Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) Title: King Stag (#3507) Author: Jael Chapters: 5 Archive: Tolkien Category: Lord of the Rings Description: "We have all the time in the world for such joys. Now go to your wife. Take her to her parents and make it right with them, as a man should . . ." To placate his new in-laws, Thranduil undergoes a strange Dark-elven ceremony. Thranduil; Original characters. Rated PG-13 for adult themes. Published: 07 Jul 2007 Updated: 11 Jul 2007 Warnings: Adult Content Type: Drama Characters: Thranduil; Original Characters Chapter 1 - Prologue and Chapter One: A Thousand Small Deliberations. Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. King Stag Prologue: Thoughts Of A Dry Brain "Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both." TS Eliot, Gerontion For the past two hours, Thranduil Oropherion had sat with his back resting against the broad bole of an ancient oak, wineskin in hand, watching his woods fill up with snow. The snowfall had ceased now, the storm moving off to the east, and the stars had come out in the moonless sky. He felt older than the oak, which indeed he was, and yet those stars had not changed from the well-remembered patterns of his earliest youth. He hefted the wineskin and took another deep draught. No, not enough yet for tonight's purposes, judging from the weight of what remained and the stubborn clarity in his head. Had he ever been young? Had he ever felt free of care? So hard to remember . . . * * * * * * * Chapter One: A Thousand Small Deliberations "We have all the time in the world for such joys. Now go to your wife. Take her to her parents and make it right with them, as a man should . . ." Easier said than done, Thranduil thought, as he followed his wife of less than a day along the steep mountain path, with Oropher's parting words still ringing in his memory. The aromatic pine fragrance of the Emyn Duir filled his nostrils, the soft whisper of the wind through the branches filled his ears, and trepidation filled his heart. Oh, why had he not kept his head? Had be been more in control of himself, more prudent, as the son of a king ought to be, he would be bringing Lalaithiel's father a dead deer or whatever it was that these Evyr gave as a polite bridal offering, rather than coming before him to make amends. Perhaps they won't notice, he told himself, and just as quickly discarded the thought. Helegui, his father's seneschal, had noticed and scowled down his bladelike nose. Galion had noticed and laughed, telling Thranduil it was high time. The Laegrim had winked and grinned, and the Iathrim had raised their aristocratic eyebrows at the untoward behavior of their prince. Oropher himself had been surprisingly decent about it, but not a one of them had failed to notice how things had changed when Thranduil and Lalaithiel came out of the woods together that morning. His wife's parents could hardly be any different. Watching Lalaithiel's slender body as she walked in front of him, Thranduil felt an overpowering urge to rush ahead, take her by the waist and carry her into the bushes for more of the delightful pastime in which they had passed the previous night. His breath, already rapid from the exertion of the hike, quickened as he envisioned her writhing beneath him in passion, and above him and . . . 'Now, you see, that is the same brilliant thinking that has brought you to this sorry pass,' said a small voice of reason inside his head, a voice that had been too silent of late. Had it been a little louder last night, or had Thranduil been more of a mind to pay it heed, he would now be going before his beloved's parents in courtesy to ask for her hand in marriage, rather than presenting that marriage as a fait accompli. It would surely not help matters to bring her to them with the tips of her ears still pink and her lips bruised from a recent tupping. Who could blame him, though? His love for this girl had hit him blindside with the suddenness of a thunderclap in a summer tempest. Thranduil had been long unwed. Galion had married young. Galion's children had married young, and his children's children in turn, until Thranduil had lost track of his friend's progeny, and yet the same joy never seemed to happen for Thranduil. The ennin passed, and Thranduil saw Oropher eyeing him sidelong, as if the king felt his son might be turned to the love of other males. Thranduil knew this was not the case. He desired women fiercely -- always, it was some faceless elf-maiden he pictured as he lay nights alone with his own hand -- yet never did he meet one with whom he wanted to spend eternity. At length he wondered if there might be something wrong with him and decided that life as a family man was not to be his fate. Until one morning when, out pursuing a stag, he had stumbled upon a girl bathing in a forest pool, and since that moment his heart had not been his own. His mind neither. On the night she accepted his betrothal token and agreed to become his, too many long-years of loneliness and pent up need had broken over him like a tidal wave rushing across the land, sweeping away duty, virtue, and wisdom itself. A future life without her was unimaginable, and he felt his heart clench at the thought that, even now, he might lose her. "Whatever is amiss with you, you great royal fool?" Thranduil came out of his musings to see that Lalaithiel had stopped, turned and stood staring at him, hand on hip. "You look as if you were heading to your own execution, rather than to meet my mother and my father." Thranduil was not so sure that an execution would not be the case. "What if they don't like me?" he asked lamely. "How could they not?" she laughed. Easily, Thranduil thought. Of late, some dwarves in Moria disliked him intensely, and Thranduil knew he was lucky to have escaped that incident with his life. There were some among his father's nobles who found him a disappointment for precisely the sort of rash behavior that had taken him alone into Moria, and the lack of judgment that brought him before Lalaithiel's parents now. "Your father would be well within his rights to have me thrashed," he said unhappily. Lalaithiel merely snorted and rolled her pale grey eyes. He loved that about her -- her utter lack of awe for the fact he was the son of the elf who called himself king of this land, and her readiness to mock him whenever he took himself too seriously. "If I recall aright, it was I who first said the vows and I who first kissed you, thus." She stepped forward to show him, thus, and pressed into him. "I have a mind of my own, Thranduil," she teased. "And who could resist me when I am bent upon something I want?" Thranduil sighed, enjoying the sensation of her body against his. "Only someone with far more self-control than I." He exercised what little self-control he had now, setting her gently away from him, or else he really would take her to her people fresh from a tumbling. "So tell me, wife," he said letting the new and unfamiliar word roll off his tongue as if he were tasting a sweetmeat, "how much farther do we have to go before we reach your home?" "No farther," she said. "We are here." Thranduil blinked to clear his vision and looked around. Had not Lalaithiel made him look more closely, he might have missed the strange dwellings entirely, clad as they were in bark and roofed in leaves that made them fade into the background of the forest. How very unlike his father's own palace, which looked as is if had grown out of the earth, yet stood proudly and plainly visible against the trees that surrounded it. "Oh, this is marvelous!" he whispered. As he spoke the words, an elf-woman, dressed in green and brown hues that made her nigh unto invisible against the foliage, materialized out of the woods, carrying a leather bucket. "Please, allow me," Thranduil said, rushing to relieve her of her burden. "Where would you like me to put this?" The woman nodded toward one of the huts. "Next to the house will do." She looked from Lalaithiel to Thranduil and back again. "Well, daughter," she said finally, raising one dark eyebrow. "I see you have taken yourself a man. Is he of any use -- besides hauling water, that is?" Thranduil saw the tips of his wife's ears flush. "I have no complaints, Amèh," she said. The other woman nodded. She raised her voice and