of roots and where they lie by hanneswrites

| | |

of doriath

Thranduil holds on tight to his father’s hand as they make their way through the winding halls of the palace. He keeps his eyes focused straight ahead and tries very hard to look as serious as possible. He fails miserably after only a few moments, an excited grin turning up the corners of his mouth as they get closer and closer to the meeting hall.  It’s the first time his father has allowed him to come along to council and he’s made Thranduil promise to be on his absolute best behavior before they left this morning. 

 

When they finally arrive in the meeting hall, Thranduil is briefly taken aback by the sheer size of the cavern laid out before him. While it is not quite as large as the ballroom the yearly festival of starlight is held in, it is vast in a way that Thranduil thinks is slightly impractical. The long table sitting in the center of the hall is a solid cut of sheened oak with an array of golden lamps hanging down from the high ceiling, bringing a warm light to the center of the room. 

 

Oropher gently guides him toward the other side of the room and he notices for the first time that the King and Queen are already there, sitting side by side at the very end of the longtable.

 

Thranduil’s eyes shine in barely-kept wonder as he takes in all of the intricate beadwork and embroidery that give the illusion of tiny feathers and leaves flowing down the light green silk of Thingol’s robes. He sits slightly askew in his seat, a soft smile gracing his lips as he nurses a half-full glass of wine. He looks ethereal in the golden lamplight, the silver-strewn gems of his adorned crown bringing an almost unnatural glow to his features. 

 

Next to him sits the Queen, her hand delicately resting in Thingol’s between their twin seats at the head of the table. The pitch-dark of her hair reminds him of a starless night, and though she does not wear the same jeweled splendor as her husband, she too seems to emanate a radiance all her own. The pair of them are every bit as intimidating as his cousin, Celeborn, has described to him in the past, and it is glorious to him in a way that he cannot quite comprehend in the moment. 

 

“Thranduil,” he hears his father whisper, tugging sharply at his hand. 

 

It takes him a long moment to realize that his father is asking him to bow - and he quickly does, his face warming in embarrassment at having been caught unaware. His attention darts to Thingol’s face as he speaks. The King greets Oropher, but thankfully pays Thranduil no mind. Thranduil lets out a long breath of relief and tries to follow the conversation between his father and the King as it continues on past the customary greeting. He succeeds (somewhat) in determining that Thingol is pleased with a project Oropher had completed recently - though Thranduil knows not what that might be. 

 

Thranduil’s attention drifts once more as he notices Celeborn enter the chamber with his father. His cousin smiles at him in greeting and quickly follows his father to their seat near the King’s end of the longtable. When he tunes back into the conversation between his father and the King, their words are lost upon him. And thus, he allows his mind to wander for a time, taking in again the sights before him - the high vaulted ceilings, the golden lamps hanging about the walls, the interwoven stone and wood of the throne-like chairs the King and Queen sit upon and - 

 

And the Queen is staring at him. 

 

He makes solid eye-contact with her for what feels like an eternity, but in reality is likely to only be a few seconds. She smiles at him, a simple soft upturn of her lips, and he feels all at once the sensation of being both too cold and too warm. His breath halts in his throat for a long moment. He quickly averts his eyes and steps ever-so-slightly closer to his father, glad when Oropher finally takes his leave of the King and they make their way down the table to their seats. 

 

The meeting itself begins smoothly. Lords and delegates from all around the kingdom fill the seats of the hall, and Thranduil tries his very best to keep track of everything that is being said and all of the issues being raised and debated upon, often nodding silently along with any input from his father or Galadhon (because he knows his father generally agrees with him). 

 

At the one hour mark, he begins to find it a bit tedious.  

 

At the three hour mark, he starts to silently drum his fingers against his thigh in an effort to keep alert. 

 

At the five hour mark, he finds himself shifting in his seat every few minutes, fidgeting endlessly with the ends of his sleeves. 

 

He can see Celeborn watching him from further down the table, a smug grin crossing his face that Celeborn quickly hides behind his hand when Galadhon glances disapprovingly between them. Thranduil huffs quietly in his seat, only to nearly jump out of his skin when his own father settles a hand on his shoulder and gives him a serious look, leaning down to whisper to him.

 

“Be still,” Oropher tells him, and Thranduil straightens instantly, clasping his hands quietly on top of the table. 

 

Oropher gives him a soft smile and returns his attention to the meeting. Thranduil concentrates on being as still as physically possible, his hands clasped so hard together that his knuckles fade to white. 

 

Another while passes. More conjecture between lords that flies thoroughly over his head. 

 

Thranduil looks down at his hands and notices that they are distinctly no longer there. 

 

He stares disbelieving at the ends of his wrists. He moves his right hand, shifting it along the tabletop, even running his fingertip over a slight indent in the table’s surface in an attempt to see if he was just seeing things - he can feel the break in the wood, but he cannot see his hand moving along the surface. A wild sense of panic grips him, sending a chill down his spine and he notices, horrifyingly, that more of his right arm is fading. 

