A/N - Explicit content.
Third Age of Middle Earth - 2840
Êr pedo i beth ad na be iest lín, gwathan le an hidh o dû, dan natha sui gurth enni. Egor pedo manadh prestart aen, ad eno nín an le, ad pan i ngerin, pan im ego esteliatha na natha lín sui hae sui uir breniatha.
The unseasonal cool weather and stiff breezes gave an almost ominous quality to the first change in the forest mantle as Lavas settled its cloak around the landscape. Flowers had become fruits and berries, and the bushes and trees were laden with them.
"It will be a harsh winter," Nieniriathlim mused softly, but aloud.
"Yes, my lady," one of her maids answered, from where she hovered nearby to where, kneeling, Nieniriathlim drew her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. "Lady Nieniriathlim, if the air is too chill, we should return indoors. The king—"
"I will not have this garden see another autumn nor winter looking like a tangled wreck," she said – soft but firm. "King Thranduil does not need to be bothered by tales of a little cold causing me to tighten the cloak around my shoulders."
Defiant of her maids' worry, she leaned forward onto her hands and began plucking at the long dead leaves, tangled with the weeds that grew like unto a ball of yarn that had been set upon by a palace kitten. Her fingers worked lovingly to separate vine, from weed, from strangled plant and little by little, one slowly recovered inch at a time, Nieniriathlim began to clear the flower bed close by to a bench that felt so familiar to her – comfortable, yet at the same time...
A fist closed about her hair, jerking her head back painfully on her neck, and she responded with reflex amid the panic, to reach for the blade carried hidden within the folds of her gown, yet... even as she did, her unseen assailant hauled her painfully to her feet, snatching at her wrist.
Fingernails scraped cruelly at her soft skin, caught at the multi-stranded silver that graced her arm with the flash of starlight with each gesture she made, the tightness gave, and...
Nieniriathlim shivered, her fingers still within the loamy soil as she teased at the tube-like root of an insidious weed, tangled with a slender, harder strand. She frowned, and withdrew her fingers, reaching for a small trowel with which to ease back the soil still further and free the tuber, and whatever passenger it carried.
She took her time, her patience and curiosity vying for expression for she did not wish to damage whatever it was she had found, feeling around with her sensitive fingers as she teased it free; by touch identifying several small nodules. After many more, long minutes of working, her fingers beginning to ache, the deeply rooted plant came free, and with it the piece of a fine chain, which even though muddied with soil, still shone with a brightness enough to tease her grasp with light, and the gems which clung through time to the chain, were as the burning stars in the firmament, and warm as though some inner fire gave them life.
"Water," she murmured, for reason unknown to her, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "Please... bring me water."
A maid rushed to obey; furnished Nieniriathlim with a shallow bowl, filled with clear water from the fountain nearby. She dropped the piece of chain and gemstones into it, and with meticulous attention, cleaned every piece of soil and the detritus, it seemed of centuries past, from chain and jewels alike.
When she was done, she lifted the fragment of jewelry from the water to dry it carefully upon the cloth that lay rested over the cloak covering her bended knees, and her heart pounded as the light of the late afternoon sun drew white fire from each gemstone that sat in her lap.
The sight dazzled her, and twisted her belly in a rush of recognition, and with the ache of loss, but harsher yet, the sharp slice of fear that stilled her lungs until they burned painfully. She snatched a breath, and her maids moved closer in concern.
"My Lady?"
"These gems..." she whispered, holding out an unsteady hand.
As one the maids stopped, one indeed taking more than a pace backward, as if to escape something baleful.
"You must not," the maid gasped, "You cannot... have that."
"But it came from the ground, beneath this plant," she held up the weed. "Entangled in its root."
"That's as may be, but..." another said, but trailed off.
"What is it?" she pressed, frowning, and came to her feet, holding the short chain between her hands, her fingers absently moving over one of the gems, as though in prayer. The maid shook her head. "Tell me."
"My Lady, we cannot," ventured the one. "Please, just heed us. Set them aside. Bury them again if sense you have, and never speak of them."
"If this is superstition..." she began, but again, as one, they shook their heads, and she trailed off, looking from one to the next, and the next, before finally slipping the gems into her pocket, and stooping to pick up the gardening items, she placed them into her basket. She felt a measure of surprise and dismay to discover, as she leaned down, a tear that glided down her cheek to rest, like the softness of a kiss, against her lip. She blotted at it with the back of her hand as she straightened.
"I'm wearied," she said, "I will go to my rest, and thank you, you need not attend me."
"My lady, please," one, the youngest of her maids reached out to catch her hand as she began to turn, "We seek only to safeguard your comfort. Do not send us from your presence."
The young maid seemed so distressed that Nieniriathlim's heart softened from the anger of hurt that their fearful attitudes had brought her, to cover the maids hand with her own.
"You always have my interests in your hearts. This I know," she said softly, "But please, you too deserve rest, and if all I am to do is to take reverie in my solar, why burden you with attendance upon me, where my needs will be few." Impulsively, and not knowing why, she lifted the maid's hand that she still held to her cheek, and leaned into it for a moment, her action causing greater consternation in the older maids, but then no... not consternation, she later decided, but it felt as though their reactions were of surprise; the kind of surprise that left them without foundation to know what next they should do.
Still, she took her leave of them, truly intending to seek rest in the solar, but then, as she walked, her hand found its way to her pocket, and encountering the chain and gems once more, she decided instead to seek out the king. Perhaps he would speak on what she had found, where others would not.
** ** **
Thranduil leaned back in his chair, pausing in the conversation until the stewards and serving staff had set the food and wine onto the table and withdrawn at his command. He wished for privacy with Glorfindel, now that his fear-driven anger had faded, and he was able to be more rational, if no less adamant concerning his path forward. He recognized also that Glorfindel sought, in his own gentle way, to persuade him otherwise.
Reaching out, he poured wine for the both of them, and set one cup before the other Elf.
