Fic: A King in Winter
Summary: Fighting a losing battle, forced to lead his people north to escape the horror and havoc unleashed on Eryn Galen by the power of Sauron, Thranduil tries to find peace.
Teitho Prompt: Giving Gifts, Receiving Gifts
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien.
Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Calenlass, for comments, suggestions and patience with questions. *hugs*
Rating: PG
A King in Winter
All around me is despair. The children shuffle through the forest in stunned silence, unable to believe that they may never again see the only home they have known in their short lives. The adults are scarcely less upset; they, unlike the Elflings, know precisely what is happening. A pall has descended over the ragged company: there is not one of us who cannot feel the Shadow that has descended on Greenwood the Great like the fall of night.
What have I done?
I promised.
I promised that I would keep them safe. I promised that I would make them happy. I promised that I needed no magic ring to keep the remnants of Sauron’s evil from defiling our beautiful home.
And now here I am, leading my people away to the north. We fled like thieves in the night, and it still rankles. We ran, leaving the warriors to cover our escape as best they could, to reclaim our home from the Orcs if they could. And I, who should have stood in the front ranks of the army as my father always did, led the ignominious retreat.
“Do not be absurd,” Thorontur said impatiently when I told him I intended to stay with the warriors instead of leaving with the people. “They need you more than we do.”
“I cannot ask the warriors to stay and fight if I do not do it myself!”
“Thranduil, think about what you are saying! Now, when our home is in ruins and our people are broken, is when you are needed most - needed as King. Who will lead our people if you should fall here?”
“Legolas,” I said impatiently; when he flushed scarlet, I realized the truth. “You have given Legolas leave to stay?”
“Arbellason has,” he replied, busying himself with some papers so that I could not see his face. “There was no help for it. His friends are all staying. We can hardly expect him to go.”
“That settles it,” I snapped. “I am staying -”
“You are not,” Thorontur replied flatly. “If we have to send you away bound hand and foot, we will do it, Thranduil. We cannot risk losing both you and Legolas, not now. Since he is staying, you must go.”
“My son is not staying here without me!”
“Just now you were eager to share the fate of the warriors. Are you so unwilling to share the worry of their parents?”
I drew a deep breath. I knew he was right, although I could not bring myself to admit it.
I knew he was right - I still know he was right. But had I known then what I do now, that what was meant to be only a few weeks of separation would drag into months as the warriors battled endlessly on in a desperate attempt to save our home, all the duty in the world could not have made me leave my son behind.
I am startled from my thoughts by a breaking twig as Arbellason hurries up to me. He is here commanding the half of the army that came north with us, while Thorontur stayed to take charge of those who guarded our flight.
“What do the Dwarves say?” I ask, knowing that it cannot possibly be anything good.
“They are working as quickly as they can. But they cannot tell us when they will finish.” He pauses. “Do you want to inspect what they have done so far?”
I agree, for no other reason than that it will give me something to do and take me away from the accusing stares of my people. He leads me to the entrance to the caverns. I cannot suppress a sigh as I bend practically double - the doorway is still only Dwarf-height - and enter. Silvan Elves seldom take kindly to caves, and my Silvan subjects will surely detest being enclosed by stone. But this is the best I can do for them, now: the trees will always be there if they want to spend their time outdoors.
Somehow these caverns do not remind me of Menegroth, although Menegroth was what I had in mind when I ordered their construction. I cannot quite tell what the difference is. Perhaps it is only that, for now, these caverns are empty except for the Dwarves chipping away at the walls and ceilings.
Heads turn as we walk past, and I fidget uncomfortably. I cannot forget how Thingol was slain.
Arbellason, paying the glowering Dwarves - and why should they glower when I am paying them well for their labour? - no more mind than if they had been petulant children, leads me through yawning rooms and rough-hewn corridors, up and down crudely-cut flights of stairs, until we reach a short hallway with only one Dwarf working in it.
“The royal quarters,” Arbellason says. I nod. I left him and Norgalad to work out most of the details of the new stronghold between them: it was all I could do to keep the people from outright rebellion as the nights grew darker.
He indicates the door at the end of the hallway.
“That leads to your apartments... The rooms to the left are guestrooms in the unlikely event that Galadriel and Celeborn ever deign to visit us. The last room to the right is your private dining-room. But I thought you might want to see this first.”
He leads me to halfway down the corridor and through the doorway to the right. I am unable to suppress a gasp.
With all the twisting and turning to get here, I had not realized that we had approached the side of the mountain. The walls slope gently inwards, and have already had large windows cut into them, so that the late afternoon sun fills the room with warmth and light. Already, and even in the middle of winter, ivy has crept up to one of them, green tendrils snaking in and trailing cheerfully down the wall.
“I had no idea a cave could be made so... bright,” I say at last.