called out, "She's home, Tûron, and she was not eaten by a warg." A tall elf-man came out of the hut's door, bending his head as he went beneath the lintel. He seemed to have been cooking, Thranduil thought, for he smelled of charcoal and roasting meat, and he wiped his hands on a piece of rough cloth as he approached. He also looked from Thranduil to Lalaithiel and back again several times, but said nothing, although the expression on his face made it plain he understood the situation. He went first to his daughter and laid his head against her forehead in an unmistakable gesture of affection. He drew back then, pausing to run through his fingers the necklace of mithril and moonstones that Thranduil had fastened at Lalaithiel's throat the night before. "Very pretty. But you can't eat it." Thranduil swallowed. Oropher had congratulated him this morning for winning the allegiance of the Forest Folk all in one night. He now had a feeling that his father might have been overly optimistic. "Atèh, Amèh, this is Thranduil." "I am Tûron," said the man gravely. "And I am Nîwel," added the woman. Looking at his wife's parents, Thranduil could see traces of Lalaithiel in each -- her pale grey eyes from her father, her delicate beauty and dark hair from her mother. Even clad in humble garb, the couple had an unmistakable majesty about them. "Hîr Adar," said Thranduil, bowing ceremoniously. He turned to Nîwel. "Hiril Naneth." "Well, daughter," said Tûron, thawing just the slightest, "you've chosen yourself a mannerly one, I will grant him that." "And a pretty one too," chimed in Nîwel. "Where ever did you get that hair, Prince?" Thranduil had no idea where his bright golden hair had come from. Growing up and looking around among the folk of his father's realm he had seen nothing but shades of black and dark brown like Galion's hair, or silver, and pale flaxen like Oropher's. Never a one who looked like him, and he had come at long last to think of himself as the sole cuckoo in the nest. But more surprising to him was Nîwel's use of his title. "Do not wonder at this, lad," said Tûron, noting his startled look. "We may live simply, but that does not mean we are ignorant fools or live with our heads in our--" he paused as Nîwel cleared her throat and gave him a sharp look, "ah . . . armpits. I knew you were courting our daughter, and I have long been curious as to what brought a prince of the Grey-elves among those whom your folk call the Evyr." Evyr, the Unwilling. Thranduil knew this was the term his father's Iathrim used for the strange folk who had come west following the destruction of Cuivienen. Dark-elves, they called them when being less polite, despite that fact that their own great king, Thingol, had bridled at the term. Thingol, who alone of the Grey-elves had seen the light of the Trees and had turned from it, remaining in Ennor for love. Thranduil would show he was made of the same stuff. "I am as Morben as you," he said solemnly. "I love Lalaithiel, and I would die for her." "Is that your lover-name for her?" said Tûron, with a smile. "Well-spoken, for I see you know her heart. There is not a man among us, Thara-ndhul, who in the first days of taking a woman to be his own, does not say the same thing -- that he is willing to die for her. The question, son, is are you willing to live for her?" Thranduil raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "What do you mean?" "Your father came east to find a simpler life and to live as elves should. Are you willing, Thara-ndhul, to follow that path to its end?" "I am willing to do whatever it takes to be a proper husband to Lalaithiel and to show honor to her folk," Thranduil replied solemnly. "Indeed," Tûron said. "Are you willing to undergo our manhood ceremonies and become one of us? This would be only courteous for one who wishes to take one of our women to wife." Thranduil began to nod earnestly, until a worrisome thought crossed his mind. He had heard disquieting rumors of the strange customs of the Forest Folk. "These rites do not involve, ah, cutting anything off, do they?" Beside him, Lalaithiel let out her tinkling laugh, and Nîwel snorted softly. Tûron merely quirked his lip. "No, son -- not even your princely braid." As Thranduil relaxed, he continued, "I cannot promise it will be entirely painless. But what is a little pain if the prize is worth having?" Thranduil smiled wanly. 'Heh, right -- what's a little pain?" As Thranduil and Tûron conversed, elves with curious eyes had come drifting out of huts and the surrounding forest. They now had quite an audience. A rustle in the tree branches made Thranduil look up, as three young men dropped to the forest floor. "What are they doing?" he asked, as each of them untied a brace of dead squirrels from his belt and cast them on the ground. "They have been out hunting," Nîwel said. "Sometimes, when the terrain is rough, it is swifter to travel through the tree-tops." "You can do that?" Thranduil had never seen the like of it, not even among the Laegrim. "Any elf worthy of the name ought to be able to run along the branches," Tûron said dismissively, although Thranduil noted that Lalaithiel gave her father a warning glance. Any elf worthy of the name, indeed! "Then so can I," Thranduil said, rising to the implied challenge in Tûron's voice. "Is that so? Very well, then; climb up into the branches and run from this tree over to that one." Tûron indicated two trees on either side of the settlement, about half an arrow's flight apart. This earned him a disapproving look from his wife and a gasp of dismay from Lalaithiel. "At least I am sending him across the commons, not out over the ravine," he said peevishly. "I will be all right," Thranduil reassured his wife. "I can do this." He strode confidently over to the first tree Tûron had indicated, a massive oak, and leapt high, swinging himself up onto its lowest branch. He stood, balancing himself lightly. The forest in these parts was mixed hardwood and pine, and the branches of the oaks and beeches intertwined thickly. Thranduil planned his route to the other side, moving in a slight half circle to avoid several pines whose sloping branches could not possibly support him. He saw only a few sparse spots where he would have to leap a void. He was a strong runner, he told himself; he could manage it with ease. "What are you waiting for?" he heard Tûron say, and he sprang forth, running out along the branch until he felt it dip beneath his weight. He leapt up and to the left, aiming for a main branch on a big beech. This time he proceeded in to the center, up slightly and out again to the periphery. Again came another oak, with its branch slightly lower and with a longer jump required to reach it. Thranduil sprang and came down again, moving in past the massive trunk and out to the end of yet another branch. 'This is fun,' he told himself, just before he felt nothing but thin air beneath his feet and he saw the ground come rushing up at him with alarming speed. * * * The next thing Thranduil felt, as he struggled his way up from blackness, was the sensation of cold on his cheeks and forehead. He opened his eyes to see the worried face of his wife peering down at him. Lalaithiel had a bucket beside her, the very bucket he had carried for her mother, and her cupped hand still held some of the water she had been splashing on him. "Huitho," he muttered weakly. Immediately he heard a burst of female laughter from across the clearing, and, struggling to bring his vision into focus, he saw the men, Tûron among them, shaking their heads in disgust. "I'm fine, fine -- just got the wind knocked out of me," Thranduil said, moving his arms and legs experimentally one by one to discover if it were actually true. Everything seemed to be working, and there were no outrageously sharp bursts of pain in his limbs. So far, so good. He sat up and immediately sank back down again with a groan. Lalaithiel took his head in her lap and stroked his hair, making little cooing noises. Thranduil stared up at the green canopy of leaves until Tûron's face filled his field of vision. "Do you still think you have the strength and courage to undergo our rites, son of Ornâpheren?" he asked, looking decidedly unimpressed at his new son-in-law's performance thus far. "Aye, Hîr Adar," Thranduil said, trying his utmost