"We discovered them too late, and I cannot express the regret I feel that I did not, when first I accepted the truth of her, send a garrison in protection of her parents," he said, continuing his retelling of recent events surrounding the lady Nieniriathlim. "And yet..."
He trailed off with a sigh, and sipped his wine, remembering the evening, the emotion, the turning of the key in the Valar's lock that stood between him and his reunion with Celyndailiel.
"Yet?" Glorfindel prompted when he had not spoken in many long minutes.
"Yet it was in comforting her that she came to know who she is, and whatever geas was laid upon her by Mandos, sundered in the wake of our... encounter."
"And so," Glorfindel sipped from his own cup. "Now you will... what? And Legolas? Does he know?"
With another sigh, Thranduil shook his head, and closed his eyes in a long blink, before reaching, as he opened them, for a light cracker. His stomach churned with worry and indecision.
"I have never been able to speak to Legolas of his mother," he said softly, "At first, it was because I felt such... responsibility – such guilt."
Glorfindel raised an eyebrow, in query.
With a deeper breath yet, Thranduil released the hold of the magic that connected him with the woodland that brought him wholeness, where the lingering despair he carried still denied him healing. Cell by cell the left side of his face disintegrated, revealing raw muscle and sinew. The room darkened as the sight faded from his left eye.
"Thranduil...!" Glorfindel breathed.
He allowed the truth of his lack of healing to linger for moments more, not speaking, embracing the pain that began to return the longer he remained disconnected from his realm.
"Elrond... Elrond explained how badly you were hurt but," Glorfindel went on, shock evident in his voice, "How? How did you survive?"
"Celyndailiel," Thranduil spoke her name as though a prayer. "She sustained me; poured all of her light into my soul that I might survive, and when that was not enough, she begged of the Valar to allow me life, even at the cost of her own."
He took another breath and reached once more for the connection with his Woodland Realm, and felt the burning lessen, his sight cleared and the wholeness of his visage returned.
"Your wife loves you," Glorfindel said softly.
"I am undeserving," Thranduil argued, "The night before I left for the battle, she came to me, pleaded with me not to go..."
"And you did not listen," Glorfindel stated as much as asked.
"No, I did not," he confirmed, "but worse... at dawns first light I dismissed her from the forward camp. Had six of my most trusted warriors convey her back to Greenwood, little better than an errant subject, but... Glorfindel, I feared for her – greatly. Deeply, I believed that should she remain, it would mean the loss of her." He gave a huff of laughter, full of irony not humor, "How could I have been so wrong?"
Glorfindel shook his head.
"You acted in defense of your Queen, as would any King," he said, and reached over then to place a hand onto Thranduil's arm. "But, my friend... you are not just any king."
Thranduil lowered his head for a moment, preparing the words of denial he had for so long kept locked away inside. Protectively... defensively...
"So what did you tell your son?"
His head snapped up, the ice of his eyes reflecting true gratitude to Glorfindel for not pressing the point he had just made in what he did not say.
"Half-truths and obfuscations... of Gundabad and Angmar," he admitted, his very soul filling with remembered fear as he said, "They might have been truth, Glorfindel. It might well have been the truth, if I had not—"
In the same moment that Glorfindel began to rise to his feet, Thranduil sensed Nieniriathlim's presence in the doorway, and he too stood, holding out a hand to her, banishing what lingering anxiety he had felt, as the sight of her reached him.
"My Lady," he greeted her, smiling softly. "Please... join us."
She came hesitantly, and he saw her gaze pass from him to Glorfindel and back as she came and slipped her hand into his.
At the touch of her fingers, he felt it, His breath caught and fluttered almost painfully within his chest. It was as if an ocean of all that she had ever been shimmered beneath the surface of a thinly crafted sheet of glass. As though it could shatter – release her from captivity – if only they could strike at the right point, the right... moment. He too could not help but look to Glorfindel. Would the other Elf sense it too, this energy, this sense of caged potential?
"I am intruding?" she murmured, looking to Thranduil, though it was Glorfindel who answered – and by his words and manner, Thranduil knew that indeed the Elder Elf felt, as he had, the presence, not of a mere maiden – but of Greenwood's queen.
"Lau, idh rîs nín," Glorfindel said, the quiet respect evident as he went on, "Im Glorfindel o Imladris, na buiad lín."
With his words he offered her a low bow, as once she might have expected, and a blush colored her cheeks.
"Please, Glorfindel, you are a friend of King Thranduil," she managed haltingly, and Thranduil felt he detected a note almost of apology in her tone. Perhaps she believes she should know him, and cannot recall him to mind. He gave a reassuring squeeze of her fingers in his, as she went on, "You need no such deference, and it is I should act in service of such an esteemed lord."
Thranduil's heart constricted at her words, so familiar; so like herself – before – and combined with the energies he felt, in that moment he could have wept. Instead he raised her fingers to his lips, to kiss the backs of them in true and genuine affection.
"Let us all dispense with such formalities," he said softly, and guided Nieniriathlim to a large, comfortable couch adjacent to the seat he had occupied, waiting to reseat himself until she had settled, and then as Glorfindel also took his seat, Thranduil poured wine into an empty cup, to set before his lady. "And enjoy our meal together as companions might."
"Yes, my Lord," she said softly, the blush returning to color her face more strongly yet, "I should like that."
"I'm certain, also, that I would not be overstepping my mark," Glorfindel added, "were I to say that Lord Elrond, too, sends greetings to you, my Lady..."
His tone rose on a note of enquiry, and for a moment, Thranduil found himself caught in a web of expectancy, as Nieniriathlim tipped her head, regarding Glorfindel again as though searching harder yet for a shred of recognition. By Glorfindel's own words, spoken in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, the Elf had never met Greenwood's queen and Thranduil couldn't help the doubt that crept, for the space of a mere breath, over his unquiet heart. Then, she surprised him once more, and a fresh rush of emotion threatened to overflow within him at her answer.
