Something Sleepless in Mirkwood by Rocky41_7

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Something Sleepless in Mirkwood

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Approx. 800 T.A.

            “How is the pain?”

            “I had never said there was pain.”

            Elrond exchanged a long look in silence with the king, who was seated on the long edge of a divan in the little room.

            “I had assumed, as you had asked for this, that there was pain,” said Elrond after the pause merely continued to lengthen.

            “It is manageable,” said Thranduil. Elrond exhaled quietly.

            “Niwë says you are having headaches,” he tried. “Is that so?” If Thranduil was annoyed with the queen for remarking on his health to Elrond, it did not show on his face. On that day, he was crowned with a wreath of ferns and other greens, spotted with little white flowers, possibly young larkspur. His robes were greenish-gray and accented with indigo.

            “Yes,” he admitted.

            “And how is the pain?”

            “Manageable.”

            Elrond tapped his pencil lightly against the parchment. A bag of instruments sat nearby on the small, thin-legged table.

            “Have you noticed any patterns?” he asked. “A time of day, something you were doing when the pain struck, any other accompanying symptoms?” Thranduil was silent, looking over at a frieze on the wall, which depicted a sun-dappled woodland clearing, and then at last he said:

            “No. But I have been beset with dreams.”

            “About—?”

            “Sometimes,” he said softly, still not looking at Elrond. “Sometimes not. But if I dream that way, then I will have a headache that day. Sometimes I wake with them.” There were few among them who did not still occasionally dream of Mordor and what they had seen and done there, but Elrond knew these thoughts to lay particularly heavy on Thranduil. The War of the Last Alliance had changed something in him, and Elrond was not sure it could be reversed. He scratched down some notes.

            “Can you tell me anything more?” Elrond asked, sitting back in his seat. Again, Thranduil was silent a long stretch, legs crossed neatly at the ankle in front of the divan, considering.

            “The orioles have not returned,” he observed at length, and Elrond suppressed another sigh.

            “For the spring, you mean?” he said.

            “Yes.”

            “A deviance in the migratory pattern?”

            “Yes. They were so deviated last year as well, but they returned before now.”

            “Are they very late?”

            “No. But they are late.”

            “It troubles you.” Elrond concluded the obvious.

            “I have seen more mice than usual,” said Thranduil, and Elrond summoned the most of his patience.

            “Perhaps they have had a bountiful year,” he suggested with a jovial note in his voice, trying to prod Thranduil to something more optimistic.

            “I did not say there were more mice, I said I have seen more mice.”

            “I’m not quite sure I see what the difference is,” Elrond said, unable to keep a faint prick of irritation out of his tone. Thranduil could be so wretchedly roundabout when it came to speaking of himself or his concerns. Worse: he seemed to believe himself speaking with perfect clarity.

            “They are less cautious,” Thranduil elaborated. “They are frightened.”

            “Thranduil…” Elrond did not wish to say he was making a dragon out of a lizard, but his friend seemed far more prone to worrying since taking up his father’s crown, and the shadow of Mordor lingered on his mind. He set down his pencil. “Greenwood’s recovery has been difficult,” he said. “You could be forgiven for a measure of stress over it.” Greenwood’s losses had been, truthfully, crippling. It seemed to Elrond the kingdom would never recover to what it had been before the War of the Last Alliance, or at least not within this millennium. It was not an enviable time to be leading the Woodland Realm.

            Thranduil’s long fingers drummed against the seat of the divan.

            “Do you think the mice are troubled for Greenwood’s losses?” he asked.

            “I think you are troubled, and such unquietness of mind may spread into other things.”

            Thranduil’s fingers sped up, then stilled, and he said nothing more.

            “How are you sleeping?” Elrond prompted him.

            “Well enough,” Thranduil murmured. “But perhaps you should ask Niwë.” Elrond straightened up, sensing this audience had reached the limits of its use.

            “I would advise mindfulness,” said Elrond. “Make sure you are taking some time for yourself, Thranduil. It is too easy to become so absorbed in the business of management that one forgets to be a person. Remind Niwë of this also; she is single-minded enough to need it.”

            “You may remind her yourself at dinner, if you like.” Thranduil rose to his feet, a thoughtful distance still in his eyes. Then he said: “I expect it will rain for the morrow’s hunt. Be prepared.”

            “We could defer it,” Elrond pointed out.

            “I do not believe it will be heavy. Do the Elves of Imladris melt in the rain?”

            “No, but they may grow rather cross with those who have hauled them out into it for several hours,” Elrond said pointedly. A smile flickered on the solemn-faced king’s lips.

            “Ah, well, that I shall survive with little trouble,” he said. “The lord of Imladris has afore been cross with me.”

            “And never does it seem to deter you,” Elrond sighed, closing up his bag.

            “Now, that isn’t so. There are degrees of all things, my lord.” Thranduil gestured for Elrond to go first through the door.

            “If it clears, perhaps we will observe the orioles,” Elrond suggested, and Thranduil’s expression grew serious and distant once more.

            “Perhaps we may,” he said, and though he sounded doubtful, Elrond thought there was an undercurrent of hopefulness in his tone.

***

Approx. 1200 T.A.

“Are you still having headaches?”

            “Yes.”

            “More or fewer than before?”

            “More.”

            Thranduil was reclined on his side on the divan, but there was a stiffness in this seemingly relaxed posture. Elrond could not see as how this visit would reveal anything not already apparent to both of them, yet if it would quiet his friend’s mind, he was happy to do it.

