The World Is Changing - 1
Of course Thranduil and Elara have been demanding their share of my Muse's time. No mattter that I'm in the middle of working on other things, the Elvenking and his blind mortal friend seem to consider themselves entitled to completely hijack my time, my creativity - my keyboard - whenever they darned well feel like it.
So, without further ado, here is the next installment of their story - which ended up being two chapters long.
The harp music was, as usual, exquisite.
Elara smiled as she reached out to the little table just to her right - between her seat and that of King Thranduil - for the last of the goblet of wine she’d been nursing that evening, kept where she could find it without too much fumbling. She never had more than one goblet in an evening, and always made it last. Knowing this, the King always made certain a small table near her seat at the entertainment was made available for her use.
After two years, she was finally beginning to get accustomed to having wine with her evening meals, especially during those times when the King would ask for her company at his table and afterward, in his Great Hall for whatever entertainment was prepared. Thranduil assured her that the Dorwinion served to her was the best Middle Earth had to offer - and Elara had no doubt that the wine, just as the music and so much else in his hall, certainly was of the best quality available.
Except for the fact that she now lived in the endless darkness of blindness, her life as a whole had definitely improved in quality since she’d been brought, more dead than alive, into the Elvenking’s hall. She now had a comfortable suite of rooms of her own, an occupation of sorts that kept her busy over the course of a day, friends and work colleagues with whom to spend the day and sometimes the evening, and a royal patron who made it his personal business to see to her welfare on a regular basis.
No longer only called forth to participate in feasts for festivals or to honor the occasional guest to the realm, she now dined with King Thranduil at regular evening mealtimes as well. A foiled attempt to remove her from Mirkwood infuriated the King and caused him to take action - the most obvious of which was moving her apartments to the royal wing, where her safety could be guarded as closely as was his own. Since her recovery from the injuries stemming from the assault, he made certain she was escorted to evening meals every night; and from time to time - often without obvious reason - made a public point of personally escorting her to a place at the high table and then later to a seat at his side in the Great Hall to enjoy the evening’s entertainment.
This evening had been one of those random evenings at the King’s table. The meal had been a congenial one, shared with Thranduil, his seneschal, Tarion, and his wife and Míriel and her husband. It wasn’t the first time Elara had found herself in such a grouping, although she sometimes wondered at her inclusion. Invariably she found herself doing far more listening than speaking - which was fine with her - although the Elvenking usually managed to draw her out and into the discussion at least once an evening.
Tonight, however, the King had seemed content to let the conversation of the others flow during the meal without participating much himself, and even now had let the music to have its gentle way with her without interruption. As the evening wore on, the others left to join the rest of the household in taking part in the dancing over an hour earlier, leaving the two of them sitting alone at the edges of the gathering. She could hear the occasional whisper of a slipper against the smooth floor in front of her, and the part of her mind not enchanted with the music sometimes painted provocative pictures of what the dancing might look like, based in part on her recollections of what dancing in the forest with Thranduil for the past two MidSummer celebrations had felt like.
Elara was surprised out of her reverie when her right hand was suddenly captured by the King’s the moment she had carefully replaced her nearly empty goblet in its spot on the nearby small table. “I haven’t been a very good host this evening,” Thranduil’s deep voice announced in a tone of contrition. “I have indulged myself in preoccupation and ignored you. My apologies.”
She turned her fingers in his and squeezed gently. “There is nothing to forgive, Sire. The food was excellent, the discussion around the table during the meal interesting, and the music is always relaxing.” She smiled in his general direction. “I am quite content. Besides, it isn’t your job to keep me entertained.”
“Hmm.” There was a long pause in which Elara could only wonder at what was going through the mind of the volatile Elvenking - especially since he retained hold on her hand. When Thranduil grew silent, his thoughts could take him in many unexpected directions that could catch her completely by surprise when and if he finally decided to share them with her. Tonite he shared, but his tone sounded guarded. “You should be aware that we will be receiving visitors tomorrow - the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien. The Lady will be taking ship across the sea from the Havens, and would farewell some of her more distant kin along the way. There will be a feast tomorrow in her honor - I would have you sit at the High Table again.”