not to let it come out in a bleat. "Just tell me the time and the place." He swore he could see the faintest ghost of a smile on Tûron's face. "Very well, then, Thara-ndhul. Right here. Tonight. There is no point in waiting." * * * To be continued . . . . Translations: Evyr: Sindarin for Avari Laegrim: Nandor, Green-elves Iathrim: Doriathrins ennin: yeni, long-years Amèh: Mother. Reconstructed Primitive Elvish Atèh: Father. See Above Hîr Adar: My lord Father Hiril Naneth: My lady Mother Morben: Moriquendi, Dark-elf Huitho: The affirmative command for the marital act. Thranduil's favorite cuss-word. Thara-ndhul: Primitive Elvish for 'Tall and slender-dark and secret.' While I believe that Thranduil's name in Sindarin translates to 'Across the Great River,' Tûron is bestowing another name entirely upon him. One that fits him just as well. Ornâpheren: Primitive Elvish for Oropher, 'Tall beech.' Chapter 2 - Swaddled With Darkness Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. Chapter Two: Swaddled With Darkness "I don't suppose you could have picked a night with a moon for this," Thranduil grumbled as he tripped over yet another tree root. "The Kwenn-dai awoke to life under starlight, and starlight alone. This is the light of old Cuivienen, and the three nights of moon-dark are the only proper time for our solemn business," Tûron said from up ahead. "Be patient, Thara-ndhul; your eyes will remember." Tûron was right. Already Thranduil felt his vision adjusting, and the trees began to take shape in the gentle, restful light of the stars. He and Lalaithiel had returned to the group of huts as soon as night fell, and a party of women had immediately hustled her off into the forest, bent on some female business he could not quite understand, while Tûron and two Avorren men had led Thranduil in the opposite direction. The trail opened out into a small clearing. In the center of the area rose a tall columnar rock with two boulders at its base, plainly visible in the starlight. Thranduil bit back a smile, thinking that perhaps his recent initiation into the joys of the flesh had put his mind to seeing the symbols of bed matters in every little thing. Politely, he forbore to say what the grouping of stones reminded him of. "What next?" he asked. Tûron gestured at the rocks. "Sit." Doing as he was told, Thranduil sank down onto one of the boulders, ignoring the embarrassing aspects of sitting on what looked like a giant testicle, while Tûron placed his pack on the ground and began to search through it. He set a wooden bowl out on the ground and poured a measure of dark powder into it from a small piece of folded skin. Tûron turned back to Thranduil. "Remove your shirt," he said, taking his knife from its sheath and laying it beside the bowl. The starlight glinted strangely off the dark blade. Thranduil felt his blood turn cold, and he looked nervously at the two Avorren elves who stood to either side of him, in a perfect position to grab his arms and restrain him. He had no wish to bare his chest before strangers, especially in the presence of a knife as sharp as Tûron's looked to be. "Do you give in to fear, son of Ornâpheren?" Tûron asked, as if sensing his thoughts. "I fear nothing," Thranduil lied, well aware that in this lonely spot if Tûron's knife wished to find his heart, a thin layer of cloth would be no barrier. "Is that so? I think you do fear me, son, and you are right to do it." Tûron laughed softly. "It is just as well; trust needs to be earned. Now, off with the shirt." Thranduil took a deep breath and undid the fasteners of his shirt. He shrugged it off and tossed it aside. He set his chin and looked his wife's father boldly in the eye. "Very well. Whatever it is you brought me here for, do it and be done." Tûron's face warmed slightly, and Thranduil knew he had passed a preliminary test. "A bold one, you are! But I would have expected no less, given your father's reputation." He bent and picked up his knife. "Which is your clever hand?" Thranduil held out his right, half expecting to feel the bite of the blade in his palm. Instead, Tûron grabbed Thranduil's forefinger, making a tiny nick and holding it out over the wooden bowl to squeeze out blood. That done, he did the same with his own forefinger and stirred the blood into the powder. Thranduil could not tell the color of the resulting mixture, for by starlight it looked as black as the blade of Tûron's knife. His father-in-law spoke then, his tone grave. "Tell me, then, Thara-ndhul, what skill do you have to offer as a gift to our people? With this clever hand of yours, what service will you give us?" Thranduil raised a golden eyebrow, for a philosophical interrogation was the last thing he had been expecting. What uses had his hand? Many, but few that Tûron would appreciate. The designing of pretty jewelry such as had captivated Lalaithiel the night before, the wielding of a pen in the service of Oropher's account-keeping, the playing of his harp, a few other private uses that did not bear mentioning -- none seemed designed to impress a Dark-elf used to the simpler life of the forest. "Think, Thara-ndhul," Tûron prompted, dipping the tip of his knife into the dark substance in the bowl. "What is it you do best?" It came to Thranduil suddenly -- the feeling of his sword pommel in his grasp and the sensation of swinging it. "I am strong," he said. "I can protect Lalaithiel and I can protect you. Strength." Tûron nodded, and beside him the two other Evyr made approving sounds. "A good choice. Belê." He took Thranduil by the back of his right arm, bringing his knife up. "Hold still." The tip of the knife touched the skin of his bicep. So sharp was it that at first he felt no pain, just a soft glide -- until the night air hit the cuts and the strange dark substance bit into the flesh. Burning agony bloomed, and Thranduil hitched in his breath. "Ai!" "The sensation is memorable, is it not?" Tûron smiled. "It will serve to remind you of this moment, for it will be the first of your promises to us." Thranduil looked down, expecting to see himself cut to ribbons, but instead he saw very little blood seeping from the dark marks where the ink had been driven into his skin. He gasped. The runes seemed strange and the word was in a language unfamiliar to him but . . . "You can write!" "Of course we can write. Simple does not mean ignorant, I told you." Tûron rocked back on his heels and refreshed the tip of his knife from the wooden bowl. "The runes of Ornâpheren were his greatest gift to the Greenwood." "Runes of Daeron," Thranduil corrected softly. "Daeron of Doriath created them; Adar merely learned them and carried them here." "No matter. They are the reason the Laegrim followed your father and the reason we suffer him to rule over us. We quickly learned them and adapted them to our own use, for with the runes, the words of the singer live on though he fall prey and his voice be stilled." Tûron smiled. "And because of these runes, you, Thara-ndhul, will always bear a reminder of your service to us." "I would need no reminder," Thranduil said. "My people, never forgetting the example of an oath gone bad and turned to afflict its takers, will swear none, except for the vow we make to a spouse at our bonding. But we take our promises very seriously, and that will last long after this ink has faded." "It will not fade," Tûron said. "These marks are set by starlight and spell. And your own will, as long as you hold true. They are more than mere decoration, such as the Edain wear." Thranduil swallowed. "You mentioned more than one promise. I presume you have plans for the other arm?" Tûron nodded. "Your spirit-side is your heart-side as well. That is good. So tell me, Thara-ndhul, what is your nature? For that will define your duty among us and your bond to our folk." Thranduil sighed. Tûron posed a hard question, even harder so than the first, for up until now, Thranduil had not been given to much introspection concerning his own character. Immediately the oft-heard exasperated voice of his father popped into his head: 'You are stubborn, Thranduil, stubborn! What am I to do with you?' He smiled inwardly. Stubborn described him well, for once bent on a thing he could rarely be swayed, even if that course of action took him to the very Pits of Moria. Stubborn he was indeed, but