“That is because you do not understand stone, Elven-king,” a gravelly voice says. I look around for its source, and finally see the Dwarf glaring at me around a doorframe. “And what about the balcony?” he adds.
“The balcony?”
“Go and see it,” Arbellason offers.
The Dwarf gets to his feet with much clanking, and I realize with a start that he is wearing full body armour.
Full body armour. And a helmet. And, sweet Elbereth, even his battle-axe.
With great difficulty, I refrain from commenting as I follow him to the balcony.
It has been cut from an outcrop of stone, and the natural slope of the mountainside means that any Elven warrior, especially one as relentless in the pursuit of mischief as Legolas, will certainly be able to scramble up to the balcony from the ground.
“We can have the outcrop cut away beneath,” Arbellason offers, prompting the Dwarf to mutter under his breath.
About to consent, I suddenly change my mind and shake my head. A dark time is upon us, and I am not about to deprive Legolas of whatever relief he can get, no matter what it costs me in sleepless nights.
“Let it be,” I say.
Arbellason nods, understanding. We leave the room and he shows me quickly over the rest of the caverns. Less than an hour later we are outdoors again. A sudden breeze has sprung up, stirring the snow beneath our feet. I realize, with a start, that tonight is Midwinter’s Night - and, by an odd coincidence, the night of the Winter Moon.
“There will be a feast,” Arbellason offers, guessing my thoughts. “The cooks are at work already.”
I am grateful that he remembered in time to order the preparations. The people have endured a great deal: they have travelled farther than many of them hoped to do until the final journey across the Sea, and they have put up with warriors’ privations for several months. They do not deserve to be deprived of the Midwinter celebration because their king was forgetful.
“I wish I had better news to give them,” I say softly. Some of them, I know, still hope that the warriors in the south will be able to drive the Orcs away so that we can return in the spring. I hoped the same, in the beginning.
I know now that nothing of the kind can happen. The servants of the Necromancer are more numerous than any of us could have imagined. Thorontur’s reports have spoken of holding the lines for hours only to be pushed back by a fresh wave of Orcs, of an endless string of defeats as the forces of the Shadow advance inch by inch into Greenwood. How he has lasted this long I do not know: such a hopeless campaign would have driven anybody else to despair. But he has lasted, and given us precious weeks.
His last letter said that he had finally managed to halt their advance; while it is unlikely that we will be able to regain any of the lost ground in the near future, at least we are safe now. We will be able to claim our lives once more.
Legolas’ letters are far less informative. They arrive with regularity - before we parted, I took his promise to write to me every time a courier was sent north. But, usually written from horseback or when he is half-asleep from weariness, his communications tend to be neither legible nor coherent and do little to reassure me of his physical and mental wellbeing.
The moon is rising now, and the last of the daylight has just faded. The snow seems to glow beneath our feet as we make our way to the clearing where a bonfire is being lit.
“Have you invited the Dwarves?” I ask. I do not particularly like them, but it is the courteous thing to do.
“I did, and they expressed a strong preference for staying in the mountain and sleeping.”
I do not try to hide my relief. The people are restless, most of them worrying about friends or family in the south. They need this night, and they need it without any outsiders to dampen their enthusiasm for the festivities.
“I have a gift for you,” Arbellason goes on. I give a guilty start, and he laughs. “Do not worry, Thranduil. I know you remembered nothing. I did not expect you to, with everything else you have to concern you. But I will give it to you later. Come - the people are waiting for you to begin!”
I go with him, a little regretfully. I am in no mood to celebrate. How can I be, with Orcs overrunning my borders and my realm in chaos? But this is one of the duties I cannot ignore at a time like this. I cannot control the outcome of the battle to the south - that is in Thorontur’s hands - but I can try to make this night happy for those who are with me.
The clearing is already thronged. The Elflings have been installed on the forest floor near the bonfire, snuggled in blankets against the cold that their bodies have not yet grown strong enough to ignore. They look determined to stay awake through the night, although I have no doubt that all but the oldest of them will be sound asleep by morning.
The older Elves stand around the clearing, among the trees, the bright colours of their cloaks, tunics and gowns standing out in the leafless woods. Later there will be more bonfires, and the crowd will break up into groups, but for now they are gathered together to hear their King speak.
They make way for us to walk through to the centre. As we do so, I am conscious of thousands of eyes on me.
I swallow. How many of them would have gone to Lothlórien after the debacle at the Dagorlad, but for my reassurances and promises of protection? How many of them would now have been safe there instead of fleeing their home in fear of their lives? How many, even now, are thinking that they would prefer any amount of Noldorin politics to this uncertainty?
Arbellason nudges me, and I know that I must speak. But what can I say?
