The Kingsword by Kaylee Arafinwiel

The Kingsword

Read The Kingsword

“The Kingsword will stand

In its scabbard of granite,

The quicksilver forged

In the pools of the sky,

 

A rumor explained

By the one who began it

A boy’s hand will grasp it

A man’s, raise it high…”

 

Thranduil reclined at ease in the Mysterious Deer, or at ease as he ever could be, a mug of mulled cider and a plate of bread and cheese in front of him. His cloak was pulled up, the hood masking his golden hair and shading his summer-sky eyes, as the minstrel sang.

 

“What is this tale?” he inquired of the serving elleth, who smiled slightly.

 

“Naught of import, your M--I mean, my lord,” she said hastily. “A legend from a faraway land, I do believe. It is not one of our tales or prophecies. Lord Baralin might perchance know more.”

 

“Thank you, I will ask him. Is he present?” Thranduil shaded his eyes, looking around the common room, and spotted his twice great-uncle across the room.

 

“I will send him to your table, my lord, if you wish.”

 

“I would appreciate his company.” Thranduil nodded, and the elleth withdrew, going to speak quietly to Baralin.

 

“Son of the Dragon,

Of night and the slaughter

Whose wisdom

His unshaven youth will belie

 

Will wake from her slumber

The lake’s only daughter

To answer the calling

She cannot deny.”

 

Baralin slipped around the edge of the common room, carrying his wineglass, wending his way to his youngest nephew’s table and taking the chair opposite him. He helped himself to some bread and cheese, making Thranduil roll his eyes.  “You came here alone…Lord Argil?” Baralin asked, keeping his tone low.

 

“Not really. I am sure my guards are somewhere hereabouts, but they will not disturb me today, unless something is wrong. This is the Mysterious Deer, what could go wrong?”

 

“Plenty,” Baralin said grimly, shaking his head. “But I agree naught is likely to go wrong. Ah, I hear they are singing a legend of the Edain of old.”

 

“The lake’s only daughter,” Thranduil mused at the line, listening and trying to put the thought of danger from his mind as the minstrel launched into the chorus again. A boy’s hand will grasp it, a man’s raise it high… and we would know something of swords making grown men of boys, would we not.

 

A golden-haired elleth stepped forward to join the minstrel on his next verse, her voice high and sweet as a songbird’s.

 

“Wrought by a queen

For the hand of the chosen

From fishscale and currents

And winter’s reply,

 

Brought from the deep

By a prophet who knows

In the arms of the water

Again it will lie…”

 

She stepped back and curtseyed, and vanished into the crowd, until she found Thranduil and Baralin at their table moments later.

 

He was startled in shock, for he had failed to recognise her, dressed in a frock that suited a farmer’s wife’s festival gown more than the expectation for the young Queen-to-be.

 

“Aiwen,” he hissed, “what are you doing?”

 

“Enjoying myself, my lord. I could ask the same of you.”

 

“Quiet, both of you,” Baralin chided. “I want to hear this.”

 

The lovers’ squabble subsided, as the next chorus faded into the croon of instruments being played, and the singer’s companions took centre stage, as it were.

 

“A tale of the Edain, not a prophecy, you say, Uncle?”

 

“Not a prophecy of ours. It claims to be a prophecy of theirs,” Baralin explained as one last chorus was sung and the musicians dispersed.

 

“Most intriguing. Aiwen, you know this prophecy?”

 

She shrugged. “Adar and Daeradar had heard it on their travels and taught it to us. It belongs to a larger legend. I think…” She frowned slightly. “It appears to mean that should their king die - of the Edain, that is - that their rightful heir shall be known by virtue of a special sword.” 

 

“A sword encased in granite, forged by a queen who is a lake-spirit?”

 

“Something like that,” Aiwen agreed.

 

They both looked at Baralin, who shrugged.

 

“I have heard stranger tales. And who knows? Eru works in mysterious ways after all.”

 

“A prophecy-chosen king,” Thranduil stared into his mug of mulled cider, and Aiwen squeezed his hand.

 

“You’re cold, meleth nin. Drink, you’ll feel better.”

 

Thranduil did as he was told, images playing on his mind. “Did Adar know the story?”

 

Baralin nodded.

 

“What did he think about it?”

 

“He thought it was interesting, if nothing else. Not all prophecies make sense to their listeners. We would not have thought, back then, of a prophecy-chosen king.”

 

“And yet, here we are.”

 

“Here we are, aran dithen nin.”

 

Thranduil winced. “Please don’t.”

 

“Sorry, nephew. But after the coronation, you won’t be able to escape so easily.”

 

He groaned. “I know.”

 

“I suppose it would be remiss of me not to discuss your running off with you when we’re back home.”

 

Thranduil’s cheeks flushed. “Must you say that in front of Aiwen?”

 

“We could leave it to my brother,” she remarked dryly, and Thranduil resisted the urge to bang his head on the table.

 

“Or we could just not, since I am the - you know - and surely should be past such things.”

 

Baralin snorted. “We’ll see.” He finished his wine, judged the plate empty, and tossed a handful of silver pieces on the table. “Come, let’s get you home.”

 

He herded the younger elves out into the twilight, back toward the palace of Amon Lanc.