he fished about for a better way of describing it. "I am steadfast -- loyal unto death." "That is good, for we forest folk call ourselves The Steadfast," Tûron replied. "Loyal to the will of the One who set us in the world to awake at Cuivienen. Bor shall be the word you wear." He smiled as he bent to his work. "What do you find so amusing?" Thranduil said, gritting his teeth against the familiar burning pain. Ironically, now that he expected it, he felt the tip of Tûron's knife even more keenly as it scored his skin. Tûron chuckled. "For neither facet of your nature do you choose wisdom. I find that interesting." Thranduil shook his head and smiled wryly despite his discomfort. "Alas, Hîr Adar, wisdom has never been my strongest suit." Tûron chuckled and sat back. "Very good. It is done. Nènlû and Mâlô will fill in the marks now, while I set the spell." He began to reach into his pack once more. "No," said Thranduil. "There is one more mark I would have you give me." Tûron raised an eyebrow. "No matter how many long-years pass, I have not forgotten the sting of these cuts. Do you wish to multiply your pain? It is not necessary." Thranduil swallowed. He knew it would hurt like a demon, given the unusual methods of the Evyr, but he thought on a mark of Galion's, now faded almost to invisibility although his friend had renewed it several times in the last age, and his faer told him he must do this thing. "Right here," he said, tapping his left breast. "Among the Laegrim, a mark in this area signifies the heart's desire. As long as this night is for promises, I wish to wear mine. It is necessary." "You would bare your heart to my knife, son?" Tûron asked. Thranduil shrugged and nodded. "It seems we have come a long way in trust, then," Tûron said. "What is this mark you wish to wear?" Thranduil looked from side to side at the two Avorren men flanking him. He held up his hand, beckoning Tûron in closer. His father-in-law bent his head near, and Thranduil whispered into his ear the secret name that Lalaithiel had revealed to him last night in the moment of their bonding. Tûron drew back, a smile on his face. "Whoever was it said you lacked wisdom, Thara-ndhul? He knows little, for you have chosen very wisely indeed." "Chosen with my heart, not with my head," Thranduil said, setting his teeth against the coming pain. "Sometimes, that is the greatest wisdom of all." Tûron replied and began to cut. Again, it hurt, but Thranduil fortified himself with the thought that this mark was accepted completely of his own will. Lalaithiel had suffered pain for him last night when he first took her, and he knew she would endure even more as she bore the many children Thranduil intended to give her. This fleeting hurt seemed like such a small thing in exchange. His heart swelled with hope to think of it -- a quiver-full of strong sons, and beautiful daughters. Perhaps he would even give that legendarily fecund Lachenn, Feanor, a run for his money in the begetting sphere once he and Oropher returned from that cursed Golodhren war in the south. He had all the time in the world for such joys . . . . "It's a rare man who smiles when I'm cutting on him," Tûron remarked wryly. "But I am done. With this part at any rate." He took out another folded deer hide from the pack and opened it, revealing a multitude of sharp thorns bound with twisted grass into small bundles four to five to a grouping. Thranduil's eyes widened. "For pricking in the remainder of the ink," Tûron said. "We will be using all of them, for they tend to dull rather quickly." He nodded to his two helpers. "Begin." Nènlû and Mâlô fell to their task as Tûron stood, stepped back a few paces, threw back his head and began to sing. "E-lew i jâra nar, Aa!  An-jâr-ma. . . ." As Tûron gave his song to the night sky, Thranduil gasped to see that the Avor's eyes reflected the starlight as if he were a cat or some other night-visioned creature. Thranduil, for all the ennin of his life a denizen of candlelight and torch, had never seen the like of it. Would his own eyes glow that way, he wondered? All questions ceased as the first ink covered thorns pierced his skin. "Ai, Elbereth!" Thranduil gasped, trying not to cry out. The sensation of the sharp tips plunging into already tender, rent flesh was pure agony, but he would be cursed if he would whimper in front of these Morben. To his shame, Thranduil broke a sweat, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the summer night air. "A-danat danaî chîni-an, binj ard-lo, gill belt-jê. . . ." Tûron knelt between Thranduil's legs and began, still singing, to fill in the mark on his breast, while Nènlû and Mâlô worked on each arm, alternating between driving in the thorns and dipping forefingers into the bowl to rub extra pigment into the skin for good measure. To hide the fact that his eyes were threatening to fill with tears, Thranduil laid his head back against the tall stone and stared upward. The stars were brighter and more numerous than he had ever seen them before, now that he was away from any source of light. 'They are, like white gems,' he thought. 'White gems! I can never be poor in such a world. And how blessed I am to have seen the sky as it should be!" Thranduil focused on the sound of Tûron's voice. " . . . i ann rot-lipti-lâ dôllûmi, ath elni bidj-tê . . . ." Instinctively, his breath quickened to rapid panting, and he began to feel light-headed. Fixing his attention on the grandeur of the heavens and letting Tûron's song lull him, Thranduil endured . . . . * * * "Thara-ndhul? Thara-ndhul . . .?" He felt a hand tap his cheek, bringing him back to reality. "We are done here. It is time to return to the others. Can you stand, son?" "Of course," Thranduil snapped, although he felt not entirely certain. The pain had filled his blood with the prickle of battle-readiness, and in its aftermath his knees felt wobbly. "Kindly give me my shirt." Tûron shook his head. "You are still bleeding. Nènlû will carry your shirt for you, for you will not be wearing it for the rest of this night." Thranduil rose carefully to his feet. "Ready?" Tûron asked. Thranduil took a deep breath and nodded. "Quite ready. That was not so bad." At this, the Evyr exchanged a three-way glance and burst out laughing. "You Grey-elves are good liars," said the one called Mâlô. "One out of three of us is weeping like a maiden by this point, and the third has been cursing throughout." "He has a wegê on him, eh, Atèhrenjeh?" said Nènlû. Tûron merely grunted and nodded as the trio, taking care not to touch Thranduil's rent flesh, took him by the arms and led him back the way they had come. * * * * * * * To be continued . . . . Translations: Kwenn-dai : The Quendi, Speakers. Primitive word for all elves. Belê: Strength Bor: Loyalty. Faithfulness. faer: Sindarin for the spirit Lachenn: Flame-eyed. Not entirely flattering term for a Noldo. Golodhren: Noldorin ennin: Long-years wegê: Manhood "E-lew i jâra nar. Aa!  An-jâr-ma!" : "We who are old. Oh!  Most old!" "A-danat danaî chîni-an, binj ard-lo, gill belt-jê.": "Give to these children, new from the world, quiet and love." " . . . i ann rot-lipti-lâ dôllûmi, ath elni bidj-tê . . . .": " . . . long dew-dripping night hours and stars in the heavens . . . ." The words of Tûron's spell have been translated into Primitive Elvish/Avarin by Claudio. Thank you, Claudio! Chapter 3 - Chilled Delerium Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. Chapter Three: Chilled Delirium Many gathered elves awaited Thranduil and his small escort when they returned to the huts. All fires and torches had been extinguished, leaving the common area lit only by the starlight filtering down through the trees. Thranduil spotted Lalaithiel among a group of women, and he made as if to go to her. "No," Tûron said, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. "You must not speak to her, nor she to you until your night's work is done." Thranduil cast a longing glance across the clearing to where his wife stood staring back, her pale eyes echoing the yearning he felt. "Then let us be on with it," he growled. "I want no more delay in my rejoining her." "Come, then," said Tûron, leading Thranduil to a carved stone cauldron that stood beside a huge oak tree. He picked up a wooden cup and dipped it. "As the guest of honor, yours is the first