“My friends,” I begin, and I stop. No words are adequate to convey all that we have been through these past months. Arbellason steps closer to me in concern. I look around at all the Elves watching, some with anger, it is true, but many with sympathy; I turn to meet my friend’s steady gaze, and finally I find the courage to go on.
“This is not the happiest of the Midwinter celebrations we have had,” I say. “There are many Elves who were with us when we last held this feast, many leagues to the south, who are not here today. Some of them may never hold the Midwinter vigil with us again. I know you are all worried about them. I know that some of you are appalled by the thought that we are making merry in the absence of those who sacrificed so much to give us safety.”
There are nods and murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
“I do not ask you to celebrate for the sake of celebration,” I continue as the murmurs die down. “I ask you to honour those who have fought and died defending us. I ask you not to let the Shadow lower your spirits, because that would render their efforts useless. I ask you to ensure that when our warriors finally come to us here, they do not come to a joyless wasteland. This has been a difficult year for us all, but I ask you - I beg you -to help me. We cannot let the Enemy win.”
I stop, unable to say any more. Fortunately there is no need. My people understand. Slowly they disperse, more than one stopping to wish me joy first, and as the night wears on I hear sounds of determined merrymaking gradually giving way to genuine happiness.
I feel prouder of them than I can describe. For once I have done what I swore to myself I would never do, and asked of them something for which I have neither the spirit nor the courage - with Legolas in danger it is all I can do not to vent my fear and frustration on anybody in sight, and feasting is out of the question. They have risen to the challenge magnificently. They will never know it, but it is the best Midwinter gift they could possibly have given me.
I turn and walk away from the celebration. If I stay someone will surely come to me with the inevitable crown of ivy and winter berries, and I do not know if I can bear that now.
When I return to my people, two days have passed. It is night. The moon, though waning, is bright enough that I can see my way easily.
Arbellason’s eyes are immediately on me, but I do not answer the unspoken question. He has a right to be displeased - I should not have disappeared without telling him, and I certainly should not have ordered the trees not to let anybody find me. I have no excuse to make. It was a moment of weakness. It was unjustifiable, I know: at a time like this, a king should be stronger.
My throat burns as I contemplate my many failures. A wonderful ruler I have turned out to be! I do not want to imagine how many of my people are now wishing they had gone to Galadriel in Lothlórien instead of staying here on the promise of an arrogant young fool who thought he could be as good a king as his father.
I look around the glade where we stand. Nobody is here save the two of us. The trees are sympathetic, but unfamiliar. I shiver. It is my arrogance that has brought us to this.
Arbellason’s gaze is still boring into mine like a gimlet.
“Please...” I say softly. “I had to go. I could not stay. I am sorry.”
He raises one eyebrow, looking uncannily like the peredhel. I wonder if he is in a good enough mood for me to tell him so.
“You could have been killed. Anything might have happened.” He sounds angry. I do not blame him. I would be furious in his place. “You will not do this again, Thranduil. Ever.”
“I am sorry,” I repeat. “I did not intend to worry you.”
His nod is curt.
“You did not stay to see my Midwinter gift for you. After you vanished, I hoped to give it to you on your return, but...”
He trails off, biting his lip. I am about to ask him what he means, but before I can, a voice - a beloved, familiar voice - rings out from behind him. I am vaguely aware of dropping my sword, for once not caring about whether a few minutes on the damp grass will make it rust.
I do not notice what is said. I do not care whether he was calling a greeting to the trees or complaining about the weather: what is important is that he is here.
A moment later he steps through the trees. He has changed, my Elfling, since the time I saw him last. He walks now with the noiseless, effortlessly stealthy tread of the warrior. He is dressed like a warrior, as well, in the green tunic and brown cloak that blend so well into the forest that I do not believe I would have been able to distinguish him from the trees had his hair not been shining in the moonlight.
I am overjoyed to see him - and yet, as I look at him, I am afraid.
It is his eyes. They are not the eyes of the young Elf to whom I said farewell nearly a year ago. They are not the eyes of a warrior, either. He looks haunted, like a child who has seen too much.
“My king.”
I do not know which is worse - that the first words I hear from my son after all those months of separation are so totally devoid of emotion, or that his smile is so clearly forced. He bows his head in formal greeting, but although I am expecting him to fling himself into my arms - although I am hoping he will do it - he only stands there, waiting.
Clearly I am both a terrible king and a terrible father.
“Legolas. How are you?”
The question is so ridiculous that I nearly laugh. No wonder he does not want my company.
“I am well,” he replies.
I do not bother to refute his statement. We both know he is lying. But what right have I to demand an answer of him, I who am no longer worthy of asking his allegiance, leave alone his affection?