            “And how is the pain?”

            “I have felt worse.” This was delivered in the kind of flat affectation that from Thranduil, might have been a jest, or might have been genuine, but was devoid of the twinkling of his eyes or the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth that might have once given the game away.

            “Better or worse than before?”

            “The same, I believe.”

            Elrond made a few notes, and then, feeling it could not be avoided, asked: “Do you still dream of Mordor?”

            Thranduil’s gaze turned distant.

            “Not much,” he said, and Elrond could not decide if he was telling the truth or not. He made a few more notes, and Thranduil swept off the divan, moving across the room to study the frieze of the woodland scene on the wall. “There is more fog in the woods than once there was.”

            “Thranduil…” Elrond did not wish to have to remark on the obvious.

            “Yes, Elrond?” The king turned to face him, the wooden beads around his neck clicking softly. Elrond parsed his words carefully.

            “When last we spoke in this way, we talked of stress on the mind,” he said. “And I would venture to say you are now under considerably more stress than before…”

            “And so?” Thranduil asked, his voice quivering on the edge of losing his temper. “You believe I have imagined these things?”

            “A troubled mind is a powerful force,” Elrond offered.

            “So these troubles I have invented for the forest, as I have not enough already?”

            “I only mean to say that your grief may be influencing—”

            “Now would you suggest I have created problems because—”

            “I did not say created—”

            “You believed me not before, why should I be surprised you believe me not now?” Thranduil snarled. “You know precisely what I think the problem is, but you care not.”

            “That isn’t fair,” said Elrond sharply. “That I disagree does not mean I care not. I am here because I care, Thranduil.” He softened his voice, but kept it firm. “Niwë’s loss was a tragedy for all Elfinesse. But it does not mean that some greater force is necessarily at work. Tragedies happen every day, and sometimes it comforts us to believe they were a part of something greater. But most often they are not. Sometimes death is just death.”

            “And sometimes it is not!” Thranduil exhaled heavily through his nose. Queen Niwë herself had volunteered for the mission that had cost her life, but as king Thranduil had given the final order, and he had never forgotten it, and two hundred years after her death still he felt its acid sting.

            “And in your grief it would be better that it were!” Elrond cried, rising to his feet. “But Thranduil, I tell you, it is not. I saw him cut down, with mine own eyes. He haunts us now no more than we allow.”

            Thranduil’s jaw was so tight Elrond could see the outline of the muscles.

            “So I invite my own suffering.”

            “That is not what I said.”

            “I say to you, Elrond, the forest is coming under shadow, and ‘tis a shadow which I recognize, if the rest of you are content to pretend you know it not.” There was something of the gravity of the king that entered his voice as he spoke these words.

            Elrond exhaled quietly.

            “There is no proof, Thranduil,” he said. “You ask Lady Galadriel to take quite a lot on your intuition.”

            “Galadriel would not heed my words even were there proof irrefutable.”

            “Speculation is worth little.” Elrond had small wish to rehash the bad blood between his mother-in-law and Thranduil. Thranduil was determined to dislike her and Galadriel disinclined to put effort into changing his mind. Fortunately, they saw each other very infrequently.

            “Something is not right. I can feel it,” said Thranduil. “But perhaps I imagine this as well.”

            “You cast my words in very bad faith,” Elrond replied.

            “Perhaps it is only unpleasant to hear them repeated to you.”

            “Perhaps I had hoped for more grace from a friend,” Elrond said, which silenced further jabs from Thranduil. With a quiet sigh, the king moved back over to the divan, resting a hand on the back of it, looking toward the door rather than at Elrond.

            “A great deal have I asked of you of late. Too much, I imagine. Your patience is not unappreciated.”

            “If there was ever a time to ask of one’s friends, it is now,” Elrond said. Thranduil’s state was not ideal, neither was it the catatonia he had been in after Niwë’s death. Elrond had been not unconcerned that Legolas was going to lose his father right on the heels of his mother. “I am glad to be able to help where I can. I know there is much I cannot heal,” Elrond added.

            “And how this must be a perpetual frustration to you.” Elrond frowned. Perhaps hearing this disapproval in the silence, Thranduil turned back to Elrond and said more gently: “Yours is a tender heart, Elrond. That is a good thing, if it does not always feel it.”

            “I am not convinced yours is otherwise,” Elrond replied.

            “A king can ill-afford such tenderness.”

            “Perhaps. Or perhaps the ability to empathize with his people is a benefit. A king well-beloved may be more effective.”

            “Then I have goals still to strive for.”

            Elrond relaxed, feeling the tension of earlier had passed, but also deciding he was not likely to get much further with this interview.

            “For now, perhaps a walk?” he suggested instead.

            “I never say no,” said Thranduil.

***

Approx. 2000 T.A.

There were shadows like bruises under Thranduil’s eyes; in the centuries since they had begun this, he seemed to have grown only wearier, and Elrond fretted.

            “Legolas seems well.” Speaking of their children was often easier.

            “It must have been difficult for you to see, but he was rather pleased that Elladan and Elrohir came with you,” said Thranduil, and Elrond could not restrain a laugh. Legolas’ exuberance could not be more different from his father’s reserve, nor had he much grown out of it with age.

            “They shall let it go to their heads, I’m sure,” Elrond said. “They are accustomed to being treated as children in Imladris. It delights them for someone else to be the baby of the household.” Grown his sons might be, but still near the youngest in the valley, and few of the older Elves let them forget it.