“As you wish,” Elara nodded. She’d heard enough about some of the other Elven realms in her time in Thranduil’s hall to know of the reputation of the Lady of Light. The thought of actually sitting at the table with such an illustrious personage was a little daunting; but if Thranduil wanted her at the high table, she’d be there - no doubt intimidated into awkward silence, but there.
She also knew, however, that even the remotest touch on the topic of Elves leaving Arda tended to send the King into a tailspin of moods for days - from dark and brooding to unpredictable, explosive anger. This visit would be more than a remote touch - and the resulting mood would no doubt be equally intense. “You’re also warning me, I take it, to steer clear of you until you are more yourself again after they leave?”
There was a moment’s pause, and then a sigh. “Actually, I’m afraid I’m hoping that you’ll do just the opposite.”
Now he had her thoroughly confused. Of late, Thranduil had been very conscientious about keeping her safe from his temper after the attempt to remove her from his hall had resulted in her being in much closer proximity. “Sire?” she asked, frowning slightly.
“Elara…” The deep voice sounded vaguely uncertain, something that Elara rarely heard from her proud and capable host.
She squeezed his hand in hers again and leaned in his direction. “What’s wrong?”
Elara felt the Elvenking suddenly surge to his feet, his hand pulling her with him. “Come walk with me.” Without waiting for her assent, he tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow and, with his normal care, helped her down from the slightly raised platform on which they’d been seated before heading off full speed away from the music. She could feel the barely restrained tension through his velvet sleeve and did her best to trust that her feet wouldn’t tangle in his robes as he pulled her along. The music from the Great Hall faded into the distance, and then the feel of fresh air and a small breeze told her that he’d brought her outside - with the heady scent of rare autumn flowers announcing her entrance into his private garden that lay just beyond the royal residence itself. This was his private refuge, into which he’d brought her only once before, not quite two years before. Something had to be very wrong for him to bring her here again.
“Thranduil?” She deliberately pulled back now, slowing him. “Talk to me. You’re starting to frighten me.”
Immediately he stopped moving, and she bumped into his side awkwardly, only to be caught by a steadying arm before she could unbalance or fall. In a single, unbroken movement, that same arm swept her close and up into a tight embrace. “Forgive me,” he rumbled over the top of her head. “I fear I’m not exactly myself at the moment. I didn’t mean to cause you alarm.”
Elara stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed against him. This was Thranduil, she reminded herself - one of a very few in her world nowadays that she trusted implicitly to mean her no harm. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she urged when he showed no signs of letting go of her.
He was silent for a very long moment, as if mustering what it would take to answer her. “It’s beginning,” he finally whispered in the most broken tone she’d ever heard from him. “I’m losing them, Elara - it is the beginning of the end - and nothing I can do will stop it or even slow it. I thought I was ready, but…”
Slowly her arms went about him, her cheek pressed against his robe. As always, the King smelled of green woods and sweet, new-cut grass, scents she had come to associate with safety and security. His embrace was unexpectedly needy, however, and her concern increased. Usually he was the one comforting her - to be the one he approached for comfort and then clung to worried her. “What do you mean, you’re losing them? Who are ‘they’?”
He took a long sigh and rested his cheek against her hair. “When the Lady Galadriel continues on toward Imladris after her visit here, she will take a goodly number of my people with her to the Havens and beyond.”
“Oh.” Míriel, in one of their long discussions, had explained to her in detail about the history and the many reasons behind the elves leaving Middle-earth. She had known of the pending loss of Thranduil’s son to the Undying Lands, but the concept of a departure on a massive scale from Eryn Lasgalen had staggered Elara’s imagination past all acceptance. Now, suddenly, the idea was brought home and made reality - the unbelievable was happening, even as she watched.