I look at Arbellason instead. “If this was your gift -”
“His gift?” another voice interrupts. “His gift, nothing. He would have delayed this if he could.” Thorontur drops from the trees to stand on Legolas’ other side. “Your son’s company is my gift to you. I am sorry we could not be here in time for the festival - although, from what I can tell, it would have made little difference.” He glares at me. “We have been here for hours.”
“I am sorry,” I manage.
“Never mind.” He beckons to Arbellason. “There is much to be said about his stubbornness, but we can leave it for later. I do not know about Thranduil, but my archer needs rest, not a lecture - not even a lecture meant for his father.” He claps Legolas paternally on the shoulder. “I will see you in the morning, Elfling.”
Legolas nods, but does not speak. Thorontur turns and begins to walk away. About to join him, Arbellason stops suddenly, hurries to me and hands me a small cloth-wrapped package.
“I doubt you will like this as much as Thorontur’s gift, but you will need it in the days to come,” he says cryptically. In a murmur that will not carry to Legolas, he adds, “Do not worry, Thranduil. He is not angry with you. He is only battle-weary.”
I nod my thanks and unwrap the bundle. What falls out is a painting, a miniature in a delicate silver frame. It is of the three of us, Lindariel, Legolas and me, painted when Legolas had seen only a handful of summers. I have to blink away tears as I look at it. When we fled, with every precious second bought at the cost of Elven blood, I did not have time to collect any portraits, not even my favourite one of Lindariel and Legolas. While Arbellason’s gift is certainly not as good as having Legolas before me in the flesh, it means more than I think even he will ever understand.
“Thank you,” I choke.
He smiles.
“Do not worry, Thranduil. You are a good king.”
Then he is gone, and I am alone with Legolas. The thought makes me nervous, which is ludicrous. Why should I be uncomfortable about being left alone with my Elfling? But I am nervous, and angry that I am nervous, and... I look up to see Legolas’ eyes on me, disconcerting in their knowing scrutiny. I flush and turn away, seating myself on a fallen log to hide my confusion.
“I am sorry, Legolas.”
“What for?”
I should not answer. I truly should not answer. Legolas has enough troubles of his own without being burdened with mine. What horrors he has seen during these past months I do not want to imagine. Now that he is finally home, he deserves better than a litany of my errors.
But my tongue is forming the words, and I have neither the strength nor the will to stop it.
“I have been a bad king.” I hear a small snort of disbelief, and I shake my head. “I have, Legolas. You will know once you have had a chance to speak to somebody else. I am so sorry. I had hoped never to see a time when I would be ashamed to admit my actions to you. I have failed in my duty. I -”
I pause, draw a deep breath, and turn to him again. I will tell him what I must, and I will not do it with my face turned away like a coward.
Before he can stop me, I launch into an explanation of how I have failed. He should understand. I have to make him understand. It is possible that when he does, he will disown me as one unfit to be either king or father. I do not know how I will live with that, but I know that I cannot lie to my son.
I tell him what I have never told even Thorontur or Arbellason - of my mother’s final counsel, before she sailed, to take the remnants of our people to Lothlórien if the power of the Enemy should prove greater than any of us had imagined. I tell him how my own arrogance, my refusal to bow to what I must confess I still consider dangerous Noldorin politics, kept me from asking aid when it might have been useful. I tell him how, in my blind pride, I condemned the warriors - condemned him - to months of fruitless, bloody battle. I tell him how I have failed my people, failed my friends, and failed him.
As I speak he draws closer to me. As soon as he is near enough I seize his hand and hold it as tightly as I can. I expect him to try to pull away, but he only lowers himself to the ground, rests his head on my knee, and looks up at me with compassion brimming in his blue eyes.
I do not deserve compassion, but I am grateful for it. Disgust I could not have borne, not from Legolas.
It is some time before I stop talking, but he does not move a muscle. When I finish, he sighs, still looking at me sympathetically.
“And all that fear you bore alone?” he asks, squeezing my hands. “I wish I had been here, Ada. I might have been able to help you, a little.”
I almost laugh. He is so much like Lindariel, my soft-hearted little Elfling. I wish that circumstances had not forced him to become a warrior - he has never said that he wants anything else, of course, but through the concerned anxiety in his eyes I can still see shadows from the battles he has known.
“You help me more than you know,” I assure him, disengaging one hand from his to run it over his warrior braids. “More than I deserve,” I add in a whisper.
“Ada.” He sounds stern now, as he straightens to bring himself closer to my eye level. “You must stop thinking such things.” It is almost an order. I stifle a laugh. I can barely wait for the day when he will be old enough to be given command of my archers. “You are a good king.” He leans forward. “You are a brave king. And you are the very best of fathers.”
For the first time he is truly smiling: a small smile, but it feels to me like a sudden burst of summer sunshine in the cold air.
And that is the greatest gift of all.
Ada - Dad/Daddy