            “Does Arwen not count towards that?” Thranduil asked.

            “It’s all the same to everyone else. The twins have stopped reminding everyone they are older than her, though.” Although for many years, he was certain they had done it only to make Arwen sour.

            “You will let me know if Legolas pesters them too much.”

            “If he does, they can handle it. He deserves to be a bit of a bother,” said Elrond.

            “I am certain he would agree.” As Elrond had hoped, this line of conversation made Thranduil relax. “As a child, he was ever so jealous of them. He wanted a twin.”

            “I do recall some comments to that effect,” said Elrond, his lips twitching with amusement.

            “He said it was as being born with a bosom friend.” Elrond made the mistake of actually considering this, and his gaze went soft with recollection that threatened to carry him away from the present room.

            “I suppose he isn’t wrong,” he replied at last, his voice soft with an aching kind of fondness.

            “It would have been well to have even one other child for him to play with. But things are as they are,” Thranduil sighed. It was a lament Elrond had heard from him before. The fertility of the Woodland Realm had all but disappeared. Thranduil and Niwë had despaired for years of conceiving, and since Legolas’ birth, there had been no Elf babies born to Greenwood.

            “He seems to have grown into a fine young man,” Elrond reassured him. If his odd childhood had made for a lonely child, Legolas seemed little worse for the wear (and he had been doted on by positively every adult in proximity to him).

            “I may only hope. I doubt my judgment is much impartial.”

            They lapsed into a comfortable silence, which Elrond was content to let sit for a moment before turning to the purpose of this discussion.

            “Alas, we must turn to graver matters. Will you be cross if I suggest it seems you are sleeping poorly?” Elrond asked.

            “Cross with myself for not making a better secret of it,” Thranduil replied.

            “It does somewhat defeat the point of my efforts if you are disguising your symptoms from me,” Elrond said.

            “I enjoy giving you a challenge,” Thranduil said, propping himself more upright on the divan. The rings on his fingers were a mix of metal and wood polished to a gleaming shine.

            “That really isn’t necessary. I have quite enough of those,” said Elrond flatly. Thranduil waited a moment, enjoying his little annoyance, before his expression sobered further still and he answered the question.

            “It is the same as it ever was.”

            “Stagnation can be a problem of its own. Has anything worsened?” Elrond asked. There was something that shifted in Thranduil’s expression then and his eyes moved away from Elrond.

            “The strange appetite patterns are present still.”

            “And the joint pain?”

“Yes.”

“Is it very bad?”

“It is manageable.”

“May I?” Elrond asked, rising from his seat. Thranduil made a nod of accession and tilted his chin up, permitting Elrond to come near. Elrond ran his fingers up the sides of Thranduil’s neck and under his jaw. Earrings of delicate bird-bone dangled alongside his pale throat, swaying with Elrond’s manipulations; a carved wooden pendant festooned with geometric patterns rested on his breast. Elrond tilted Thranduil’s head from side-to-side and examined his eyes, staring deep into forest green spokes as dark as holly in the present light. “Would you let me—?”

“I see no need for that.”

“Infection—”

“We are more than a thousand years past that risk, I believe.”

“Scar tissue may present problems beyond the initial injury,” Elrond said.

Thranduil sighed, but conceded. The glamor that made a mirror of the left side of his face to the right fell away, revealing the mark of the War of Wrath. The skin around the left side of his face was warped and pink scarred where he had caught a glancing blow of a gout of dragon fire during the chaos at the end of the First Age. The left eye was milky with scar tissue and entirely sightless; the hair thinner around that side of his head; the left corner of his mouth twisted slightly; the ear misshapen.

Elrond examined the damage thoroughly, but caught nothing of concern. Thranduil sat perfectly still throughout; the extent of the burns meant he could not feel much of Elrond’s touch there.

“Well?”

“Everything seems normal,” said Elrond with a brief frown. Thranduil’s glamor melted back into place and once again his face was perfectly symmetrical.

Elrond went back over to the table and made a few notes in his notebook.

“Have you sleepwalked again?” he asked.  

“Yes.”

“Have you tried the meditation exercises?”

“Yes.”

“Do they help?” Elrond pressed.

“Not measurably.”

Another frown from Elrond. There was another solution, but he was reluctant to put it into Thranduil’s hands. He had not forgotten the king’s bottomless grief in the wake of his wife’s death and his willingness to do almost anything to make it end. Yet Thranduil was obviously in need of rest and distressed in a way that nothing else Elrond had done had alleviated. Perhaps emergency measures were warranted.

“Have you been talking with Alwamath?” he asked.

“Now and then,” Thranduil answered. Elrond had hoped that more frequent discussions with someone more present than Elrond could be might help alleviate Thranduil’s stress.

“How are your dreams?”

“Unpleasant. Lingering.”

Still, Elrond hesitated.

“Do they recall Mordor?” he asked.

“At times. But often, no,” said Thranduil.

“And what do you dream of when you do not dream of Mordor?”

Thranduil looked worn out. “Darkness. Decay. Rot. A slow withering,” he reported dutifully. “There is a…malignance. I feel it over me; it seems to cling, as if it seeks to follow me into the waking world.”

Asked Elrond: “Do you dream still of Legolas?”

“No, I have told you so. Why do you ask again?” Thranduil answered.

“I only wish to discern the troubles of your thoughts.”