"Thank you, Glorfindel. I know that my Lord and I hold him dearly within our hearts, so please... on your return, echo such warmly given sentiments," she reached out with an as yet timid hand to pick up and sip from the cup that Thranduil had set before her, before she added, "As for you and I, I fear I cannot recall, or else we have ne'er yet met, but... by whichever name brings you better comfort, please address me. I sense within these walls while we are alone, we might do so without detriment."
Glorfindel smiled.
"Then, my Lady Celyndailiel, well met," he said, "and joyous day."
"Hanon le," she said, and Thranduil, too, smiled as she reached then toward where his arm rested on the chair, and he turned his hand to catch her fingers in his.
"Is all well, Meluien?" Thranduil asked, still toying with the tips of her fingers in his.
"Enough, my lord. Well enough," she answered and a soft frown fell over Thranduil's face. He leaned forward to lift a finely crafted plate containing lightly flavored crackers to within her reach, watching as she took one and nibbled upon it as beside them, Glorfindel selected a number of morsels for his own platter. Thranduil then did likewise, anxious not to push Nieniriathlim to explain her enigmatic answer, when, upon finishing the cracker she said, "In the garden today, there was a strange occurrence. I... I found something."
His frown deepened, and Thranduil set down his latest selection on the side of his dish.
"Nothing terrible, I hope?"
"Quite the opposite, Thranduil," she said so softly that he almost had to lean toward her to hear her clearly. "Although..."
"Yes?"
"The maid's reactions... and a flash of sensation I had when first I held it. They have unsettled me, and I..." her halting speech and the way she suddenly clutched her hands together in her skirts troubled Thranduil. For her to have gone from the self-assured elleth of moments ago, to this state of agitation bothered him.
"What manner of sensation, Celynen?"
He reached for her hand again, and she gave it willingly, as she said, whispered, "Fear, Arasfain. Threat and fear... and the maids all acted as if I had found something of fell intent. Something dangerous. I do not understand."
Aeons flashed through his mind as Thranduil searched for the memory of some incident that might have led Celyndailiel to feel threatened within her own home... to be afraid. A sliver of ice moved over his spine. He could think of only one such time – one such moment – that had drawn him into a war which had later cost him... everything.
"Show me," he breathed.
She freed her hand and reached within the pocket of her skirts to bring out a fragment of chain, with gems upon it, and for a moment her side of the table was alight with starlight. Glorfindel stifled a sharp inhalation, and Thranduil caught the hand in which Nieniriathlim held the gems.
"You were in the inner gardens, by the bed in which once grew gilded lilies, with the bench beside?" he did not need confirmation, but sought it anyway.
She nodded.
"Please tell me," she asked, and he knew that she had read the tumult of emotion rising in him. "I don't care how... frightened it might be, I..."
With all the subtlety of a cave troll, Glorfindel excused himself from the table, to give them space, though – Thranduil noted – he did not entirely leave the room.
"Once," Thranduil began, "There was a small group of traitors within these halls. Individuals that sought to break the strength of Eryn Galen, and draw our forces into a war with the Enemy." With a monumental effort of will he caged the storm of anger and jealous rage that played for the briefest of moments in his mind, to tell the tale as dispassionately as he could, but still as his words went on, he could not help but leak a little of his fears into the telling of it. "They took the queen from her gardens, used our son as leverage for her cooperation, and tried to take her north... North to the capital of Angmar, and to the Enemy's lieutenant there.
"We stopped them... at the western edge of the woodland," his voice dropped to a whisper, unable to tell all that had occurred – all that he feared might occur – and all that had been said between them after. "...brought her home to our son, whom she had saved..."
Perhaps she sensed those things he had not said, for she dropped the gem encrusted fragment of chain into his hand and moved, rising to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Her hair fell like a curtain around them and she pressed her cheek to his.
"I am here now," she whispered, "and it is long passed. It cannot harm us more."
"You do not remember it?" he asked, turning his eyes to find hers. She met his gaze, relief, sorrow and truth mingled in her expression as she answered.
"I do not," she said.
"Then I am thankful for small mercies," he said, and reaching up, found her hand again and drew her around him, to where she perched on a low stool beside his leg, and leaned into his lap, just as she always had done when they were alone, or with only trusted friends – few enough to be had. After but a moment, he dropped the chain into her hand and closed her fingers around the shining gemstones.
"Keep it," he said. "For it is yours anyway, and soon enough, I promise, I will see that all I have ever given to you is returned."
As he spoke the promise, the image of a sundered necklace, fashioned of the heirlooms given to his mother by Melian in Doriath, and passed to him upon her death, when his father could not bear to keep them, came into his mind.
She shook her head, and reaching up to turn his face and bring his unfocussed gaze back to her, told him, "We have a guest, my king."
He cupped her face, passing a soft caress over her cheek bone, and nodding said, "You are right, my heart," and then raising his voice a little more called Glorfindel back to join them, so that they might finish their meal.
** ** **
Glorfindel had spent the long night in the library following their companionable dinner, and the longer he had spent in their joint presence, the more his lingering doubts that she was exactly whom Thranduil, and Elrond believed her to be, faded. He too, if he were honest, had believed, but been unable to fathom the cause of the conditions of her return; that her re-embodiment had been through a second birth rather than, as he, simply being reclothed in flesh and returned to the bosom of Middle Earth.
There had to be a reason. The Valar did nothing without reason, and as amoral as they could be, they were rarely cruel for the sake of cruelty or sport. Even so, having watched the ebb and flow of personalities the evening before – one moment self-assured as Greenwood's queen, the next, as Nieniriathlim truly was, a bundle of nervousness as any maiden before the one she had come to love. Not that he truly could recall the feeling of such a connection – denied to him as it had been long ago.
Thranduil's affection was unfaltering, and Glorfindel felt for him – perhaps with him – the longing that the Elvenking must live through with each moment in her presence. By his word, the memory of whom she was returned to her at a moment of crisis, or with some kind of 'encounter' between them – and he could only guess at the extent of such moments, though he sensed no marriage link yet between their physical forms.