The embrace loosened at last, but Thranduil still kept a possessive arm about her. “Come, there’s a bench over here where we can sit and talk,” he said, again pulling to guide her along - and then guide her to a seat. He sat down with her on the short bench, of necessity sitting quite close. “The long war was hard on all of the Eldar,” he sighed. “Many of my people died and will eventually be rehoused to wait in Aman until their loved ones come to join them. And with the greatest of us already taking to the ships, for many here there’s little to hold onto to keep them in Arda anymore.”
“Míriel tried to explain it to me once, but I still don’t understand. Are your people not loyal to you? Is not the honor of serving their King enough to keep them here?” She was almost incensed at the idea of Eryn Lasgalen being abandoned by any of her people.
“I declared long ago that I would never cross the sea,” Thranduil told her quietly. “I was born here in Arda, I have nurtured and cherished the land even in its darkest hour - I am a part it. I have sworn oaths; I cannot leave. And so, if the foretelling is to be believed, I will eventually fade - along with any who remain behind with me. I would not be so selfish as to condemn all of my people to my fate.”
“But… what about Lalaith - and Legolas?” Elara asked very cautiously and quietly, knowing full well she was treading on extremely sensitive ground. “Both of them will be in Aman soon - would you not go to be with them then, when the time comes for all Elves to leave?”
“I cannot leave,” Thranduil’s voice shimmered with grief and frustration. “I swore an oath to Lalaith’s father - the leader of the Avari who were a part of this forest before my father ever set eyes on it - that I would nurture and protect the land with every ounce of my being until the breaking of the world. This was the price I was asked to pay to take his daughter to wife; and at the time, I was glad to pay it. But now… If I were to leave before then, I would be foresworn - an oath-breaker - and I could never look Lalaith or my son in the face again.” He fell silent for a moment, and from the way he trembled next to her, Elara knew he was struggling with strong emotions. “She was supposed to stay with me, Elara - to be at my side through the Ages - to fade with me when the time came, not perish only hours after giving birth to our son and leave me to face this alone.”
“Would you go to her, if you were freed from your oath?” she asked in a whisper.
Thranduil seemed to pause for a moment, and then she could feel him moving as if shaking his head. “No. This is my home. This is my forest. The oath changes nothing other than taking from me the freedom to change my mind.” He paused again and sighed. “But it isn’t the same way for most of the others here. They are tired - tired of the long fight, tired of the need for constant vigilance even in times of peace, tired of the separation between themselves and those who lost their lives to the Enemy. They would go on to their rest and their loved ones, and I don’t begrudge them that, except…”
“Except…” Elara understood now why the topic of Elves leaving Arda always sent him into such a black mood. She could hardly blame him. But she still didn’t understand why he wasn’t pushing her away to keep her safe from his moods as he usually did. “But if you don’t want me to stay away, Sire, what do you want then?” she asked quietly.
“What I would ask of you I can ask of no other,” he told her hesitantly, “certainly from no Elf, at any rate - for a number of reasons.”
“Ask, then,” she directed him, leaning into his side slightly. “If it’s in my power, I’ll do it.”
The Elvenking slowly moved as far away from her on the bench as he could, as if steeling himself for disappointment. “This… this departure will test me in ways I have not seen since Lalaith left me - and knowing I face losing Legolas in the same way soon as well will make this leave-taking even harder. I cannot do this alone - not again.”
“You’re not alone,” Elara stated with certainty. “Even if, as you say, many will take their leave, you will still have those who love you and care about you here - even me, such as I am. Whatever you need to get you through your dark times, you need only ask.”