draught of the night. Drink, Thara-ndhul." Thranduil took the proffered cup and brought it to his lips, hesitating at the last minute as he sensed a strange under-scent to the liquid that made his ears tingle with suspicion. "What's in this?" "Some wine, some special herbs, a little honey," Tûron shrugged. "And the essence of mushrooms." "Mushrooms . . . ?" said Thranduil slowly. "Yes. The little red ones with the white spots on the caps," Tûron said, his expression neutral. Elbereth, Thranduil thought! Every elf-child knew better than to eat those. He stared down into the cup and then back up at his father-in-law. Tûron watched him dispassionately, and Thranduil knew he was being tested again. At length, he shrugged. If they had really wanted him dead, he'd have been explaining himself to Námo long since. "Merry be the Greenwood," he said, raising the cup and draining it in one gulp. Tûron grinned as Thranduil doubled over and made a face. "Nuath!" he gagged. "That is vile!" "It is an acquired taste to be sure," Tûron said, reaching out to take the cup from Thranduil's clenched hand. He dipped into the cauldron and drew a cup for himself. He swallowed his draught and handed the cup back to Thranduil. "One for me, tonight, and one more for you. It is custom." "Whatever you say, Hîr Adar." Thranduil dipped his cup again, hoping that whatever Avorren healer had mixed this noxious brew, she knew what she was doing. If not, he hoped Oropher would not miss him too badly. He cast a glance across the clearing to catch his wife's eye. She smiled at him encouragingly, and he smiled back. "Worth it," he whispered and drank. If anything, this second draught went down harder than the first. Thranduil grimaced and choked. "I swear that tastes just like piss!" "It is," Tûron said tersely. Thranduil's stomach gave a violent lurch. "Keep it down, son, don't waste it," Tûron said quickly. "Our healers eat the mushrooms and filter them through their bodies to forestall the worst of the effects. I know it sounds unpleasant, but believe me, it is better this way." "You have no idea how unpleasant," Thranduil groaned. 'The Belair must hate me to be putting me through this,' he added silently. He felt Tûron's hand on his shoulder. "The first time is always the hardest. If you begin to feel ill, spit. It is not elegant, but it is effective." Others had begun to approach the cauldron, lining up to dip their cups. "Come, let us step aside. You will feel better in a moment." 'I cursed well hope so,' thought Thranduil as Tûron led him off behind a tree. Thranduil leaned back against the big beech, feeling the bark against his bare skin. He sucked the night air in deeply, fighting the nausea. He fell into a rhythm as time stretched out. Breathe. Spit. Breathe. Spit. At last his stomach settled, but his head began to feel oddly-sized, as if it were detached and floating about a foot above the rest of his body. "Are we ready, here?" Nènlû asked, appearing round the tree as the slow beat of a hide drum started up from the clearing. "I think so," Tûron replied. Thranduil could not help noticing that both men slurred their words slightly. He giggled. Silly Evyr, couldn't hold their . . . whatever it was. "I know so," said Nènlû, giving Thranduil a sidelong look. "What next?" It seemed to Thranduil that he heard his own voice as if from far off, and his words, too, were slurred. He laughed again. Suddenly, everything seemed very amusing. "We join the women and we dance," said Tûron, taking him by the forearm and propelling him forward. Dancing? That would be interesting, Thranduil thought, as his father-in-law led him back into the clearing, for his feet did not seem to be making firm contact with the ground. But rejoining the women sounded like a capital idea. Somewhere, off in the trees, a reed flute began to play a melody both wild and alien to Thranduil's ears. It put the wind in his blood, and his heart began to race, his body eager to surrender to the rhythm. Soon, the coarse rattle of pebbles inside a gourd joined the piping of the flute and the beat of the drum. The women stood in the center of the clearing, hands linked in a circle and facing outward. Lalaithiel stood among them, her hand clasped in her mother's, waiting for him it seemed. Her pale eyes bored into him, piercing straight to his heart. In the small triangle of flesh at the base of her throat she wore a newly placed mark no larger than the span of his thumb. It was no rune Thranduil had ever seen, and he could not decipher it, yet he felt a sudden overwhelming urge to kiss that mark. Compelled, he moved forward. "Not yet, Thara-ndhul," Tûron said, taking hold of his left wrist and restraining him. "There will be time for that later. Take my hand now." Thranduil clasped hands with Tûron on the left and Nènlû to his right. "What are the steps?" he whispered. "They are of no matter," Tûron whispered back. "The great circle is the thing. Let the music guide your feet." With that, the circle of men began to move to the left, while the women stepped to the opposite direction. Lalaithiel, who had been directly in front of him, moved rapidly away among the whirling dancers. Thranduil paid no attention to what his feet were doing. Running, skipping, following an intricate pattern, it made no difference, for his attention was fixed upon his wife's dark head as she went round the circle and returned to him. He caught the flash of her pale eyes and the gleam of his mithril necklace at her bosom as she flew past him and was gone again. Thranduil began to feel dizzy, keeping track of her among the spinning bodies. The tune changed, the pace of the drumbeats accelerating, and the circle suddenly broke into two smaller ones, as the inner circle of the women did the same. Lalaithiel remained within Thranduil's grouping, and she flew past him even more rapidly now. The scene took on an eerie clarity in Thranduil's vision. It seemed to him that he saw as vividly as if it had been bright noonday. Eyes and teeth flashed in the reflected light of the stars, and the skin of the dancers glowed with an inner radiance all their own. The circles broke and reformed again. Lalaithiel was tantalizingly close now, as she sped past. The piping of the flute worked its way into Thranduil's brain. He could smell the hair of the women, and in amongst it he caught the clean earth and rain scent of his wife's skin, so deliciously learned and savored last night. The mark in the hollow of her throat drew him in like a metal filing to a lodestone, and the beat of the drum echoed the racing rhythm of his heart. Once more the circles broke and Thranduil felt Tûron and Nènlû let go his hands. Before him was only Lalaithiel, holding out her hands to him. He took them, arms outstretched, and began to swing her, faster and faster, keeping up the momentum of the dance. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the others had left off and formed a circle about them. As the two of them whirled, Thranduil recalled how some seasons ago he had seen two eagles above the mountain tops, a male and a female in their mating flight. High, they had flown, almost out of sight in the clouds above, until they clasped talons and spiraled to the earth, breaking apart at the last moment to return to the clouds and do it again. Thranduil had watched them long, enchanted by the magical spectacle of the two noble creatures coming together. And then, as Thranduil onserved from below, the male eagle had taken his mate . . . . Thranduil threw back his head and uttered a mighty laugh that issued from the very depths of his faer. Never had he known such joy before, and never, he felt, would he know it again. He pulled his wife in close, his lips seeking her throat. The music ended with a crash of the gourd. "He's ready," he heard a voice say, as hands gripped his arms, holding him back. He fought against the restraint, groaning in frustration. He heard laughter. "More than ready, from the look of things." A hand grasped his sore bicep, bringing him back to reality. "Ai!" "Not yet, Thara-ndhul," Tûron's voice sounded softly in his ear. "Soon, but not yet." As they led him away again, Thranduil glanced back to glimpse Lalaithiel's face. She stood silent, watching him, her longing showing as deeply as his own. Her moonstone gaze held a message: "Courage." Thranduil smiled back, before she was lost to his sight. "Leave us," Tûron commanded, when they had reached the edge of the clearing. "I must take counsel with my îdiondo alone." The other Avorren men, Nènlû among them, nodded and melted off into the night. "Show me your knife, Thara-ndhul," Tûron said. Thranduil unsheathed his hunting knife, a Laegren dagger with a steel blade and a handle of carved bone. He had always been proud of the simple, unadorned weapon, so appropriate a tool for a Wood-elf, in contrast to the one Oropher carried, which almost looked to Thranduil as if it were of Dwarven make, although he had never dared remark upon it. He held the knife out to Tûron, hilt first. Tûron grunted and shook his head. "That won't do. You must have no metal about you for the rest of this night. Nothing that the earth does not give freely for the taking. Here," he said, "use mine." Tûron held out his own blade of dark obsidian, its solid stone hilt wrapped in deer hide and thong. Thranduil accepted it with a nod of thanks, grateful that he had not chosen to wear his trousers with the silver nibs on the lacings tonight, else he find himself exchanging pants with his father-in-law as well. The knapped blade looked every bit as sharp as it had felt earlier in the evening. "Guard it well," Tûron said, pocketing Thranduil's own knife. "It bears the blood of kings." Blood of kings. What was that supposed to mean? Instead, Thranduil asked, "I'll need a knife?" "If you are your father's son, you should know that every elf needs a knife when in the woods." Of course, Thranduil thought. Tûron's words seemed reassuring on the face of them, yet the look in his eyes said something else. "What must I do?" he said, feeling the chill of the night's purpose settle on him. "Go into the trees, Thara-ndhul," Tûron replied. "Your faer will lead you to your destiny." His father-in-law gestured upward. Thranduil found himself at the foot of the same oak where his abortive arboreal journey had started out that afternoon. He leaped, caught the branch, and again drew himself up to stand balancing on the balls of his feet. He stood swaying on the all too narrow branch, drunk and giddy from the strange Avorren mushroom potion. 'You are going to break your neck this time,' his small voice of reason informed him. Tûron's voice came from below, deep and comforting. "Let your heart run ahead, son, and your feet will follow." Thranduil looked down into the silver glinting eyes of his father-in-law, and his spirit felt buoyed, for he divined that the man meant him well. Suddenly his failure earlier in the day meant nothing; the darkness meant nothing, and neither did his dizziness. Thranduil believed. He sprang forth and ran, paying little attention to where he put his feet, his mind fixed only on the path in front of him. His route was not a matter of conscious decision. Some indefinable goal called to him from deep within the forest, and it seemed to Thranduil as he ran that the very trees bent their branches before him to help in on his way. Soon he had left the clearing far behind. Through the shifting leaf canopy above, Thranduil saw the coldly burning stars. Below lay the darkness of the forest floor, and all around him, he sensed the life-force of the ancient Greenwood itself. From up ahead, he began to hear a pulsating noise that matched the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Curious, he turned and made for it. As he approached, the sound resolved itself into the thunder of many hooves. Below him ran a herd of deer, some white and glowing in the starlight, and yet others as black as the deepest corridors of Moria. It seemed a strange thing to Thranduil, for all appeared to be stags, and he had never seen males group in such great numbers, not even in the rutting season, which, at midsummer, would not come for several months. Thranduil watched the deer pass below him for a time, keeping pace with their movement. Then, by some strange impulse, he leapt from the branches and dropped among them, hitting at a dead run. To run among the deer was madness, he told himself, for a single careless swipe of the antlers could gut him before he even knew what happened. And yet he laughed and sped onward, at one with the herd, glorying in the working of his muscles and the sensation of his soft-soled boots on the leaf-strewn forest floor. He breathed in deep, filling his nostrils with the musk of the animals and the scent of his own sweat. As he ran, he began to outpace the deer, moving forward in the body of the herd. He could see the lead animal up ahead now, a great stag, black as the wing of a craban, with fourteen points on its massive rack. Suddenly, the stag whirled and turned to face him, bringing the entire herd to a standstill. Gingerly, Thranduil walked down the gauntlet of motionless stags, conscious of the myriad pale eyes upon him as the deer regarded him warily. One by one, they stepped back, allowing him through to their leader. A white stag briefly lowered its head and shook its antlers menacingly. Thranduil held out his empty hands in placation. 'A three pointer,' he thought, 'not even ready for the hunting yet.' And, indeed, he had hunted enough of them during the past age to know. "I mean no harm," he said aloud, and the young stag backed off, but Thranduil felt suddenly vulnerable, bare-chested, his own skin pale as the deer and open to the night air, armed with naught but a belt-knife. The black stag stood silent, regarding him calmly. A faint dusting of white hairs on its muzzle betrayed its venerable age, even if the number of points on the mighty antlers had not. Thranduil approached cautiously, staring deep into pale eyes. "I know you," Thranduil breathed in wonderment, remembering a stag he had pursued into a forest glen many years past, only to be distracted by a bathing girl. "You led me to her." The stag dipped one huge antler as if nodding in agreement. Thranduil heard a voice in his mind: 'Yes.' Thranduil laid his hand to his heart and inclined his head. "I thank you, brother. She is my life. What would you have of me in return?" 'Nothing. And everything,' came the voice in his head. 'I would have you, Son of the Tall Beech.' Thranduil looked up just in time to see a flash of horn, sensing a passing blow, and feeling the sting as the tip of a sharp antler laid his cheek open to the night air. He put his hand to his face and brought it away again, dark with his own blood. Thranduil stepped back in shock, yet strangely, he felt no fear, for the stag could just as easily have disemboweled him had it wished to do so. Slowly, the stag lowered its head. Thranduil stretched out his hand and placed it between the animal's eyes, leaving a mark in his own blood. The stag raised its muzzle and tipped its rack to one side, laying bare its neck in a gesture of unmistakable meaning. Tûron's knife hung heavy at Thranduil's hip. Slowly he drew it, feeling the hilt warm to his touch, the very blade seeming to quiver in his grasp. He sensed what was being asked of him, yet could the beast really mean . . . ? When Thranduil hesitated, the stag shook its head and stamped its foot angrily. Again, it bared its neck to the knife. Thranduil readied his blade to strike, taking in a deep breath. At the last moment, he turned it aside. "No, Old One," he said, making a shallow nick in the soft hide, far from the vulnerable jugular. "Go in joy and peace. Make your way into the forest and find whatever end awaits you there. My hand will not deal your death." As he dipped his finger in the resulting trickle and marked his own forehead, Thranduil again heard the voice in his mind. 'So be it, Young One; you have sealed your own doom. Long life for you, and none will come to give you surcease, even though the burden become heavy and the task wearisome.' Thranduil looked into the stag's pale eyes and laughed. Life in the Greenwood lay before him, joy lay before him, and never could it become weary. "Are we done here?" The stag snorted and tossed its dark head. 