Elrond tapped his pencil thoughtfully against the notebook. Thranduil’s anxiety for his son, which had spiked in the aftermath of Niwë’s death and persisted for years after, had long abated, yet the other troubles of his mind lingered. What did it mean?

In the end, he decided he had to trust at least in part in Thranduil’s judgment.

“This may help,” he said, retrieving a glass phial from his bag and placing it on the table. “But you must use it sparingly. And no more than three times a week. It should help give you some dreamless sleep, at least until your mind quiets.”

Thranduil picked up the phial and held it up to examine it.

“Please understand, I would not recommend this unless I believed it was absolutely necessary,” said Elrond. “As soon as it is no longer needed, I would beg you discard it or return the remnants to me.”

“Is it dangerous?” Thranduil asked curiously.

“It may be. One who grows overly accustomed to its use may find it impossible to sleep without it, and it takes great care to brew properly.”

“Do you believe the situation is so dire?” Thranduil lowered the phial and fixed those shadowed green eyes, still keen in spite of his state, on Elrond.

“I believe you need rest, and I have found no other way to give it to you,” said Elrond candidly. “The potion carries risk, but it exists to give aid where it is needed. I will leave written instructions as to its use.”

“Very well,” said the king, tucking the phial into the folds of his robes.

“Is there anything else you wanted to share?” Elrond asked.  He thought—for a moment—he thought he saw Thranduil hesitate.

“No.”

“As you wish.”

“Shall we go?”

“Give me a moment to put my things away,” Elrond said.

“Has your intra-house equine war subsided?” Thranduil asked as Elrond packed up his bag. Elrond could have scarcely looked more confused when he raised his head. “In your last letter, Erestor and Glorfindel were quarreling over the new foals,” Thranduil reminded him.

“Oh! Ha. Yes, that’s been sorted out, thank goodness.” Elrond shook his head.

“A leader’s duty never ceases.”

With a briefly annoyed set of his mouth, Elrond replied: “Somehow one expects it to be less like telling one’s children not to pull one another’s hair. “

“It isn’t always,” said Thranduil gravely. “Sometimes it is like telling one’s children not to eat ants.” Elrond laughed.

“I believe all kings and queens would benefit from first being parents,” he said.

“I believe they would benefit from gardening,” said Thranduil. Elrond smiled; he could have guessed Thranduil would think so.

“I wouldn’t disagree,” he said. “To learn to care for and nurture living things…it is important.”

“Imladris is fortunate to have such a learned lord in that respect,” Thranduil said.

“One does what one can,” said Elrond, his cheeks warming slightly.

“Not all do, though,” Thranduil corrected lightly. Elrond had nothing to say to that, and he allowed Thranduil to open the door for him; together, they left the little room.

***

Approx. 2500 T.A.

As soon as Elrond swung the door open, Thranduil rose from the divan. They both froze, deer listening for predators, and the open, nearly pained look on Thranduil’s face flayed Elrond to the bone at once, no matter how he told himself he was in control of himself. Celebrían would expect— Celebrían—

Thranduil moved, began to open his arms, and Elrond came to him at once, and without thought collapsed into his embrace. Thranduil pulled Elrond tightly against himself, as if he could draw him in away from all the hurts of the world. Elrond should have done better than to cry, but he could not.

“I’m sorry,” said Thranduil hoarsely. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Elrond could say nothing, his throat would not make the words; he only clutched at Thranduil’s robes and shed his tears. Thranduil’s hand pressed against the back of his head, and neither of them was sure how long they stood this way, united in a grief they had wished never to know.

***

Approx. 2700 T.A.

The shadows under Thranduil’s eyes seemed more pronounced than before, and at a glance, Elrond suspected he had lost weight.

“You needed not send a guard,” Elrond remarked as he set his bag down on the little wooden table.

“I disagree,” said Thranduil, and his voice came out muffled, as he was holding a bloody handkerchief against his nose. He drew the kerchief away and dabbed at his philtrum with a finger; finding nothing concerning, he put the handkerchief away and rose. He went to a carafe set on a folding table by the divan. There was fresh blood smeared and crusting around his nostrils. “Better to ensure your safety in my realm,” he said before Elrond could remark on the bloody nose, pouring them each a cup of wine from the carafe. Elrond took the cup from him without remark, swirling the drink and using the moment to study Thranduil.

“I brought more of the sleeping tonic,” he said. Thranduil waved a hand.

“Leave it, then,” he said, already as if this visit had taken a great deal of energy from him.

“Is it still helping?” Elrond asked.

“Less than it was before.” With an air of resignation, Thranduil took a seat on the long edge of the divan. “Let us proceed.”

Elrond set down his wine, took his seat, and picked up the pencil. “In one of your recent letters, you mentioned these…lost moments. I find this very concerning…could you tell me more about that?”

Thranduil took a drink and looked up at the ceiling and then said: “What is there to say? At times, I…it is almost like being asleep, except to have no control over when or where it happens and to feel drained rather than rested when one wakes…I have little awareness of how much time passes until I come back to myself. Nothing I do seems to improve or aggravate the situation. Wherever I am during these moments…I do not recall, but I feel that I must be somewhere…” He coughed hard into his sleeve and took another drink. “And I feel it is nowhere pleasant.”

“You have mentioned a malignant presence in some of your dreams…do you feel it in these moments also?”

“I do.”

Elrond questioned him at length on the subject, poking and prodding as he considered his duty, but uncovered nothing decisive. Moreover, Thranduil seemed keen to be done with the whole thing, which made his task no easier.