Thranduil shifted on the bench almost nervously. “I know that - and so I’m asking. The worst times will be those times when I am left alone too long with my thoughts and fears. I need… someone willing to be summoned when the despair grows too deep - to keep me from doing things that don’t help the situation. I… am not proud of the way I handled Lalaith’s death, Elara - it put a great strain on my counselors and advisors to deal with an elf who… who drank to excess alone night after night in order to forget… And it never worked…”
“Thranduil…” Elara’s heart went out to him. These admissions of a past weakness and inadequacy had to be agonizing for an Elf as intensely proud of his self-reliance and power of will as was the Elvenking. “Grief does strange things to people - we both know this. There is no shame in having to withdraw…”
“But I little served my son, who was but a helpless elfling, to trust him to a nurse while I emptied cask after cask… And my realm… For a whole year…”
“Listen to me.” Her hands reached out and found his arms, and then followed them down to where she could grasp his hands for a change. “That was two thousand years ago. You needed a time of withdrawal back then, and had the resources to do so without lasting damage to either your son or your kingdom. Leave the blame behind with the pain, where it belongs.”
Thranduil’s hands turned in hers this time, and his grip on her was strong. “But I fear I will do the same again - and in so doing, waste time I no longer have in abundance. And worse - even if you agree to be the one I summon in my dark hours, I fear my despair will make me fight your efforts to keep me from falling down the same hole again.” He shuddered, and his voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “I fear that you will abandon me too when, in a fit of madness, I say or do something that would rightly offend or drive you away.”
He paused, then continued with a note of warning, “There is a reason I’ve protected you from my temper, you know. I’m well aware of what I’m capable. A wise man takes care of the gifts entrusted to his keeping by the Valar.” He took a long and shaken breath, and then set her hands carefully back in her lap. “I have no right to ask this of you, but I find myself unable to keep from asking. Will you help me - and try not to let me drive you away when my mind is too clouded to know what I’m doing?”
“I have nowhere else to go, Sire, but where you would have me,” she told him gently. “I have no kin - no family out there in the world of Men. All that I have here, you have given me. I belong here - like you told the Men from Esgaroth once. But if it is an oath you require from me to blunt the frantic edge from your mood tonight, then I’ll willingly give it to you here and now.” Elara drew herself carefully erect on her seat. “Hear me, then, Thranduil. As long as I have breath in me, by my life I swear I will not abandon you. If you summon me, regardless of the hour, I will come willingly - and I will stay, regardless of what happens, until you bid me go, knowing full well what you ask of me. So say I, Elara Vardoniel of Eryn Lasgalen.”
“You would swear such a thing?” Thranduil’s whisper sounded deeply surprised - and moved. “Without knowing what such a vow might entail?”
“I just did,” she replied with a soft smile. “Be at peace, my friend. You will not have to endure this loss alone. I won’t allow it.”
His grip on her hands dropped away, but he wrapped his arms around her again and pulled her close, holding her very tightly for a long time without speaking. Finally he whispered to her, “You are truly a gift beyond price from the Valar, Elara! I don’t know what I ever did to deserve your trust and loyalty, but I vow…”
“Hush.” Elara interrupted him, shaking her head as she leaned into his chest. “I need no vows from you.”
“You deserve them,” he rumbled into her ear. “You deserve them far more than you’ll ever realize.”
“It is enough to know I’m valued by one whose opinion matters to me,” Elara told him with a contented smile. Knowing him to be relieved was intensely satisfying.
A feather-light kiss ghosted over her forehead. “Never doubt that you are valued, my gift,” Thranduil whispered in a tender tone that made her catch her breath, “and valued most highly.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
If Elara had learned to judge Elven beauty by the sounds of Elven voices, then Galadriel had to be by far the most gloriously stunning elleth she’d ever heard. With a voice as clear as a crystal bell and low in the register of female voices, Galadriel didn’t so much speak as she sang; and her laughter was infectious. By contrast, her husband Celeborn’s voice was a soft baritone, but held a level of majesty and grandeur - and subtle sadness - that Elara had never heard before, not even from Thranduil.