'You have chosen your fate. We are done.' It wheeled and sprang away into the forest, the others following. Within moments, Thranduil stood alone in the night. Thranduil did not tarry long, for he knew where he wished to be. Again, he sprang into the trees, his trees, as he was coming to think of them, and he ran, the branches seeming to bend to his will and speed his way. The night drew to a close, for as he sped onward he caught, through the leaves, glimpses of a bright star rising in the east. Eärendil, the Golodhrim called it, but his own folk had named it Gil-estel, the star of hope. Thranduil dropped down into a clearing beside a pool. In a bower of pine branches that he had built with his own hands, Lalaithiel awaited him, lying on a bed of soft leaves and flower petals, her arms wide open. Thranduil fell into them, his lips at last claiming the mark in the hollow of her throat. He tasted blood and sweat, and the strange bitterness of the oak gall ink used to make the mark, along with the delicious flavor of his wife's skin. Knowing that the first words out of his mouth this night would be in the nature of a blessing that would govern his future existence, he drew back, even as his hands fumbled with laces, ripping away the last vestiges of clothing that kept him from her. "You are the love of my life," he whispered, rushing in toward that which to him at the moment seemed to be the very center of the universe . . . . * * * * * * * To be continued . . . . Translation: Îdiondo: The concept of son-in-law would be alien to Primitive Elvish, so for dialogue I combined the word îdî (heart) with iondo (son) to get 'son of the heart' Nuath: Shadows Chapter 4 - Supple Confusions Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. Chapter Four: Supple Confusions Thranduil woke the next morning, roused not by twittering birdsong nor the first glimmerings of daylight, for the sun was well up in the sky when finally he opened his eyes, but by the insistent pressure in his bladder. He raised his head from between Lalaithiel's breasts, where he had lain pillowed in sleep, and gave it a shake to dispel the dull ache behind his eyes. "Nuath, what a night!" he muttered. "Did I dream all of that?" He glanced quickly down at his arms and then at his chest, checking. That part had been no dream, for the strange runes were plainly to be seen there, pricked into his flesh. He put a hand to his cheek and hissed with pain to feel a cut, sore, but already sealing over. Unless he had accidentally walked into a tree branch last night in his mushroom rapture, running with the deer had been no dream either. Gently, Thranduil untangled himself from his wife's legs and sat back on his heels. His vividly recalled night with Lalaithiel had obviously been quite real. She lay sprawled in sleep, dark hair tousled. Her arms and breast bore tiny smears of his blood from where his marks had pulled open during their lovemaking. Blood marked her face and forehead, either his or that of the stag. Silvery trails of his seed lay drying on her parted thighs. She looked such a pretty mess that almost was he tempted to wake her and make her a gift of the natural consequence of hours of sleep on a full bladder. After short deliberation, he decided better of it. Let her rest, he thought tenderly, for he had quite worn her out. When she woke, they would bathe together in the pool, and then he planned to carry her back into the bower and muss her thoroughly again. There would be time for that and much more in the years to come; all the time in the world. Thranduil was still smiling as he uncurled himself from beneath the lean-to of pine boughs and stood. "A-danat danaî chîni-an, binj ard-lo . . . ." Thranduil whirled and froze. "Good morning, son," said Tûron amiably. He stood across the clearing at the edge of the pool, interrupted in the singing of his benediction. Thranduil staunchly resisted the urge to drop his hands to his groin. He would be cursed if he'd let this Avor turn him into a shamefaced elf-child rushing to cover himself, father-in-law or not. "Good morning, Hîr Adar," he replied with a gracious nod of his head. "Will you give me leave for a moment?" Tûron gave an airy wave of his hand. "Of course. See to yourself. I will carry on as before." Nevertheless, as he turned to give his water to a nearby tree, Thranduil could feel his ear tips burning. Greeting another man, especially one's father-in-law, while sporting a morning erection tried even the normally unflappable dignity of a prince. "A-danat danaî chîni-an, binj ard-lo, bâhj adni-loi gill. . . ." Thranduil shifted his feet in annoyance. Tûron had a lovely singing voice, and the tune, which he recognized from last night, was sweet, but the distraction made it hard for him to get started. It took the mental image of the great falls at the end of the long lake to the north, which Thranduil had seen on a hunting trip some seven hundred years ago, to at last give him release. Sighing at the thought of all the good mushroom essence gone to waste, he gave himself three shakes and turned to face his father-in-law. "Better?" Thranduil jumped to discover that Tûron had crept up behind him unheard. He stood quite close, regarding him with a smile. "Yes, much better, thank you." "I have brought you your shirt, Thara-ndhul," Tûron said, holding out the garment. "Thank you, Hîr Adar," Thranduil said, accepting it. Rather than put it on, for it would scarce preserve his modesty, he decided to brazen it out and show his father-in-law just how much majesty he could muster when put to the test. He draped the shirt over his forearm and stood proudly naked. "Your knife is in the bower with my trousers. I will retrieve it." Tûron shook his head. "It's yours now. And so is she. Take care of them both, for you do not yet realize, son, what a precious gift I have just given you." "Oh, I think I do," Thranduil said quietly. "I do not need these marks to remind me of my promise. I said I would die for her, and for her folk if need be, and to that I hold." "It is easy enough to die," Tûron said. "I ask you again, do you have the courage to live for us all instead?" Thranduil nodded. "As long as the last one of you remains in these woods, you will have a protector in me. Strength; loyalty," he said, tapping his arms for emphasis. "This is my bond. Does it suffice?" Tûron sighed, and it seemed to Thranduil that a look of pain flared in his light grey eyes. "Oh, son, mind what you say, for out of your own mouth do you call your fate! Remember your brave words in the years to come, for now the gift is sweet, but there will come a time when it grows bitter and the burden becomes heavy indeed. May your strength avail you then." Thranduil swallowed and knitted his brow. He had chased a stag into a clearing and lost his heart to a girl. A simply thing, a light thing, no more. And now his father-in-law spoke of dark portents. The darkness seemed to lift from Tûron, then, and he laughed. "But that will not be for many years yet, and for now life is good. There is nothing sweeter than the first days with the wife of your youth. Go to her now, Thara-ndhul. Enjoy your honey-time!" With that, he spun away. "Na ai-nat all-mâr? Dhin a njar-di-lew . . . ." And so singing Tûron went away into the trees. Thranduil stood staring after him, alone with the pounding of his heart. As Tûron turned his head, Thranduil had spied a freshly healing cut on the side of his neck, a shallow nick far from the vulnerable jugular . . . . * * * * * * * Translations: "A-danat danaî chîni-an, binj ard-lo. . . ." : "Give to these children, new from the world . . . ." "bâhj adni-loi gill.": "Rest far away from Men." "Na ai-nat all-mâr? Dhin a njar-di-lew . . .." : "Is anything more good? Now tell us this . . . ." Author's Note: The words of Tûron's spell have been translated into Avarin Elvish for me by the multi-talented and generous Claudio. They are from WB Yeats' poem, A Faery Song, which is sung by the Fair Folk over a bridal couple. It runs thus: We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told: Give to these children, new from the world, Silence and love; And the long dew-dropping hours of the night, And the stars above: Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then: Us who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told. (1891) Needless to say, thank you Claudio! Chapter 5 - Epilogue: White Feathers in the Snow Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. Epilogue: White Feathers in the Snow "Vacant shuttles Weave the wind. I have no ghosts," TS Eliot, Gerontion Thranduil Oropherion sat in the snow at the