After a long silence where Elrond contemplated whether it was worth trying more questions, he observed: “You have said nothing about the forest.”

            “Do you know what I have heard recently?” Thranduil asked.

“What?”

“The Men nearby have taken to calling it Mirkwood.” Thranduil’s expression twisted briefly, displeased, but unable to mount much of an argument. He took another drink.

“That seems unnecessarily pejorative.”

“You have not said it is inaccurate.”

“Of course it is.”

“You are a poor liar,” Thranduil said.

Said Elrond: “I am not a liar.”

“Still poor.”

“I would have your observations, if you care to give them,” said Elrond.

“They are of little interest. Let us not linger on it.”

Elrond frowned. “It is important to you, which makes it important to me.”

            “If the details are so important, you are at liberty to examine any of our almanacs. Peruse my private journals if the desire so strikes you,” said Thranduil, helping himself to a refill of wine.

            “You do not wish to tell me?”

            “I do not believe it will be helpful.”

            “Yet you sent a guard for me, which you have not done before.”

            “Consider it an expression of my paranoia.”

“I did not say you were paranoid.”

“Celeborn did. And I think you agree.”

“Paranoia is not unfair for those of us who made it through the First and Second Ages,” said Elrond. “And I do believe he said it only as he believed you would not hear,” he added, vaguely annoyed that his father-in-law had helped make this task harder.

“Wise of him. Incorrect, however,” said Thranduil, leaning back on one hand on the divan, fingers curled elegantly around his cup. He looked ever so tired, despite the defiant tilt of his chin.

“Let us not speak of Celeborn now. How was your visit with Mithrandir?”

“Do you think I left something from my letter?”

Elrond shrugged. It was always a possibility, and rather he hoped to get a more honest answer in person, when Thranduil had less time to craft his words. Perhaps Thranduil spoke more willingly with Mithrandir about his concerns.

“At least he no longer comes bearing gifts for Legolas. It was hard enough to keep the rest of the kingdom from spoiling him without wizards bringing gifts.” But Thranduil was determined not to speak of what troubled him.

“He is rather odd, for a Maiar, isn’t he?” Elrond conceded to a more casual track of conversation.

“Odd indeed. Though I cannot claim to be acquainted with many Maiar.” This was true. Elrond knew that Thranduil had never chanced to speak directly with Melian the Maia nor her daughter.

“I suppose I cannot either. And yet he is not what I would expect.” Elrond would not count Sauron to be very representative of Maiar in general, not least when he had been trying to make nice and slide into Elven society for his own ends. Neither, thankfully, had Elrond ever spent much time with him. He had always gotten the sense Sauron disliked being around him.

Thranduil shook his head an agreement, and then said: “Perhaps he is related to you somehow.” Elrond’s shock must have been satisfying to Thranduil, for he almost smiled and then added: “Only a thought.”

“I do not believe Maiar are related that way,” said Elrond, but he did not sound very sure.

“Perhaps not,” Thranduil agreed.

“You only meant to put that idea in my head, didn’t you?” said Elrond with a sigh.

“Far be it from me to put any ideas in your head, o lord of Imladris.”

“Tch. I think you seek to do it quite regularly.”

“And how is that?”

Elrond lifted his chin, but averted his eyes, and the right corner of Thranduil’s mouth twitched into what was nearly a smirk.

“Naturally, I must be at fault here,” he said.

“You are more trouble than you let on,” Elrond accused.

“A king is above being trouble,” said Thranduil delicately, swirling the wine in his cup. Elrond snorted.

“A particularly bold position for a king whose palace is underground,” he said. Thranduil showed that almost-smile that betrayed his amusement.

The king then allowed Elrond to examine him physically, making him stretch and bend (his movements were stiff) and allow Elrond to feel and listen. Thranduil sat back on the divan when it was done, with Elrond frowning thoughtfully at him. It seemed to him that if he looked closely enough,  he could discern a difference between Thranduil’s natural eye and the glamoured one, though he could not say exactly what it was.

 A drop of blood slid from Thranduil’s left nostril and without thinking, Elrond took out his own handkerchief and pressed it there. For a moment Thranduil just looked at him in surprise, and Elrond felt abruptly he had crossed some boundary, but it still took a moment for Thranduil to press his hand over Elrond’s so they could exchange the handkerchief.

“Does that happen often?” Elrond asked, trying to return to the businesslike tone of a questioning healer. Thranduil considered the question for several moments.

“No, not often,” he said at last.

“It is a recent development though, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Thranduil. Elrond went over to the table to scribble down this information, debating over which column of his note sheet to which to add it.

“The sun will be down now—the balcony is uncovered for summer,” said Thranduil. “Spare a moment for the stars?” His tone was light, and Elrond found it hard not to acquiesce. “I shall find you a new handkerchief as well.”

“I should pack…” On this occasion, they had saved their interview for the end of his visit, “…but it can wait. Let us admire them a while.”

Thranduil winced a little as he rose to his feet, and seemed for a moment unsteady, before righting himself.

“I will feel better afterwards, I’m certain of it.”

***

Approx. 2800 T.A.

            “Thranduil, I am concerned.”

            “Is this unusual? A great many things concern you.”

            “You look very poorly. I can see you have lost more weight.”

            “I shall not take offense, owing to our long friendship,” Thranduil responded, turning over and over in his right hand a small, smooth stone.

            “Thranduil, please. I am speaking seriously.” Elrond frowned, folding his arms and facing the divan.