For the very first time, Elara was grateful that Míriel had taught her the proper way to curtsey. Although she normally felt coarse and rude in the company of Elves, to be even more so through deliberate ignorance in the face of such elegance and refinement was not an embarrassment she wanted to endure. As it was, Galadriel unexpectedly stopped in front of her, put out a gentle hand and then raised Elara’s lowered face with a finger beneath the chin. “It is well your heart is healed at last from the deep wounds that brought you here, fíriel, for it will be much needed in the time ahead of you,” the beautiful voice said very quietly. “Be strong - and hold to your vow.”
“Lady?” Elara started away from the gentle touch. Just what did Galadriel know - and how did she know it? What did she mean, her heart was healed?
The Lady’s soft touch brushed the very edges of the scars on her cheeks before she could form her question. Galadriel pitched her voice lower still and bent very near Elara’s ear, and Elara realized that her words were meant for her alone. “What will be must remain hidden from all but a few - this cannot change and should not. But do not let that become a burden. Know that Thranduil has chosen his companion well in you, and that you will be rewarded for your steadfastness. Your coming here has purpose, which now will begin to come clear. You need only be open to that which presents itself to you, and to know that the Valar do not give their gifts - even to the Second-born - lightly.”
That didn’t help explain anything, but by the time Elara could put together a coherent question, Galadriel had quickly moved on to be introduced by Thranduil to his Marchwarden. Elara’s opportunity to have the Lady explain her puzzling statements had been lost.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” Míriel whispered down into Elara’s ear.
“She is… something,” Elara agreed, still stunned and confused by the soft words.
“You’d think Míriel had never met the Lady before,” Randirion commented wryly from just beyond his wife. “But then, I should be used to this. The Avari are absolutely enchanted by the Noldor…”
“Hush, you!” Elara could hear the light slap that Míriel administered to her husband’s upper arm. “We Avari marry Sinda, not Noldor - we just enjoy watching them up close from time to time.”
Elara sighed away her worrying at what Galadriel could have meant for the moment, and then couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up at the antics of her friends. She reached out for and then clung to Míriel’s arm when she found it. “Just make certain I look decent for the feast,” she begged her friend. “I may not be able to do anything with the scars on my face, but at least I can dress well tonight.”
“Your scars have never been an issue, Lady,” Randirion told her firmly, moving from beyond his wife to claim Elara’s arm to his own, “not for those of us able to see beneath that which is skin-deep. I’m a lucky ellon indeed to have two beauties on my arm this day.”
Elara smiled as Randirion guided her back through the crowd and then back to her apartment, and yet her mind remained unsettled. She knew that Galadriel’s reputation as a seer was deserved - and it made her long for the peace of her apartment to review the Lady’s quiet words very carefully. What gift of the Valar had she received that the Valar didn’t give lightly? She knew Thranduil often called her his gift - although she’d yet to figure out why he did so - but had she received a gift without knowing it? And how had the Lady known that she’d given the King an oath?
She counted her steps to the comfortable chair near the open door to the garden and seated herself with a sigh. She’d carefully folded the material she’d been stitching earlier and left it on the small table next to the chair, along with the needle and rawhide thimble where they could be easily retrieved. Elara pulled her work into her lap and let her sensitive fingers roam the stitching she’d already done to find just the right place to resume. Normally she would have Irieth and Anariel to keep her company with their light-hearted chatter as she sewed - but with the preparations for the feast no doubt occupying their time, she could use the time alone before Míriel came to get her ready for the feast to review the unusual events of the recent past.
She remembered how her cheeks had burned once she was alone in her bed the night before at the thought of the vow she’d given to the Elvenking. While it hadn’t occurred to her at the time, the only other vow she’d ever given to anyone before had been the one she’d given to Timon on their wedding day. With that realization, she lay there searching her memories and her feelings for her dead husband - and found that she couldn’t really remember him half as well as she thought she should.
