The Eastern Woman

A new King

Old Roswehn's corpse had burnt quickly.

A high orange flame had wrapped around the bundles of dry wood on which the Elves had laid her corpse. The scene reminded the prince of something: those sheaves of hay that Haldir had seen many times in the cultivations of the realm. Often in summer, under the sun, they suddenly burned down. A strange phenomenon of self-combustion that had always fascinated the prince.

But the slow crackling of the flames that consumed his mother's body had nothing fascinating about it, it was a torment to the eyes, the heart and the ears. Those round, small ears, which he had inherited from her.

Why don't I have pointy ears like you, father, like the other Elves? I don't understand this, he had asked the King, when he was just six years old. He had begun to observe his image in puddle reflections, and he had immediately caught that important difference between him and the other inhabitants of Greenwood.

Thranduil had seemed a little uncomfortable with that question. Because you are a SPECIAL Elf, son. The most special Elf in the world ... he had replied. He had closed the matter without another word.

Just like he had tried to do a few hours before the funeral ceremony, when Haldir had asked him about the prophecy. His father had always been like that: his answers were dry, synthetic.
Kings do not act without a purpose and do not waste words, Haldir had heard him say once.

He observed his father.
Thranduil stood motionless, facing the great funeral pyre on which the body of the human woman burned. Silent, an expression of dignified pain on his face, and not even a tear. Legolas had told him that, in his life, he had seen their father cry only once: when, after the victorious battle of the five armies sixty years earlier, his eldest son had announced that he would have left their territory for an indefinite time. His brother had explained to him that the King did not like to show his feelings, and for that reason he had earned the reputation of Icy King, but that did not mean he was really icy.
Our father loves, and suffers, in a completely private way. But his sensitivity is great. Don't judge him wrong, Haldir. His cold temper is just a facade, Legolas had told him.

The prince looked around. He saw Morath and Nim, they were both crying and clinging together. He saw the great multitude of Elves, those who had known and loved Roswehn, with their heads bowed and their hands clasped. He heard the funeral lament that some of the were singing.

He saw Lord Celeborn, next to his father. A noble Elf, husband of the great Galadriel: he was united with Thranduil by a very distant kinship. And therefore, he was also his relative. A kind of uncle of infinitesimal degree.

The King had decided to celebrate the funeral in a hidden area of ​​the Forest, due to the presence of Haldir. There were still Orcs in the woods, his soldiers were trying to chase them all, but he didn't want to risk one of them attacking the prince.

The smoke rose, high and black. To cover the acrid smell, Thranduil had ordered to have a perfumed oil, rose oil, poured over the body of his beloved. But it didn't help much.

When the air became unbreathable, the King ordered everyone to go away, and let the fire finish its work. Two soldiers had to wait until the end, to collect Roswehn's ashes in an urn.

Haldir saw Celeborn put a hand on the King's shoulder, and say something to him. Then they both turned to watch him. Embarrassed, the prince lowered his gaze.

"Haldir, please come closer." his father called him.

The trembling young Elf joined the two elven Lords.

Celeborn gave him a warm and sincere smile. "Here you are, then."

"Lord Celeborn, it is an honor to meet you. My father often tells me about you." said the prince.