            “And I find it dull,” Thranduil replied, rubbing his thumb over the surface of the stone. There was a tremor in his hands.

            “The dwellings I passed on the way here with the guard were empty,” said Elrond.

            “Most of the people have moved themselves into the palace.”

            “The guard instructed us not to drink from the river,” said Elrond.

            “It has ill effects these days. Those who drink from it lose track of time and direction. We have found them wandering half-dressed miles from the palace days later.”

            “This is unnatural,” said Elrond.

            “It matters little,” said Thranduil.

            “How can it not matter?”

            For a few moments, Thranduil did not reply. The stone turned over in his hand. He looked over at one of the woodland friezes, and then he said: “Have you seen Amon Lanc of late? It is no longer known by that name, of course—I mean Dol Guldur.”

            “I have not,” said Elrond.

            “I would not recommend it. We avoid it now.” Thranduil made an aggressive effort to clear his throat and then seemed to lapse out of the room entirely. Elrond had to shake his shoulder to get him to respond again.

            “May I?” he asked.

            “Be my guest.” Thranduil took a moment to unclasp the front of his pale gray robes with his unsteady hands so that Elrond could listen to Thranduil’s breathing for some long moments. There was a strained wheeze in his chest and Elrond could hear his body was struggling to draw in enough air to sustain itself. He stayed crouched by the divan, as if listening longer might reveal something to him he had not gathered from the first few seconds of Thranduil’s weak breathing, of the pulse of his heart against Elrond’s ear.

            “Open your mouth?” he said, rising. Thranduil’s robe was slipping off his shoulders as he nodded, tilting his head back and parting his lips for Elrond, but he did not seem to notice. Elrond peered inside and observed what appeared patches of raw, red, weeping flesh inside his cheeks. “What happened here? Did you bite yourself?” he asked.

            “No.”

            “It looks that you have sores here...did you know that?”

            “I felt them.”

            “And you have no notion as to the cause?”

            “No.”

            Elrond posed a few more questions about the sores, but uncovered nothing illuminating, except that here was a physical symptom it was impossible to couch merely as a psychosomatic expression of Thranduil’s anxiety or stress or grief.

            “Have you been to Dol Guldur recently?” he asked.

            With some bitterness in his voice, Thranduil replied: “The council would not hear of it, even if I wished to go, and I have not the energy to battle with them about it.” He tugged his robe back up into place and began to make it presentable again. “And what should I wish to see there? Beauty gone to spoilation and darkness; unnatural rot and ruin. Another roof destroyed. Too many scouts have we lost there already.”

            “It must be something strong, if it is causing such unrest in the forest,” said Elrond, frowning.

            “Yes, I imagine it is.” Thranduil finished the last clasp on his robe. Elrond was silent a moment before he said:

            “Have you given more consideration to it? Perhaps something in Imladris’ library might help.”

            Thranduil closed his eyes momentarily and then said, with effort: “Please, Elrond. Let us not have theater. I am tired.”

            “Something is clearly wrong. If we disagree on the conclusion, we need not disagree on the facts.”

            Thranduil began to make some answer, but broke off coughing, and took minutes to regain composure.

            “Come, take your measurements, make your notes. It was you that asked for this meeting,” he got out at last. Elrond could not tell if this was what he had originally meant to say.

            He nibbled at his lower lip, and his voice was soft when he spoke. “I had expected to see improvement.”

            “The optimism of a summer child.” Yet Thranduil’s voice seemed genuinely fond in spite of Elrond’s apparent failure to properly diagnose his problems.

            “Have you been taking the sleeping draught?”

“Four times weekly, as you instructed.”

“Perhaps you could take it five times.”

“I thought it was dangerous.”

“You are not resting,” said Elrond. How could anything else improve if he was not resting?

“I do not believe the fault is in the medicine.” Thranduil patiently held still, or moved this way and that, as Elrond sought to examine various parts of his person. Elrond had the distinct feeling he was being placated.

“How often are your nosebleeds? Do you notice any concurrence with the lost moments?”

“A few times a week, perhaps. And no, I have not.”

“How is the pain? The headaches, your joints?”

“Considerable. But I manage.”

“Have you fainted again since last time?”

“Twice.”

“Did you direct your people to move into the palace?”

“I advised it strongly, but it was not a fiat,” said Thranduil. “Some have chosen to remain in their homes.”

“I had not realized…”

“…that there were few enough of us to fit in here?”

“Why did you advise it?” Elrond asked after a pause.

“The beasts of the forest have grown restive, aggressive. There are new creatures here, warped ilk of foul temper and fouler make. The shadow spreads, deepens. There have been deaths. It is easier to defend from a central vantage point. She and I built this place to be defensive. Have you seen the spiders? Proof that Ungoliant’s lineage survives.”

“Your letters had not made it sound so stark,” said Elrond quietly.

Thranduil only shrugged.

“Mithrandir said he had visited you recently,” said Elrond.

“It was so.”

“He would not tell me of what you spoke. He told me to ask you.”

“It was nothing.”

Elrond pointed out: “You have not hosted the other Istari.”

“I have shared words with Radagast. But I have not seen him in some time.”

“You did not seem overly fond of Saruman when last we all spoke.”

“I am not overly fond of any on your White Council, which you well know,” Thranduil said, giving Elrond a somewhat pointed look.

“Why Mithrandir?”

“Mithrandir has come now and again to speak with me. Should I refuse him?” Thranduil coughed violently and winced at the sting in his throat.