Their souls though, their light... it shone clearly to him, as though a beacon in the dark woodland, and he wished there were something he could do to help Nieniriathlim connect to who she had been, to remember her life, and her love with Thranduil and be always unafraid to act upon it. Elrond was right. They were stronger together.
He thought back to the idea of crisis awakening memories, and remembered from his own return that this had – at first at least – been the case, and wondered if – perhaps – a little gentle pushing might not convey her closer to herself than she was now. Perhaps if he could, he might yet be able to persuade Thranduil to send his queen to Rivendell for safety sake, until the manner of the warning Elrond had seen, and Celyndailiel herself had seen through the ages, could be brought to light.
"My Lady," he said, as he came upon her on a balcony overlooking the river.
"A pleasant surprise, Lord Glorfindel," she answered, offering him a smile, and in that smile he could see the queen, and thought it little wonder that she was so greatly loved, and highly spoken of by more than just Thranduil and Elrond. The statue at the entrance to Greenwood did not do her justice. "I trust you are well rested."
"I was in the libraries, my Lady," he said. "Seeking among the volumes there for anything that might... lift that which keeps you from your memories and your true self."
She sighed, and risking much, Glorfindel reached out and closed his hand about her arm.
At once the two guards at either side of the nearby doorway stiffened, their hands flying to their hilts, but Nieniriathlim held out a hand, palm down to stand them down, before looking up at Glorfindel.
Then, acting on a hunch, he said, "You lied to him."
Her face creased into a frown, and she tried to pull away from his grasp, but he held her, gently but firmly, and stepped closer, trapping her against the balcony rail. He ignored the shifting of the feet he heard behind him, though he knew he had mere seconds.
"Why?"
"He does not need to know, Glorfindel, that I felt their hands in my hair... the scratch of their nails as they tore free the bracelet from my arm..." She pushed at him, "...what good would it do?"
"And what good does it to keep it from him?"
"He has suffered enough," she said, raising her voice, "He blames himself when I was the one that ultimately parted us – that caused him this—"
He watched as her eyes became cast in a deeper, ocean blue, and far away as his hunch proved good, and she yielded to the press of memory.
** ** **
His hand around her arm was a vice as he lifted her hooded and cloaked figure from the horse, and under the auspices of lovingly greeting his queen instead hissed in her ear in pique.
"Celyndailiel, are you insane!"
"Yes," she answered him, gripping the front of his cloak and maintaining no such illusion before anyone. "Insane with worry for you, Thranduil – with knowing what it is awaits you in those fell tunnels!"
He pulled her with hurried steps into his pavilion, releasing her and turning to her.
"They must be faced, Mîrlosen," he implored her, "And by those of us that have a hope of success."
"Slim hope, my love." She threw off her cloak, and reached for him, for the buckles on his shoulders, for she knew from chatter she had heard, that the King was heading for his rest before morning. "This foe is beyond us alone... and who stands with Greenwood? Scant few."
"Angmar must be laid low," he argued again, though she could tell that her words had reached him. "The Enemy would make a stronghold of it as it was through Morgoth's reign. That cannot be. Do you understand that?"
"I do, Thranduil, I do..." she caught his face between her hands as he tried to look away, met his eyes and asked without words, 'but at what cost?'
He answered her without words also; reached up to take her hands from his face, and gather her closer, as close as his still armored chest would allow and still maintain her comfort. She did not care for comfort, and crushed herself to him.
"U-wanna nin!" she begged, "Mai sír natha meth mín, u-edlenno nín o le."
He leaned down to her, crushed his lips to her, and lifted her into his arms to carry her more deeply into his pavilion, and through the movement, and the kiss, and as he set her down, with the familiarity of a beloved wife, she unfastened, and removed his armor, surrendering to all that he desired – which she desired just the same.
** ** **
They had loved as only ever once before, and Thranduil ached at the ending of it, and at the look on her face as he set her, surrounded by six of his most trusted warriors onto her mount, with orders she was not to tarry, and ne'er stop until the gates of Greenwood were closed behind her.
It was a bitter farewell, after such closeness – after such hope and promise... plea.
He watched her fight not to turn back as they left the camp – picked up speed, to fly south, and east, toward the shadow of—
A visceral sense of wrongness – of immediate, and not remembered, danger – assaulted Thranduil and shattered his reverie. On reflex he reached for his swords, drew both and began to move, reaching out with his senses, seeking for the Lady Nieniriathlim.
"Holo in ennyn! Tiro i defnin hain na ganed nin!"
Finding the soul he sought, he turned his steps that way, as the palace around him came to life with guardsmen who hurried to obey his command, to challenge any ingress within the halls, and the gardens – the balconies and the terraces, all armed, alert... ready.
The first wave of Orcs that crested the wall nearby to the river each fell, a green fletched arrow trembling to stillness within their falling corpses, but they were followed by more and in greater numbers, and it did not take but a moment for Thranduil to realize that they were headed for the balcony where Nieniriathlim had been looking out over the river.
** ** **
"Nan idh rîs!"
Glorfindel's warning, and the hiss of his blade clearing its sheath pulled Nieniriathlim from what lingered of her memories, fear... panic crowding in before she could catch herself to know that Glorfindel had misspoken, but neither had time to act upon the slip, before two Orcs from the next wave of intruders caught up to them, and Glorfindel stepped between her and the Orcs, sword raised to catch the downward swing of its spiked club.
The second tried to angle around the Elven warrior, reaching for Nieniriathlim, and she backed up with a yelp as its fingers grazed her skin.
"Inside, my lady!" Glorfindel called out, angling his blade to take down the second Orc as the first gave him ground, but more were coming, and Nieniriathlim feared she would not reach the doorway before they cut off her retreat. She backed away, trying to keep them all in view; to anticipate where they might move, and dodge in opposite directions from their attempts to catch hold of her, and Glorfindel's interference in their intent, but a flanking group of Orcs cut off her escape, blocking the doorway, and trying not to panic, she looked around for another way to go as they began to close in around her.
