They have a strange sense of humour. Morgoth and the wizards, I mean.

To be back on royal guards, we are not immobile and it’s physically impossible to remain motionless without your legs and your back screaming at you. We are often required to patrol the caves and the nearby towns onland. We do the exact same things as I did as a soldier, only we’re geographically closer to the King and are requested to know of his whereabouts during political meetings (if he decides to visit his good friend Celeborn in Caras Galadhon, an escort should follow him to ensure his safety). We also serve as counsellors; it was found that my knowledge of the cultural particularities of Eastern Silvans from southern Mirkwood and Rhovânion were highly valuable. I thus was requested to be of assistance during meetings. That’s how my meetings with the King started to be more frequent.

I was jubilating. I still am. I can’t describe how I felt the first time I was alone in a room with the Elvenking. He offered me strong wine to loosen myself once again. He said that it was painful to watch me stand so stiffly. I, not in the desire to oppose a sovereign, accepted the cup and drank, and ai! It was strong. He asked me to call him ‘Thranduil’. I couldn’t accept it. I was still young and a subordinate. He sighed (that sigh turned into a grunt, which worried me) and said, “Meludir, I am over five-thousand years old. I was born in a society that worked on a caste system, but I resent it now. I am old and tired. Sometimes, I wish to be an Elf like any other.”

He did not look old the same way humans do (and exceptions such as Círdan, and that Maglor from the history books who’s said to be in perpetual seashore hiking. I’m certain the case of Maglor is a folk tale and the guy was eventually eaten by Gaerys.) He still doesn’t. There is something young about him, a passion and resilience that burns in his chest. After all, isn’t he a vigorous spring? Yet, there are moments he shuts on himself and retreats to his private quarters to meditate. Contemplative Elves are old Elves.

I had forgotten about this when I was with him. To me, he was the man of legends, the undying King, full of vitality.

As the evening faded into the night, wine ran through my veins. I called him ‘Thranduil’, hesitantly at first, confidently by then. There was something that was on my mind, so I thought I would lose nothing by asking him.

“Tell me,” I started, “why is your hair is golden?”

“Uh…” Visibly, he did not expect my random question. I didn’t expect it either.

“It’s because your people have either dark hair or very, very pale,” I explained.

“Right,” he tapped his fingers on the armchair (we were sitting on his outrageously comfortable chairs). “I thought you would have known from biography books.”

I blushed. “No, I don’t…,” I murmured. I know how to read but I only stared at his depictions.

“Don’t worry,” he scoffed lightly. “My grandmother was from the House of Hador.”

Hador… That name rang a bell… Wine forbade me from thinking quickly.

“The House of Hador?!” I shouted once I had realised. “You are part Man! How is that?!”

“When an Elf and a woman love each other dearly…,” he trailed off.

“I know that!” I was still screaming. “Why was it we were never told King Oropher was a Peredhel?”

“I had a mother, you know,” he said. He was too amused for my own good.

I don’t know what I mumbled next. Pity the floor never swallowed me whole. Of course he had a mother! Duh! He chuckled and said I was a funny one.

Every now and then, he would find an excuse to keep me after the rare meetings I attended. It was amicable. Nothing beyond. Romance tales are tales, not my reality. It made me bitter at the beginning. Not anymore.

Another night, he confessed that he saw his status as a monarch as work—when he took his crown off, he took his title off at the same time. He does not pass it to anyone else because he sees it as his duty to the people, to remain King. And his duty to the world as the last Elvenking. My admiration and devotion grew stronger.

I promised him my duty was to remain by his side. He blinked. I saw disbelief flash through his eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I wish to be at your service, my Lord,” I replied evenly. I felt serene. I was less uncomfortable in his presence, speaking my mind came more easily and naturally.

“Don’t you want to try other things? Explore the world before it collapses under evil?”

I shook my head. “No. I am content with what I have. My dearest wish was to meet you.”

His lips curved to a soft smile. “I can understand that. Well, then, Meludir dearest, so be it.” He joined his two hands together and pressed his thumbs against his chest. A Doriathrin gesture of acceptance and recognition.

I never left his side. Oh, I did take vacations! And often! I missed my family. The people of Rhûn that lived on our land had moved further south, closer to Mordor. Some households kept objects as memories of our former Rhûnic neighbours.

One day, I was back from a visit home (I had stayed home for three years. My siblings had given birth and needed an extra hand with their elflings. Alright, my sister had given birth and so did my brother’s wife, my brother cannot possibly do it), I noticed a tall statue I had always failed to notice before. It depicted a beautiful woman with butterfly wings and many flowers and birds in her hair. It was the statue of Queen Melian. Thranduil had it built in her honour. The reason he never rejected me was because he himself was devoted to someone who was once his sovereign. I suspect he had fallen in love with Melian the Maia. Something in me crushed. It was a mere scratch; I was at peace with reality.

After all, I am still by his side. It’s all I’m asking for.