“No, I was only curious. Was he helpful to you?”

“No. But I will sustain hope regardless.”

“Hope of what?”

But Thranduil would not answer.

“The necromancer in Dol Guldur—do you believe he may be responsible for this?” Elrond asked. “For the degradation of the forest? For your illness? Perhaps he means to take the territory from you?”

“There is no necromancer in Dol Guldur,” said Thranduil. “But yes, I do believe it.” It wasn’t impossible, that there was a connection between Thranduil’s sickness and the state of the forest. It made Elrond think back roughly two thousand years, to when Thranduil had first mentioned the mice of the Greenwood.

“Thranduil, if you have some knowledge of this illness I would beg you share it, for I am very nearly at a loss,” Elrond said, not quite pleading, but close.

“Oh, nearly?”

“Thranduil, you understand you are very ill?”

“Am I? Gracious, it had not occurred to me.”

“You may be beyond my skill to heal.”

When Thranduil spoke again, his voice was strained and hoarse, yet firm. “That may have been so from the beginning.”

“I am worried,” said Elrond, with the tone and expression to match.

“I know.”

“What will you do?”

“Go for a walk, I think. Come with me?”

***

Approx. 2900 T.A.

Thranduil was stretched out on the divan, his breathing audibly labored, filing the room with the sound of Elrond’s failure: a forced, rasping wheeze. He watched Elrond wringing his hands with glassy eyes set above hollow cheeks; Elrond had never seen him so thin.

“If you persist in that pacing, you shall make me anxious,” he croaked.

“Don’t make jokes,” snapped Elrond, something of the disapproving parent entering his tone.

“What a wearisome affair this will be then,” Thranduil sighed, coughing heavily into a blood-spotted handkerchief.

“I don’t understand,” said Elrond.

“Come and sit down, it will stop your pacing.” Elrond, slightly harried, obeyed without further protest.

“Thranduil, what is happening?” he said as he took up a seat in a chair before the divan.

“Ought I know?”

“Don’t you?” Elrond reached out and grasped one of Thranduil’s hands. “You must tell me what it is. You must tell me what I need do. Clearly all I have done thus far has been in vain; I have no more ideas but I will do as you say.”

Thranduil had to cough several moments before he could speak.

“There is something you might do.”

“Yes?”

“Read to me a while?”

Elrond dropped Thranduil’s hand and balled his fingers up in his lap. “I have asked you not to jest!”

“I am not.”

“There must be something I…” Elrond’s voice cracked and he breathed deeply to regain control. “There must be something I can do. Something I haven’t thought of yet. You must know some remedy, even if it seems unlikely or impossible. Something…” He flexed his hands and rubbed at his knees.

“Elrond…” said Thranduil, in what was clearly an effort to calm him down.

“I don’t want you to die!”

To his surprise, Thranduil smiled. It was a tender look, and he reached up to stroke Elrond’s cheek with one long-fingered hand.

“Even now, after all this time, after so much strife; still, you have a gentle heart,” he said.

“I cannot bear to be mollified,” said Elrond.

“I mean to compliment you. It is one of the things I treasure about you. You are a good person, Elrond.”

“I’m being selfish now.”

“I would not have known.” Elrond caught Thranduil’s withdrawing hand and held it tightly. “Truly, there is no means that I know of by which you might heal me. That is no fault of yours. Some things are beyond our power.”

“This I will not believe. I cannot.”

Thranduil laughed, and was immediately breathless. “I am not sure that makes any difference, but it is touching,” he said, rubbing Elrond’s fingers gently.

“If I had understood what you were saying sooner…if I had listened better…” If you had said more, he thought in frustration.

“Still nothing might have changed.”

“Or everything.”

“Perhaps the Music is written.”

“And perhaps it is improvised.”

Thranduil began to reply but broke off in a coughing fit, spattering blood over his hand and the floor, as well as something chunky which Elrond could not immediately identify, but which sickened him to look at. It took long moments for Thranduil to have control of his body again, and once he did, the wheezing of his breath was worse than ever.

Elrond gripped his hand tightly. “I will convene the White Council. Something must be done. We cannot allow a sister realm to fall into such darkness; it weakens us all; they will see that. Something must be done about the Necromancer. Mithrandir might convince them; I will speak with him beforehand. He has seen what transpires here, he has spoken with you. He is convinced of the Necromancer as well.”

“If it shall quiet your mind,” Thranduil rasped, still struggling with his spasming throat.

“They will listen. They must. You must wait for me, Thranduil. You must wait until I have spoken to the Council. If we may excise the Necromancer from the forest, perhaps…”

“Elrond…you must know it may be too late for that.”

“He can be dealt with!”

“Perhaps. But I speak of myself. The damage is…extensive, I imagine.” He worked himself into a more upright position on the divan. “You must acknowledge this.”

“No. I will not believe it until it is done. I cannot—you cannot do this.” Thranduil blinked at him.

“Die?” he asked, amused.

“I cannot bear any more loss. I cannot,” said Elrond, not at all amused.

“But you will,” said Thranduil, not without sympathy. Elrond bowed his head over their hands.

“It is terribly rude of you to look so desolate,” Thranduil said. “Oughtn’t you be cheering me, to alleviate the illness of my mind?”

“Do not mock me with my own words, Thranduil,” said Elrond miserably. “Do I not feel wretched enough already? I have failed.”

“Come here, Peredhel.”