base of the oak tree, alone, save for a solitary deer that wandered through the clearing, leaving only a faint trail of footprints behind to mark its passing. Much had changed. He had lost Oropher to an orcish arrow on the dusty plain of the Dagorlad, over three thousand years ago. Lalaithiel had been gone for more than four ennin now, dead in the making of their son, so long desired and bought at so bitter a price. Almost two hundred times had the leaves fallen in the woods since that beloved child, Legolas, took ship into the west to seek healing for a heart called by the sea and a faer ravaged by war and the slow loss of his mortal friends to death. They had all vanished as surely as the snows of winters past, although, unlike the drifting white cover that blanketed the woods every season, they did not return. Thranduil himself remained, as the woods aged and the world of Men grew around him. With each new loss, Thranduil had learned that it did indeed take more courage to live than to die. His father-in-law's words, so little understood when first uttered, began to take on meaning. "Why do you stay, Thranduil?" Galion had said just that evening, forgetting to use his title as his old friend was increasingly wont to do in moments of concern, after catching him sitting alone in the dark and staring off absently into the west. "Why torture yourself? I will take ship with you, and many others also, just as we followed you north so long ago." Thranduil had only shaken his head wearily, risen, and left Galion without a word. Taking only his cloak and a full wineskin, he left the cavern and headed out alone into the woods. Now he sat, drawing in the strength of the ancient oak at his back. The Avorren knife hung in a deerskin sheath at his belt, as it had done for all of the previous Age. Thranduil had not laid eyes upon Tûron since bidding him farewell soon after the Shadow took root upon their old home of Amon Lanc and spread its evil gloom over the Wood. Despite fervent entreaties, his father-in-law had declined to accompany the folk north when Thranduil made the difficult decision to lead them to the safety of the caverns along the Forest River. "I know the bitterness of leaving a beloved home and leading people to a new place, Thara-ndhul. I have done it once, and I shall do it no more." Tûron's words were grave, but his face held a grim joy. "Here, in these mountains, I will stay to meet whatever end awaits me." Only a handful of the Forest Folk had come north with their queen, ensuring that their ways would not be forgotten. Yet Thranduil knew the others were still out there, hidden in the glens of the Emyn Duir and among the sheltering boughs of what he had renamed the Wood of Greenleaves. He could still hear their voices as a silent song among the trees and feel their faer along with the life-force of the forest itself, the living and the Houseless both. Had Thranduil ever been tempted to doubt, he had only to recall his last great battle under the trees, when, during the final days of the Ring War, his realm had been assailed by the forces of Dol Guldur . The orcs of that cursed tower used fell substances and flaming arrows to set the woods alight, and Thranduil, fighting amidst the burning, had feared that all was lost, for his army, even with many of the women pressed into service to wield sword and pike in a last ditch defense of life and home, found itself grievously outnumbered. Remembering his parting words to Legolas, "Better to die on your feet like a man than weeping on your knees as a slave," Thranduil had begun to laugh, vowing to show these foul yrcch how a scion of the House of Oropher met his end, when out of the burning woods they materialized, strange elves in clad green and brown, as silent as if the trees themselves had birthed them. They wore no armor, and they carried only light knives and bows, but how they had fought! The tide of battle turned, and Thranduil had the victory. With the orcs routed and their disorganized remnants fleeing south before his army, Thranduil, his eyes streaming tears from more than the smoke, turned to see an elf whose face he knew from an entire Age past. Nènlû. The Avor had not spoken; merely bowing and mouthing the word, 'Remember,' before leading the rest of his folk back into the blackened trees. A cool wind brushed his cheek. Returning his thoughts to the present, Thranduil brushed a drift of snow from his lap and raised the wineskin, which had by now become much lighter. Soon, he thought, taking yet another deep draught. How could he ever forget? For confirmation, he grasped his left arm, feeling the strength of the muscle through the thick layers of his cloak and jacket. The marks, which raised a bumpy scar at first, had quickly smoothed, yet they remained as dark as when they first were applied, never fading. Thranduil thought they might even outlast him. "Stubborn, you called me once, Adar," Thranduil said softly into the night. "Well, you did not know the half of it. Until the last of my wife's folk have left these woods, I have promised to protect them, and to that promise I hold firm. I am their king, now and until the end of all things." Moving his hand to his heart, where the cloth of his jacket covered the mark of his wife's name, Thranduil conjured up a vision of her face and sighed. "Forgive me, my love, but this is the price I paid for you. In my innocence, I had no idea how steep it would be, but even now, with the full telling, I still count you worth it." Thranduil looked up through the trees to the night sky, where Eärendil made his nightly voyage across the heavens. Such a Golodhren star, Thranduil thought, to burn so brightly that it outshone its fellows. And how odd that his own folk called it Gil-Estel, for in the end, Hope had taken his son from him. Thranduil raised his arm, stretching it out before him, and smiled, for his hand still remained solid enough to block out the light of the star, erasing it from the heavens and allowing the more subtle glimmering of the others to show. It may yet be that the tales were true and that, for his choice to stay behind, Thranduil's flesh would be doomed to lose substance, fading from the sight of the world, until he became no more than a whisper on the wind and a chill in a Mortal's heart on a moonless night. But today was not that day. Taking up the wineskin, Thranduil drained it in a long pull. Was it enough? It would have to be enough. Laying the skin aside for future retrieval, he rose, brushing snow from his pants. He felt unsteady on his feet and his head spun. But such was the condition he sought tonight. Leaping high, he pulled himself into the oak tree and stood swaying on the branch. 'You are going to fall and break your neck, you know,' his voice of reason informed him. "Be still," he told it. "Always do you say that, and never does it happen. Be still." Even as he spoke, Thranduil could feel the trees, his trees, reaching out to enfold him and guide his feet on their way. He sensed the eyes and hearts of the Forest Folk, his people, upon him, sharing the strength of their faer with him. The vain imaginings of a drunken brain? Perhaps, but it made no matter, for in this moment Thranduil believed. He threw back his head and let out the Elven war cry that had put fire into the blood of his people so often in the past. There were no more battles for him to fight; nothing left but the slow fade and the long defeat, until the final prophesied conflict, when Morgoth would come back in through the Doors of Night and bring on Dagor Dagorath. Whether as living, faded, or Houseless, Thranduil intended to meet it on his feet, as he had done all others. And until that day, he endured. Drawing in a deep breath and sending his heart on ahead of him, Thranduil took off running through the treetops. A faint sound from the forest floor reached his ears, and he looked down to see a single deer speeding along the snowy ground below, keeping him pace. 'Is anything better?' he asked himself with a smile. 'Tell me, then . . . .' Letting the old magic claim his feet once again, Thranduil Oropherion ran through his woods under the starlight. * * * * * * * The End Translation: ennin: Long-years, the Sindarin equivalent of yeni, 144 years each. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sun Nov 15, 2026 2:43 am