Like an avenging angel, Thranduil crested the short stair leading up from the lower terrace. His swords blurred in the late morning sun as he fought through the swarming vermin to reach her side. His deadly blades sliced the air barely a breath away from her to cut down an Orc that dared to lay hand to her, and Thranduil stepped into the space left as the Orc fell away, facing Nieniriathlim to look in earnest into her eyes.
"If ever you were my wife," he said urgently, and with his words she felt his mind reaching for hers, "Heed me. Stay close, and do not let go!"
He picked up her hand and placed it against a spot in the rear of his belt that held his scabbards. Then without a further word, he turned away, back into the fight, into the fray, pushing forward, and taking her with him, through the mass of Orcs that reached for her, tried to separate her from him.
But in mind, they were one. She moved as he moved, turned with him, stepped and back-stepped as if in some complex dance. Where the Orcs would reach, there his swords would fall, as he fought in defense of her, and she in harmony with him, stayed close, like the folds of a living cloak she was to his back, and he the embodiment of a living shield about her.
One Orc fell, and then another, and a third. All which came too close to her fell victim to the deadly accuracy of his blades, and inch by inch he moved with her ever nearer to the safety of the halls, as Greenwood's warriors made for the terrace to stand as a wall between their king, the lady and the maleficent intruders bent on ruin and death.
Upon the arrival of the palace guard, the tide soon turned, and those that survived of the Orcs began trying to find a way to retreat, to escape with their lives. The tumult faded, and soon, on the balcony, ringed with armed warrior, silence and stillness reigned.
Light glinted from the edge of Thranduil's blades, stained back with the blood of the many, slain Orcs that ringed where he stood, watchful for a long moment. Then he sheathed his blades, and in a fluid motion turned to Nieniriathlim and caught her by the hands.
He leaned down to murmur in question, "You are unharmed?"
She squeezed his fingers. "I am well, my lord."
He nodded then and releasing her swung round to face the captain of the watch, as he arrived from the lower terrace. She cringed at the tone in Thranduil's voice as he addressed the Elf.
"How did this happen? By what... failure was that filth permitted within the sanctuary of our halls?"
"My Lord, they came from nowhere," the captain apologized.
"They came from the river!" the king snapped, "And were permitted to crest our walls and breach our defenses—!"
"Thranduil..." Nieniriathlim said softly from behind.
"—see to it that such a lapse in duty does not happen again—!"
"...Hîr nín..." she called again, taking a step toward him.
"—and pursue those that escaped. I want their heads, or I will—"
"...Arasfain."
She laid her hand gently in the center of his back, and circled around to the side of him to break his line of sight with the beleaguered captain. As she turned to face him she raised her other hand to join the one that had trailed around him, against the center of his chest, above the still-too-rapid beat of his heart.
"You know as well as I," she murmured softly, catching his gaze with hers and not letting go, "that these Orcs were guided by some occult power and acted not alone. They were hidden from even the most watchful of us, but all is well... they are gone. We are safe... and this warrior fought with vigor, as did all your guard."
As she spoke, she all but felt the wave of something akin to awe travel out from where she stood before Thranduil, and behind her the captain of the guard lowered himself to one knee, and around them, one by one, the dozen or so warriors of the palace guard present on the balcony likewise sank into reflected gestures of reverence.
"Celyndailiel..." Thranduil breathed.
"An hi, amath nín," she all but sang, and reaching up, cupped the palm of her hand against his cheek.
For many long heartbeats, the moment lingered, as if some beautiful tableau, until the light scuff of footsteps drawing to a halt brought them all to life once more, and she turned her head to see that Legolas, with several more guard at his back, had emerged onto the balcony and ground to a halt.
She caught his eye, saw the confusion there... suspicion... as he stood with his head tilted, taking in the scene before him. Her heart ached to see him thus and more... to know that he would not yet understand, even if he knew... too much had been left unsaid for too long. She felt Thranduil's pain mirror her own as the same sense of knowing had occurred in him.
In that moment, the king reached up to lift her hand from his cheek, gently caressing her fingers as he turned with her and released her just as gently toward the maids who seemed to materialize from the very walls of the inner hallway.
"Convey your lady to her apartments," he instructed, and then gestured also to the guard captain who rose slowly from his knee, and moved past his king to accompany the ladies, bringing with him his two lieutenants.
She took one last look over her shoulder, out toward Thranduil, and to Legolas who, as she left, approached his father, the same expression of pained suspicion on his face, and she sent a silent prayer, to whatever power would listen, for some way through the thorny maze they all faced.
"Lady...?" a maid said as she softly touched her arm, and at last, she turned and allowed them to lead her away.
** ** **
"Adar nín...?"
As the balcony began to clear, Legolas approached his father, his mind whirling – buzzing with a hornet's nest of questions and doubts... fears. What was his father doing? Why did he allow the Elf maid to act with such familiarity? Did his mother, then, mean nothing to the king?
He did not want to believe it of his father, and yet, before his eyes the two had stood, in near embrace, her hand upon his father's face as though in deepest affection.
And yet...
His father was not alone in his deference to the maiden. It seemed she had the entire palace all but entranced. What was it he had come upon?
"Legolas," Thranduil spoke his name as if a plea, and had he not, after all, told his father he was content to wait until the truth was revealed? He wanted to trust his father – he did, but in that moment the memory of his mother; the warmth of her arms around him, the outpouring of her love upon him. His heart misgave him and ached for the loss of her.
Im ion pen-naneth.
He pulled the cloak of princely duty around himself as a shield against his pain and doubt, and standing straighter yet, asked, "Who sent them? What was their purpose?"
His father shook his head, "They carried no device by which I could identify their foul origin. I know only that they appeared to seek out the lady Nieniriathlim, our guest..."
He frowned as his father's voice faltered, and did not miss the way Glorfindel turned suddenly at the words his father spoke.
"...intent to do her harm," his father added, and Legolas was certain he had missed a portion of what his father had said.
"And she?" Legolas spoke the words before he could stop them from falling from his lips. "What is her purpose with my lord father?"