 

He sends a wild look over to his father and almost starts to open his mouth to say something - when the King begins speaking. His mouth snaps shut, the want to obey his father and not disturb the meeting momentarily overriding everything else. 

 

You could just be dreaming, he tells himself, taking a deep breath. 

 

He’s not sure which comes first, in the end - his hands disappearing and leaving a blank, clear nothingness at the ends of his wrists, or the strange warmth that seems to pervade the air around him. It is a similar warmth to that of clear sunlight willing the chill from one’s fingers on a late autumn morning. And it feels odd here, distinctly out of place in the cool mountain cavern. It feels even more odd warring against the panicked chill running through him at the moment. 

 

The warm feeling does not fade, even after a few minutes, and he begins to cast glances around the table to see if he’s missing something. Which is when he notices the Queen’s eyes on him once more. She is still smiling, and as he catches her gaze, the warm feeling grows. He watches as her eyes flit down to where his hands would be and finds himself confused as her smile turns distinctly playful.  

 

She holds his gaze again and he can hear her, though her lips do not move. 

 

Calm, little one.  

 

The warmth wraps around him tighter, settling over his shoulders like a woolen blanket. 

 

Calm. Breathe in.

 

Thranduil takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 

 

Breathe out. 

 

He lets the air out of his lungs slowly, focusing on the grounding of the wood grain beneath his hands.

 

Again.

 

He breathes in, and out. In, and out. 

 

The warmth swirls around him.

 

He opens his eyes to find his hands resting where they should be on the table. The Queen smiles at him still.

 

 

The Queen does not speak to him when the meeting ends, and Thranduil leaves with his father as though nothing abnormal has happened. He tries to forget about it, though he very insistently avoids the corridor that meeting hall adjoins to for some time. 

 

A week after the council, a small, primly wrapped envelope arrives for Oropher. It carries an invitation, not only for Oropher himself, but also for Thranduil, to attend a meeting with the Queen. 

 

Which is how Thranduil finds himself in the situation he is in now. 

 

The path they take through the forest proves a bit difficult for him. Thranduil decides, as he trips for what feels like twentieth time during their short journey, that this trail either must not be used often or that it has been abandoned for some time. It seems, even to his untrained eye, to be unmaintained, with roots and vegetation twisting along the footpath in ever-increasing frequency. Vines and leaves hang down from the tall branches, mussing his hair every few minutes, and he finds himself quickly falling behind his father. 

 

Perhaps, he thinks, as he pulls yet another twig from his hair and barely manages to step over a green-tinged root that he hadn’t noticed a moment before, perhaps the forest just doesn’t like me. 

 

There is an odd sense that someone is watching him from the tree-cover, and it prickles the hair on the back of his neck, setting his nerves even higher. No movement, apart from the magpies and thrushes whistling in the branches overhead. No indication that anyone but himself and his father are out in this part of the forest.

 

“Thranduil,” Oropher calls ahead of him, and he rushes to catch up. 

 

In his haste, he doesn’t quite see the stray vine that has coiled itself across the path in time. It catches the toe of his boot at the exact wrong moment, sending him flying face first into the damp soil and brush. 

 

Thranduil groans, grimacing as he pushes himself off the ground. He frowns down at his clothes, now covered in remnants of mud and leaves. Tiny twigs and brambles seem to have embedded themselves into the fabric as well, leaving him looking like he’d just rolled through the entire forest by the time he rights himself on his feet. 

 

He brushes himself off the best he can and finally catches up to his father. 

 

“Took a tumble there, hm?” his father says, disentangling a leaf from his hair. He gently runs his fingers through Thranduil’s hair, smoothing down all of the tiny little flyaways he’s accumulated along their walk, “You need to be more careful, little one.” 

 

Thranduil huffs at him in response, and Oropher just smiles at him fondly and helps him pick the remaining brush from his clothes.

 

They reach their destination a short time later, and Thranduil narrows his eyes at the perfectly even branched archway that presumably leads to the clearing where they’re supposed to be meeting the Queen. It is suspiciously well-kept, with flowers both adorning the arch and bracketing the entrance in neat rows. They’re beautiful, of course, full bloomed hibiscus and zinnias often are. But, Thranduil knows, they also typically do not grow under full treecover - they need direct sunlight. Beautiful, vibrant, distinctly out of place. 

 

Oropher guides him through the archway. 

 

The Queen sits at the stone table with her hands folded in front of her, an expectant and curious look crossing her features as the two of them step into the clearing. Oropher gives a slight bow as they come closer, and Thranduil awkwardly follows suit. The Queen’s gown is a light shade of blue today, with open sleeves that flow down her arms like the crystal clear waterfalls Thranduil has seen in the north.

 

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Oropher says, smiling bright as the mid-morning sun. Thranduil is well aware of how excited his father was to receive a private invitation from the Queen, but he cannot quite bring himself to match his father’s enthusiasm. He’s been nervous since the letter arrived, even more so now that the day has come and they stand here before the Queen. She had said nothing at the end of the council meeting - a silence he appreciated, as he did not know (and still does not know ) how he would go about explaining to her what had happened to him.