Elrond leaned in closer. Thranduil’s shadowed eyes seemed to stand out all the more sharply against his sickly mien, though the keenness of his glance was dimmed. His earrings were filigreed wood shaved near parchment-thin and a clasp studded with amber glinted in his golden hair which before had gleamed with such luster.

“I am glad to have known you, son of Elwing. Whatever comes. You have been a comfort to me.”

“Then don’t leave.” Only privately, with so many years of shared words between them, would Elrond at his age have allowed such a plaintive, useless statement to pass his lips.

“I would stay, if it were my choice. My love is still in Middle-earth, and in many who dwell here,” said Thranduil. He reached for Elrond’s hand again. “I am sorry to cause you pain. I have never wished it.” Elrond sniffed, and Thranduil said: “Ah, but you will make me weep also, and then who will manage the examination?”

            Elrond swallowed hard. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make this about myself. I am being childish.”

            “I forgive it.”

            “I’ve failed you.”

            “I forgive it. I would argue with you, but it seems a silly expenditure of time.” Thranduil drew Elrond nearer, placing a hand on the back of his head, pulling him in until Elrond’s forehead rested against Thranduil’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I would prefer to stay and walk with you a great deal more and quarrel over the rules of board games and watch many more breaks of dawn with cups of tea, but the world has not ever seemed to place much weight in what I prefer.” Thranduil’s hold on him tightened, and Elrond felt the press of Thranduil’s cheek against the top of his head.

            “I would prefer it too,” he said quietly.

            “If I were not a king…” Thranduil began, but trailed off.

            “Yes?”

            Thranduil’s hold on him relaxed. “Ah, nothing. It was never something I desired. If I did not have it, I might have spent more time at leisure with you!”

            Elrond sat up, that he might see Thranduil’s wan face once more, but stayed close. “What makes you think I would have time for such things?” he sniffed, trying to regain control of this situation. It was hardly fair to come to Thranduil while he was ill and expect him to comfort Elrond.  

Thranduil laughed weakly, but broke off coughing. Elrond touched Thranduil’s cheek carefully once the coughing had subsided, his thumb stroking the skin. Thranduil held still, watching him. (He could be so still when he desired it; a remnant, Elrond assumed, of his training as a hunter in Doriath.) Their eyes met for a moment; Elrond almost drew back. Carefully, Thranduil put a hand over Elrond’s, pressing it to his cheek. With his free hand, he reached out to touch Elrond’s face, his fingers trailing towards Elrond’s lips. Elrond started forward first, but Thranduil was the one who sat up and closed the distance, pressing bloody lips against Elrond’s mouth.

            The stars tasted of iron, and for a time their strain of Music seemed to part with the rest of the world’s, resonating in exclusive harmony between the two of them, separate and apart from the rest of the symphony. For several moments they stayed so pressed together, trying to learn the shape of each other’s mouths by feel, with Elrond trying to at the same time ease Thranduil back down against the divan, which he considered an impressive moment of multitasking considering how much of his mind was presently occupied with the brilliant bloom unfurling in his chest.

The moment they separated, Thranduil gasped for air and devolved into a violent coughing fit, staining the divan with blood and more of the wet matter from before. He went on until he was nearly flat on his belly against the cushion, trying to suck in air between bouts of hacking. Yet it seemed to Elrond—

“Were you holding your breath?”

“I wished not to make a mess of you.” Thranduil’s voice was barely audible when he spoke. Gaining control of himself once more, he shifted onto his back and looked up to make a disappointed sound. “Tch. I would lend you my handkerchief but I don’t imagine you want it now.” Instead, he reached up and tried to wipe the blood from Elrond’s lips with his thumb. Elrond caught his hand and drew it away from his face.

            “You must not think such things would trouble me,” he said. The lightness which had fluttered in his chest when Thranduil’s lips met his sputtered and sank, and Elrond held their hands in his lap. “You must always make things difficult, mustn’t you?” he said quietly.

            Thranduil laughed at this, and then coughed so hard once again he couldn’t breathe. “I thought you wished not for me to die,” he wheezed.

            “Thranduil?” Alarm surged in Elrond’s voice, but the king waved a hand to indicate it was not warranted.

            “You should not let me interrupt you,” said Thranduil when he had recovered.

            “You are truly incapable of not making jokes about this.”

            “How can I not, when you look so despondent? The next one will make you laugh,” said Thranduil.

            “Forgive my disbelief.”

            “I shall, because you will be incorrect, only wait and see.” But Thranduil was visibly worn out from Elrond’s visit, and he was sinking back against the divan’s pillows with heavy eyelids. The shadows under his eyes seemed to highlight Elrond’s inability to grant him rest.

            “Will you promise?” Elrond urged him. “Not to depart until I have spoken with the council? Give me time; I will yet find some way to save you.”

            “Yes, yes, I promise. No—I will promise if you do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“Lie down a few moments.” Thranduil shifted to make room for Elrond beside him on the divan. Elrond hesitated, then joined him there, though it truly was not made to hold two grown men this way.

Immediately, Thranduil relaxed against him, which banished any worries about the cramped size of the divan. His eyes slid shut, and Elrond began to stroke his hair.

“I will save you. You must only give me more time.”

“As you will,” Thranduil murmured drowsily.

“Hold on a while more, please.”

Thranduil made no reply; it was possible he had already fallen asleep, or was simply too tired to keep replying.

“Just a little while more. This is not the end yet. Have hope. Have hope.”

---

Chapter End Notes

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