She could easily bring his face to her mind, but the sound of his voice had faded away. And when she tried to remember their passion for each other, there was little there to hold onto. She remembered him with warmth, but no sting of grief kept the memories sharp for her any longer. She had told herself that nobody had ever touched her soul as Timon had - but now began to doubt herself How could she just forget someone so important to her? When had that happened?
Now she understood that perhaps this was what Galadriel spoke of - that the healing her heart had undergone had sent her husband back into the mists of fading memory. She shook her head in disbelief. To what end was this a good thing - and how did that have anything to do with Thranduil or the vow she’d given him?
With that question, her musing moved to Thranduil himself. Today, she’d heard his deep voice be as clear and strong and optimistic as it had ever been in greeting his latest guests - but she couldn’t help compare it to how both his voice and his very being had seemed just the night before. He had been uncertain of himself - and uncertain of her. But then, he’d been bothered by what he’d seen as a need to ask of her something that he felt he couldn’t ask of his own subjects. It was difficult to imagine what that something might be, and what she could imagine was just too fantastic to even consider.
If his description was to be believed, there was even a hint of a possible lack of propriety to the kind of situations she might find herself summoned into soon - especially if those “dark hours” the King had spoken of happened late at night. Perhaps knowing this bothered Thranduil as much as it bothered her, now that it had occurred to her. And yet Galadriel somehow knew of this - and voiced her implicit approval of the situation, stating that “what will be must remain hidden”? What had she gotten herself into that the Lady of Light felt moved to encourage her to continue on the path she’d been set?
Something told her that her answers wouldn’t be all that long coming, but Elara regretted feeling that she had better not voice any of her reservations or thoughts to anyone else. Unless, of course, the Lady of Light was willing to shed light on some of her comments herself. Elara positioned her next stitch as she shook her head. Such a stew!
“Put that sewing down now, Elara!” Míriel’s voice broke through her musing. “Didn’t you hear me knock? I was delayed coming here - I’m sorry - but I thought you would have started getting ready by yourself before now.”
“I’m sorry,” Elara stammered, quickly folding the material again and positioning the needle and thimble for quick retrieval again before standing. “I must have been gathering cobwebs as well as stitching seams.”
“You don’t often do that,” the healer commented as she moved quickly behind Elara and began the task of loosening the laces on the gown she was wearing. “Is something bothering you?”
No, this wasn’t the time to talk to Míriel - not when she herself didn’t know exactly what was going on. “No. I suppose I’m just a little dazed from rubbing elbows with folks my race consider nothing but legend. To think the Lady of Light actually spoke to me!”
“I saw that.” Míriel lifted the gown over Elara’s head. “I also saw several of Auriel’s and Gelírwen’s crebain hatchery give you looks that would have melted mithril when the Lady bent and whispered privately into your ear. It’s probably just as well that they’re part of the group leaving Eryn Lasgalen with her, isn’t it?”
Elara twisted in Míriel’s direction. “They’re leaving with the Lady? All of them?”
Míriel put her hands on Elara’s shoulders and turned her back around again. “Stand still. Yes, they’re all leaving - and I seriously doubt that there are many here outside members of their own families who have chosen to remain that will miss them.” A thin and gauzy material fell over Elara’s head to be gently tugged into place. “Not that there are many of those either.”
“How many are staying behind with us, Míriel?”
The healer began tugging on the laces to pull them uniformly tight before tying them. “For now, about half.” She fell silent for a long moment. “Some stay to succor the ones who feel they cannot leave - like Aran - at least, for the time being or until their own sea-longings grow too great to ignore. Lord Celeborn leads the Galadhrim who remain behind to Imladris, abandoning forever Lothlorien, for he is like Aran and not ready to leave the land either. The sons of Elrond will rule there with him for a time, I’m told. Ernil Legolas has his colony in Ithilien - but how long they will remain once he departs or where they will go is questionable.”
“What about you? Will you be staying - or taking ship eventually?”
The hands busying themselves with adjusting the crown of braids on Elara’s head paused in their efforts. “I am Avari,” Míriel said quietly. “My people have no wish to depart these shores, and I share their sentiment. I will stay - unless something happens to Randirion. My life is with him now - and if he needs to depart, then I will depart with him.” She resumed her gentle tugs on Elara’s hair. “But, Valar willing, that will be a long time from now, if ever.”
Elara’s lips lifted in a small smile. “Good,” she stated with a slight nod.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The halls were quieter now that so many had departed, Elara had to admit, and the chorus of voices was thinner that sang the songs and hymns that marked the passage of the day. Several levels of residential space had been emptied within the hall itself - whole corridors shut down and closed off. Most of the Elves from the villages in the wood itself had joined the caravan to the West, and those who remained had moved inside - but their numbers were too few to offset the loss. If it weren’t for her friends and sewing companions, all of whom had stayed behind, Elara would have found the diminishment of Eryn Lasgalen quite distressing.
From Baradion and Anariel, she heard that Thranduil now spent the greater part of his days closeted with Tarion, making plans for gathering and harvesting and trading enough to keep the hall provisioned for the coming winter - and having to consider opening more trade with the Men of Esgaroth and Rhovanion to make up the difference in lost outside workers. Meals at the Great Hall at night were quiet affairs - many of the back tables had been removed permanently since the population they seated no longer dwelled there. And Thranduil himself was quieter, more reserved. He still included Elara at the high table from time to time, but seldom took part in the discussions or tried to draw her out anymore.
Elara was beginning to miss the Elvenking she’d come to know. Little had she realized how much enjoyment she’d gotten from his dry and slightly twisted sense of humor in describing scenes or recounting memories for her, or how much she looked forward to the banter they sometimes shared. The Elf whose hearty laugh had so brightened her heart over the past two years had evaporated into a soft-spoken, extremely guarded individual who answered her questions readily enough but volunteered little other than just the answer. Were it not for the very soft occasional brushes of his mind against the back of hers, she would have thought he’d forgotten her entirely. From what she heard from the others, his mood was beginning to affect everyone in the hall.
Autumn turned to winter without any appreciable change in either the mood of the hall or the mood of the King, both having grown much colder with the passing of time.
Late one stormy winter night, however, a frantic pounding at her door brought Elara out of a sound sleep. Without even thinking, she rushed to the door. “What is it?” she demanded, still half-caught in slumber, clutching her sleeping gown closed at the chest against the cold of the corridor.
“Lady Elara.” It was the Marchwarden of Eryn Lasgalen.
“What is it?” she asked again, this time more awake and concerned. She opened her door further. “Baradion - what’s wrong?”
“It’s Aran, Lady - he won’t listen to reason. He’s called for more wine - but he told me just after the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien left that if he ever started doing things like that again, I was to summon you instead.” Baradion carefully took hold of Elara’s hand. “Will you come, Lady? I know not what else to do.”
“Of course I will,” Elara nodded, now completely awake. “Let me go get…”
“There’s no time. Aran’s angry - and he’s beginning to throw things. I don’t want to seem rude, but…” Baradion’s worry and the fact that he didn’t release her hand so she could get some sort of wrap convinced Elara of the urgency of the situation. With a small shiver, she let the Marchwarden draw her from her apartment and speed down the corridor.
Indeed, the sound of something shattering came through the door as Baradion opened it for Elara. The King’s voice sounded slurred and angry. “Nuath, Baradion - you’d better have that wine…” There was a pause, and then he continued in a shocked tone. “What’s she doing here? Get her out of here at once!”