"Legolas..." his father said in the same note of plea, mingled with warning.
"No, Ada," he stepped closer, a plea of his own clear in the tone with which he spoke. "Enough! I cannot... what of my mother?
Thranduil took his arm and drew him closer still, hissing, "And what of you agreement to wait until such time as I can tell you all you wish to know?"
"There are rumors," he said, and tugged his arm from his father's grasp. "Whispers that travel about the halls, and all of this...?" he gestured at the corpses littered about the balcony. "After what happened with Tauriel; after everything else? I worry for you Ada – that you could be deceived, and after so long..."
"Do not," his father began in anger, before lowering his voice back to the same tone as before, "think to speak on matters you do not understand!"
"Then help me to understand!" he implored harshly.
He father shook his head, a look of sorrowing on his face.
"How can I," he asked, "When you have already closed your heart to all that I might say?"
Legolas stepped back, and glared at his father.
"Fine then," he snapped," keep your secrets, but know this... if I find that you have dishonored my mother..."
He did not finish the threat – could not, as he left the balcony, his eyes fixed on Glorfindel – for as much as he feared his father's attitude and actions, a tiny voice, all but silent within him, spoke of a hope he dare not even dare to dream.
** ** **
"Forgive me," he said from the doorway, by way of announcing himself, "That I did not come to check upon your comfort sooner than I have." Then added to the suddenly scurrying lady's maids, "Leave us."
The maids hurried to obey, as Nieniriathlim rose from her couch and turned to face him, hands clasped before her, such a familiar gesture he found himself holding his breath. He did not move, however, until the last maid had passed him, and the hallway behind him grown silent. Only then did he cross the room, lift her right hand into his, and kiss her knuckles tenderly.
"Ledich vae, calad nín?" he asked softly.
"Maint, hi i hind nín cên le," she answered, dipping a shallow curtsey from which he raised her, slipping both arms around her to draw her close, an age old ritual between them, one that he had not dared before, and now, it left him almost aching with hope of an ending to their estrangement at the hands of the Valar. She leaned against him as if craving his warmth.
He held her for many long moments, before moving the both of them to the couch, drawing her down into it to sit with him, within the circle of his arms.
"I am afraid," she confessed, settling against him with her head on his shoulder, her silver hair mingling with the white blond of his own.
"Have I not promised I will keep you safe," he answered, holding her more tightly, almost able to forget the differences – slight enough though they were – between her former, and later selves.
"How may you," she countered softly, though without reproach, "when I will be in Rivendell and you in Greenwood?"
He knew he should have been unsurprised that she had seen his intent before even he himself had admitted that it was what he would do, and yet it did surprise him, though his heart filled with worry at it.
"After today, Mîrlosen, and until I discover who, or what power is behind the attack upon you, though it hurts my heart to think of us parted, I would rather I know that you are safe and with those I trust, since I must go abroad to discover where lies the threat."
"Lau, curen," she breathed against his neck, and he drew a sharp breath as his body answered to the softness of that touch. "It is not for me, nor even the distance I fear."
He pulled back to look at her in query, the unexpected nature of her words ghosted on his face. He followed the motion of her fingers, hands trembling as she traced a soft caress over his cheeks and the softness of his lips, fought the urge to kiss her fingertips as they descended to rest at his collar, over the stags head brooch he wore.
"It is knowing that I barely feel you – your light – and will not once we are not connected by the place in which we both endure," she said and a sudden, terrible rush of emptiness assaulted him, crushed the breath from his lungs as her confession, and the realization that it was not the first time she had endured such a separation, as he encouraged her to go on with the softest of kisses to her brow. "Only once before have I ever feared in such a way..."
A steady rain had been falling for day, but had finally given way to a languid humidity which filled the air with a soup of shadowy fog, and blanketed the hills with an oppressive silence. Hooded, cloaked, she slipped through the spaces in between, spells of concealment barely a breath away from her lips, should she need them, but she need not have troubled herself – and that in itself was troubling – for the camp was at rest, the swordsmen and archers all huddled close about small braziers, lit for light and not for warmth.
The command pavilion was not hard to locate. Larger than most – save the healers tent – banners hung limp upon crossed poles at each corner and beside the main doorway, through which she slipped, into the dim lit interior.
Not until her feet were set upon the very ground on which he stood did the sense of him reach her, flood through her with an intensity that was almost debilitating, and yet, the greater pain came from the glint of the scant lantern light reflecting from the silver ring still about the index finger of his right hand.
"These battles are a distraction," she said without preamble, pulling down her hood as all within turned to face her, and many hands flashed toward sword hilts, until Thranduil threw out his arm to stand them down. "I bring a warning... you cannot trust Annatar."
Then facing Thranduil directly she challenged, "If ever you held a shred of affection for me, you will heed me, Prince of Greenwood and Cuivienen ..."
Tears filled his eyes as she fell to silence, reliving the memory along with the retelling of it, and in the silence he drew her closer, up into his lap and leaned back against the high, cushioned side of the couch, to cradle her against him, more precious than the rarest of gems in all of Middle Earth.
"Ai, Nienanín... Celynen," he whispered softly into her hair. "It need not be so. Were you but to take your rightful place as my wife... my queen..."
"But how," she murmured, her voice breathy with tears of her own, "when one moment I remember myself, and the next I feel as a frightened child before a towering oak."
She drew away, steadied herself with her hands at his shoulders, and his own, automatically found her slender waist.
"And even were it true, and we reclaimed out virtue in ourselves and in each other," her eyes met his then, shining with the starry light of her unshed tears, "You would still send me away."
** ** **
Their arrival had been quietly made, no fanfare and no formality, and though they had been met by Elrond himself, it was as friends, and not as heads of state, or kings and noble lords and ladies.
The dining space, though, was awash with light and the strains of soft music soothed the air as for every formal meal at Imladris. For he had a reputation to uphold, after all, in maintaining the Last Homely House east of the sea.
Elrond smiled, as Thranduil – looking much refreshed from his journey – unexpected though his arrival had been, joined him, and Glorfindel at the family table. Nearby the warmth of a blazing fire flickered its light over those that gathered there, for the evenings had grown chill as the season progressed.
"I was wondering when you would join us, my friend," Elrond said, and gestured to a steward, who came forward to hand a delicately crafted goblet, filled with an amber liquid, into the king's hand. "And I must say, you look well."
"No place so restful as the halls of Imladris," Thranduil answered, and raised his glass in salute to Elrond. "Nor yet as safe."
"I was just telling Elrond," Glorfindel looked up from where he sat tuning his harp, "The wilderness beyond Hithaeglir has grown more restless of late, and that he might need to increase the patrols he sends from Imladris into the mountains and the plains."
"And I said I would consider it," Elrond scolded Glorfindel with a good natured, but serious rebuke. "But come, no business this evening. This night is for feasting among friends and—"
He broke off as the hall descended into an awed hush, filled with expectancy, and he turned first toward Thranduil from whom he felt a torrent of emotion, but soon realized his error at the expression upon the king's face, and the direction of his gaze.
She stood between the two pillars that formed the archway at the head of the stair, and the folds of her gown spilled about her in silvery blue, like a waterfall in full moonlight. Her fair face conveyed a calming air of grace, and into her loose but intricately styled hair she had woven nine gems that shone with pure starlight.
Thranduil moved, slowly at first as if some dream hung over him, but half way across the floor, as those in his way moved aside, he found his purpose, and his steps became as self-assured as always; unhurried still, but with an intent that seemed urgent to Elrond, who looked beyond the physical to see the tangled and frayed bond that streamed, like ribbons between the two.
"My Lady."
Thranduil's voice drew him back to the moment, and he once more cast his eyes over the young maiden who now met the king, took his hand and dipped a low curtsey before him, full formal, but filled with the deepest of affection. If he had doubted before, all trace of reservation left him at the soft summer breeze of her answer.
"My Lord Thranduil."
** ** **
Since dinner, and the evening's festivities were long since at an end, Nieniriathlim took her leave of the company, and retired to the suite of rooms given to her by Elrond, delighting in the thought of soothing the well-hidden tensions that lingered within her – the want... the need... the longing for completion – in the warm waters of her bathing pool.
She dismissed the servants, unbound her hair and carefully put away the gems she had teased from the chain and woven into it, before wrapping herself in only a light robe to walk between her chamber of rest and the bathing room.
The sensations of it fluttering down her arms and spine as she cast it off before descending the steps into the buoyancy of the water enlivened her every nerve, sharpening the already pointed desires that lived as a part of her. She breathed deeply of the fragrant steam that lifted off the water and settled back, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander. She was awash with memories from the evening: Thranduil's nearness, his attentive affections, and the matching sense of need that she had felt in him, which seemed to have followed her as she left the gathering, for she could not ease him from her mind.
Not that she wanted to – and sighing softly – she reached out for the soft cloth set at the side of the sunken bath.
"Thand, sillech dae glân sui i ngiliath dû hen..."
His voice came softly from the doorway between her chamber of rest and the bathing room, and with a soft gasp, she turned in the water, crossing her arm before her to cover her nakedness. Still, when her eyes beheld him, she saw that he had given no such trespass. Though he stood against the frame of the door, his face was turned gallantly away.
He was lightly dressed in flowing, dark silvered robes that draped about him loosely, as if he too had attempted rest and found it eluded him, as it did her, and she could not help but hope that it was for the same reasons.
"Hîr nin milui pedi," she answered softly, and she shifted her gaze from him to try and locate where hung the warmed cloths left for drying.
As if he read her mind he moved with ease away from where he stood and crossed to the shelf set above a low coal filled brazier, his eyes downcast, and plucked a large folded square from atop the shelf before approaching the steps that led from the water.
"Ever has your beauty been without compare," he said as he came. "And my heart and soul... my life was lost to it – and to you – long before e'er we met."
He came to a halt at the top of the few short steps, and offered a hand in her direction. A heartbeat passed, and then another as indecision gripped her. Had she not been wishing... hoping for his presence as she bathed to try and soothe away the want of him? Why was she afraid?
She took a breath, gazing on his absolute and patient stillness; poised, controlled he stood, potential realized in the perfection of his form. Her breath shook, but her whole body cried out for him.
"Melethrilen," he whispered, and in his tone all of her reservations fled.
They moved as one. She reached up to slip her wet hand into the secure warmth of his grasp and he stepped one bare foot down onto a lower step, the hem of his robe barely trailing in the water as he helped her up. As she came, with his free hand he shook out the folded cloth and once she crested the stair, caught the other side of it and enfolding her in its softness, wrapped it around her, then lifted her, it seemed without effort, into his arms.
He did not set her down again until they reached the warmth of her chamber, and then it was to set her in his lap as he sat upon the low couch before the fireplace, keeping her in his arms as he turned in earnest to look upon her face, his own creased with a beatific kind of agony as he spoke again.
"I am your servant, my beloved," he said, "Only speak the words and if it is your wish, I will leave you to the peace of the night, though it would be as a kind of death to me. Or speak another fate, and name me yours, and everything that I possess, everything that I am or could ever hope to be shall be yours until eternity should end."
She met his eyes, reached up to trace around them with gentle touches of her fingertips, and to watch as he leaned into the touch, turning his head enough to catch the fleet brushing of them more firmly at his temple.
"I don't want you to leave," she whispered, "Thranduil... stay."
At her words he brought his mouth to cover hers, his lips brushing hers with the softness of a prayer. She reached beyond his temple to run her fingers into his hair, as the press of his kiss became firmer, more fervent, and invited her to open to the reverent exploration of the warm cavern of her mouth. His tongue teased against hers, kindling sensations that delighted in bringing to life every nerve that she possessed and centering the added want at the very core of her; aching sweetly at the apex of her thighs.
Like the passing of a sigh, the kiss ended, and he eased her away, shifting beneath her enough to set her feet upon the thickly carpeted floor.