 

“A lovely morning, indeed,” Melian replies, bringing Thranduil out of his reverie. She waves her hand in a gesture clearly meant to offer the two of them the seat across from her and they comply. 

 

A wilted zinnia sits in a little glass pot on the table between them. Thranduil stares at it for a long moment before looking up at the Queen. Her ice-blue eyes are less unsettling than they were on the day of the council meeting, but still intimidating nonetheless. He feels the slight urge to slink back into his chair, but instead straightens his back and looks down at his hands, almost as if he’s checking instinctively to make sure they’re still there. 

 

“My lady,” Oropher starts, “May I ask what prompted this meeting?” 

 

Melian tilts her head slightly, a playful smile donning her lips.

 

“Of course,” she says, and she brings one finger up to her lips, as if she’s trying to parse out the best way to explain something. Her gaze falls upon Thranduil after a moment, “I wish to test something, I suppose.”

 

“Test something?” Oropher repeats, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Melian says nothing in response; she simply slides the wilted zinnia a bit closer to her own side of the table.

 

She runs a single fingertip along the edge of one of the shriveled leaves and it lifts slightly, perking up and slowly filling with life. A small, bright pink bud forms on one of the stems and Thranduil stares, mesmerized as it blooms right before his eyes.

 

Melian pushes the zinnia carefully across the table toward Thranduil and tilts her head expectantly. 

 

“Go on, little one,” she says, and Thranduil is, quite honestly, confused as to what she wants him to do.

 

He looks to his father and Oropher smiles at him, nodding his head encouragingly. Thranduil tentatively reaches out and touches the new bloom, feeling the soft petals beneath his fingertips. It seems to shudder slightly under his touch, but he thinks that’s likely just the wind. 

 

Until, that is, one of the longer leaf stems very obviously reaches out toward his hand and weaves its way through his fingers. He pulls away suddenly, brow furrowing as it tries to follow his hand. 

 

Melian hums, reaching over the table to take the wayward stem in hand, coaxing it back into the pot. 

 

“Just as I thought,” she smiles, eyes lighting up as she notices another new bloom steadily forming near the first one. Her hands overlay Thranduil’s on the table and he looks at her, those intimidating pale eyes focused solely on him, as if she is attempting to look directly into his fëa. 

 

“I would very much like to take you on as an apprentice, should your father allow it,” the Queen says. Thranduil’s eyes widen and all he can do is stare at Melian’s hands laid over his own as his father quickly accepts.  

 

 

Melian taps his hand gently and he stops writing, looking up at her in the soft afternoon light. Her fingers are akin to ice against the warm skin of the back of his hand, as they often are these days, and he makes no move to mention it. 

 

 "There is a mistake in the rune there - it should be 'las' not ' lasse '." She tuts, and he crosses out the mistake and corrects the verse. The thrushes sing high in the garden, perched all along the high walls and bushes, and Melian sings back to them, harmonizing easily with the music of the life around them as she twirls slowly amongst the violets and lilacs. 

 

He makes short work of copying the rest of the text and when he's finally finished, his mentor is sitting upon a swing composed of multicolored vines she's called down from the canopy overhead. She waves a hand at him, inviting him to join her, and he does. He tucks his runebook into his robes and closes his eyes for a brief moment, whistling high and exerting a small portion of his fëa to call down a few vines of his own. They wrap gently around his wrist as they descend, brushing tentatively against his fëa and eventually bending to his will. 

 

Melian hums softly as he joins her, his own set of vines rising just enough for his feet to dangle a few inches from the ground. 

 

"Impressive," she grins at him. A thrush lands on her shoulder and she guides it gently into her hand, petting its head softly. "You've improved so much over the last few years, little one." 

 

He says nothing, but a proud warmth weaves its way into his chest. Melian extends the hand the thrush is perched on to him and he meets it, allowing the bird to climb onto his finger. It nuzzles his hand and pecks softly at his thumb until he resumes giving it gentle head pets just as Melian had. 

 

"I think perhaps it's time for me to teach you something a bit more difficult, hm?" The thrush in his hand twitters happily, as though it agrees with her. 

 

He looks at her with a questioning tilt of his head, “More difficult?” he asks, and she does not look at him. Her fingers wrap around the vines holding her makeshift swing to the branches above, and she swings ever-so-slightly forward, her gaze locked upon what lies beyond the entrance to the little haven of a garden she’s created for herself.

 

"Protection," she says, and she catches his eye as she tilts backward, “How to protect yourself and how to protect the realm.”
 

“Like the Girdle?” he asks, and she smiles at him.

 

“It is not an easy task, looking after people like this.” Melian turns, leaning forward in her swing and taking his hands in her own. She is cold - so cold that it seeps inexorably into his skin and for a moment all he can think about is how much he wants to pull away from the touch, but he stays firm and meets her eye. A challenge or an invitation, he knows not, but he has never been one to back down either way. 

 

He nods. The thrushes sing high in the garden, and Thranduil shivers in the warmth of the summer breeze.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment