Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Damaged

Nine hundred years ago...

Yesterday Thranduil had suffered a severe disappointment, in his mind perhaps his worst personal failure, and now morning dawned pale and weak, with only a few meager streaks illuminating the sky over the forest. Thranduil watched the horizon from a high talan, a lookout post beyond the bridge leading to the main gates of his palace. He had been there all night, and now dawn bled into the sky, a new and fresh start.

Only, the Elven King did not really feel very fresh, or particularly enthusiastic about returning to his duties in the palace. Only a few hours before had seen him finish off some particularly strong dwarven liquor, a dubious gift from his neighbors. It had tasted terrible and had done little to take the edge off the sting to his heart.

His wife, Legolas' mother, left yesterday. She had quietly gathered a single bag of belongings and casually informed him that she would leave with her father, who planned on sailing from Mithlond.

Thranduil stared at the horizon, willing himself not to squint or blink as the sun peeked over the treetops.

She had never really loved him. He knew that now. Persuaded by her father, she had fallen in love with the idea of him, and the reality proved a bitter consolation-at least that was what she had told him on her way out the door.

He finally looked away from the glare of the sunrise and absently rubbed his chest. Thranduil wondered if she felt it too, wherever she was. Last night, alone and miserable, a beyond-angry husband had chaffed under the feeling of his bond with her, tugging his heart. He still longed for her, and he hated himself for it. In his fury to forget her, to erase any reminders, any evidence of his inadequacy, Thranduil had invoked his magic and strength as a healer-he knew how to sever temporary bonds after he had called to a patient's feä and healed him-so he had turned that resolve inward, toward himself and his bond with Elarien. Rista gwaedh. Painfully, agonizingly, he had carved the remains of his bond away from his heart until nothing remained, except a hollow ache.

He felt it deep in his soul, his heart. He was damaged.
. . . . . . . . . .
November, 3018

Night had fallen, and the air was still. Low hanging clouds shrouded all starlight and the moon. When Thranduil charged up to the side gate at Dale, the watchers came forth with their tin lanterns and wonder written in their eyes. Few had seen an elk so large or with antlers so magnificent. Thranduil would not ask Taurion to enter Dale; a wild thing such as he did not belong in a town of men.

Careful not to jar Narylfiel whom he held in his arms, Thranduil dismounted fluidly and whispered directions for Taurion to return to the woods and the protection of his stables. The elven king approached the men, greeting them pleasantly, doing his best to assuage their misgivings. They clearly took him for elven kind, even if he did have his hood drawn up, for whom else would ride to town on a wild elk?

"I seek entry into your town for myself and my companion. Orcs attacked us on our errand, and we have lodgings here in Dale, where we can rest and recover," Thranduil explained. He certainly was not going to divulge his status to the men of the town. The less known, the better.

The pair of men exchanged looks, and one of them, the older one with white whiskers and a scar running along his jaw, warily shuffled closer to get a better view of his elven visitors. "She looks pretty bad off," the man commented looking up at the elf, who fairly towered above him. "Do you need help?"

Thranduil pulled her in more tightly and answered, keeping his voice warm, "No, my elven lord's residence is not far from here, and I will carry her myself."

"Alright then," the second man replied and moved aside to draw open the gate. Thranduil strode through, his eyes moving up to the rows and rows of houses, with their sharp pitched roofs, and curlicues of smoke rising up from their stone chimneys. He remembered with perfect clarity where his house stood. When Dale had been rebuilt after the fall of Smaug, Thranduil had commissioned several workers to build a new residence on the high street at the top of the hill, a place where his traders, raft-elves, the occasional messenger could lodge without issue.