“You told me to summon her when you…”
Thranduil’s voice lashed out. “I don’t care what I told you! It isn’t safe for her to be here right now, Baradion! You should know better! Elara - please…”
Elara knew herself to be completely lost - she’d never been in the King’s chambers to know where things were - but she knew that this was what she’d sworn to see him through. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said with much more certainty than she felt and took a step forward into the cold apartment, trusting she wouldn’t yet trip over anything and fall.
“You will be well, Lady?” Baradion asked her in a quiet tone.
“She will not!” Thranduil bellowed. “She cannot stay here.” He turned his most demanding and authoritative tone on Elara. “Lady, leave me. You are not welcome here.”
“I’ll be fine,” Elara replied in an equally quiet tone.
“You will call if you need me?”
“I will.” She could hear the reluctance in the Marchwarden’s voice at the idea of leaving her alone with the irate monarch, but Elara took in a deep, strengthening breath. “We both know he will not harm me. Be at peace.”
“Thank you, Lady.” Baradion said, his voice shimmering with gratitude. “I will be nearby if you have need.”
“Thank you.” Elara heard the door open and close softly behind her. She waited, but there was no sound from the King at all to tell her where he was other than an occasional scuff of a soft slipper against the weft of the thick carpet on the floor that told her he was pacing. “You’ll wear yourself out like that,” she commented dryly.
Thranduil snorted but said nothing, and continued to pace. Elara shivered - if there had been a fire in the King’s hearth that evening, it had long since grown cold. She should have insisted Baradion wait until she could draw on a robe before coming here, but regrets served no useful purpose now. When time passed and the King continued his pacing, she asked, “Could you at least stir up the fire a little - it feels as if there should be snow on the ground rather than carpet.”
“I feel no chill,” the King replied tersely.
“Can you at least show me to a chair then?” Elara asked after standing there for another long, silent moment. This was definitely not the gentle, considerate Thranduil she knew, or even the politely aloof one she’d come to know of late - and her bravado at facing him alone in his lair late at night was beginning to ebb. “Or do you expect me to stand in place all night?”
“If you wish comfort, you should seek it in your own bedchamber, fíriel,” came a snarl in her ear. Thranduil seemed to come out of nowhere, his hand strong and tight on her upper arm. “I told you, it isn’t safe for you to remain here.” He pulled her a stumbling step backward - toward the door. “You need to leave - now!”
“You’re hurting me,” Elara said softly, tears swimming at the bruising grip the King had on her arm. No, this was not what she had anticipated at all when she’d made her promise.
The hand dropped away from her arm as if she had burned him, and she could hear him colliding with furniture in his flight away from her. “Forgive me,” he gasped finally, from what sounded like another room entirely. “Please, Elara, do not stay here. I am… not myself.”
Heartened, she took a cautious step forward in the direction of the King’s voice. “I swore an oath that I wouldn’t leave you,” she reminded him gently. “I will not be foresworn.” She took another step, her hands stretching out in front of her and seeking for something - anything - to hold onto. “You asked for my help, Thranduil, remember?” She had been right after all, he would not willingly harm her. It had taken but a soft word of reproach to snap him out of whatever mood had made him capable of bruising her arm. Now all she had to do was rediscover the gentle friend that existed inside the unfamiliar and frightening creature somewhere in the dark before her.
“I should not have,” he replied fiercely. “I had no right…”
“Talk to me,” she urged, taking another step.
Once more, the only answer she received was silence. She turned her head, listening carefully, but couldn’t even discern the sound of the King’s breathing. She stood there, getting colder by the moment, until finally she crouched down and carefully found a seat on the carpeted floor. “I’m still not leaving,” she announced stubbornly, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms about them.
From somewhere in the distance, off in the direction she’d last heard Thranduil’s voice come from, she thought she heard a soft sigh, but then nothing more. The long silence stretched out; and despite her shivering, Elara felt her tiredness creeping up on her again. She straightened herself once, and then again, only to sag once more against her knees to hold in what little warmth she could get from her own body.
And somewhere in the night, she laid her head against her knees, shivered one more time, and then slept.