"Stand, my sweet angel," he told her, and as she did as he guided her to, he slipped to kneel before her, reaching up to free the towel from around her body, easing her around as he did until her back was to him, and with soft, sure strokes – gentle and loving – began to dry what remained of the moisture from her shoulders, her spine, and lower to her buttocks and her thighs, before the rustle of cloth behind her told her he had risen to his feet.
She gasped softly at the unexpected press of his lips at her shoulder, and whispered his name. He echoed with hers, her true name – the name of her first birth, and she felt the air around them shimmer with a kind of worshipful expectancy.
"...Finarfinwen Celyndailiel..." Again he guided her to turn, only caught her hands as she might have covered herself from his gaze once more. "U-boe nach gaer o nín, Bereth nín."
He kissed her then, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, as with the progress of his kiss he began to tenderly run the towel down over her shoulders, blotting what little remained of the bathwater from her skin before abandoning the cloth, the fall of it between their feet almost unheeded as her full attention was possessed by the touch of his caress at her breasts as his hands began to move over her.
She freed the tightness of her grasp from his shoulders as he stooped to follow the touch of his fingers with the soft press of his mouth, the brush of his lips mapping the hills and valley of the firm globes of her breasts and the space between.
Gracefully he lowered himself once more to his knees before her, his kisses descending over the flatness of her stomach, which quivered beneath each touch, his hands at her hips a tangible connection between them in contrast to the wing-like flutter of his lips on her skin.
A kiss pressed barely above the mound of her sex, and she ran her fingers once more into the softness of his hair.
"Here, yet, is there water that I would not dry," he said quietly, and she blushed, then released a short cry as his lips brushed lower yet, to bathe the softness of her folds with the tender pull of a kiss. Her head spun with increased need and the ache that held her spread as a languid heat deep into her belly and down to weaken her legs to within the threat of inability to stand any longer.
Like the dawn, he rose, slipping off his own robe as he did, to stand before her full and proud in want of her, the hard planes of his muscled chest hers to see... to touch... the whole of him only hers. He took her hand, and led her the short distance to the large, canopied bed on which he reclined, and drew her to lie with him, gathering her again within the protective, possessive circle of his arms – and yet she knew that it was he that was possessed, and she the light he worshipped beyond reason.
"Im Bereth lín," she murmured against his shoulder as he held her close, "dan... im riss. Caro nín pant."
He breathed a long, slow exhalation, his hand swallowed hers as he captured her fingers in his to bring her touch to his body, to guide her fingers over him only to retreat as she made a map of his shoulders, his chest, and stomach. His kisses fell like hot summer rain over her neck and shoulders, his legs and feet tangling with hers as he gathered her closer and closer yet, as the touch of her fingers dipped lower until their hesitant fluttering met the strength of his risen heat.
He gave the soft sound of a Hithui Stag as she explored his length with her touch, and she answered with a lighter cry as his fingers teased within her shielding folds, opened to him as he eased her thigh over his hip in drawing her closer. His touch, the sensation of him, velvet in the palm of her hand, the tentative intrusion of the tip of his finger, barely inside of her left her breathless, aching with unfolding life.
"Caro nín pant," she repeated, the words a breathy sigh as she released him, only to reach up and draw his mouth to hers, guiding him to rise above her, scorching like the sun at her zenith. She lost herself to the kiss he gave to her, to the taste of him in her mouth and to the cry she gave wordlessly into his as she welcomed the sweet, sharp stab of becoming one with her lord as he filled her – sure and strong and true.
Hervennen!
Her mind cried out to his in that moment, and his answered, in a spiral of bright and vigorous green.
Berethen!
"Ai, i-aran nín," she whispered as he broke from the kiss, to look upon her, a softness in his expression that was suddenly so familiar, so welcome that tears came to her eyes that had nothing to do with the lingering pain of her surrender.
"Ai, manen melan le!" he breathed, lifting away the tears with the tenderness of kisses and the soft caress of his touch at her cheek.
Slowly as the moment faded he began to move again, rocking her in the cradle of his arms, worshipping the whole of her with the rhythmic give and take of his body inside of hers. What began as a breathlessness only grew to the brightest of light and heat within as each sensation he gave to her built upon the last until at last, as wave upon wave crested in her soul, her pleasure overflowed and cascaded through the whole of her. He followed her into that precious moment of the deathless ending of immortality, filling her with the essence of his soul, his very being at one with hers once more. Never more to be sundered.
"Never more," he gasped in promise, and she knew he had heard the very words she had thought, and lay back, still joined, to cradle her against him, her body pillowed upon his as the intensity of their shared passion faded to the deeply conjoined heartbeat of two souls made one.
__________________
Lau, idh rîs nin – no my queen
na buiad lin – at your service
Meluien – my sweet
U-wanna nin – do not leave me
Mai sír natha meth mín, u-edlenno nín o le – if this night is to be our last, do not send me from you.
Holo in ennyn! Tiro i defnin hain na ganed nin! – close the gate! Keep it sealed, I order it!
Nan idh rîs! – Look to the queen!
An hi, amath nín – for now, my shield
Adar nín? – father? [Lit: Father mine?]
Im ion pen-naneth – I am a motherless son
Ledich vae, calad nín? – How are you, my light?
Maint, hi i hind nín cên le – Better, now that my eyes behold you
Lau, curen – no, my heart
Thand, sillech dae glân sui i ngiliath dû hen – truly you outshone the stars tonight
Hîr nin milui pedi – My lord is kind to say so
Melethrilen – my beloved
U-boe nach gaer o nín, Bereth nín – you need not be shy before me, my queen.
Im Bereth lín – I am your queen
dan... im riss – but... I am fractured
Caro nín pant – make me whole
Hithui – November
Hervennen – My husband
Berethen – my wife (and queen)
Ai, i-aran nín – oh, my king
Ai, manen melan le – oh, how I love you
Thequotation at the head of this chapter reflects the plea that Thranduil makes toNieniriathlim as he holds her in front of the fireplace in her chamber afterher bath.