The room is cold despite the fire; it is still March and winter refuses to give up the battle. Or perhaps it is the tidings of death which have brought the chill. I berate myself for not having thought to cover Thranduil's exposed chest. In an oak trunk in front of his bed I find a large woolen blanket and cover him up to his neck.
"You have been a lot of trouble tonight," I tease. "You would not be impressed to see yourself in this less-than-impeccable state, disheveled and looking like death. Even your crown is askew. Yes, it is best you are unconscious."
I remove his circlet and place it on the bedside table. Its silver entwined branches flicker from the fire's wavering light, as though it has a life of its own.
"It is a start, my lord. But your hair..." I shake my head. "You look as though you have walked through a cyclone. Those tangles will never do."
I find a comb and run it through his silken strands, a strong contrast to my coarse curls. I cannot resist gliding my fingers through them; this is an occasion likely to never happen again. His hair is a mixture of two kingly metals: silver and gold.
"I wish I could touch it every day," I confess matter-of-factly, emboldened by his unconsciousness. "If I were braver, I would fashion it in a lady's style. Your injury would be the least of your concerns upon waking."
His expressionless face remains unchanged, and my smile fades. Suddenly the teasing has lost its appeal. When his hair is combed, I walk to his ceiling-high bookshelf by the hearth and examine his collection. Unlike the public selection in his living chamber, these books are older and more delicate, with faded and broken spines. Most are battle accounts from the First Age, with a handful on the various languages of Men and Elves. But it is a folded parchment wedged between two weighty tomes which intrigues me most.
I gingerly pull it out and unfold it. My eyes widen. It is my own handwriting.
Rîneth is written numerous times in black ink, each signature a varying size and style. It is scattered across the parchment at different angles, even filling the corners, as though an excited child just learned to write their name. I remember it from long ago, something I thought was lost.
A small project to pass the time on a rainy afternoon, it was a silly attempt to create a unique signature for my artwork. It was nothing of importance. I had lost no sleep over its disappearance, and had forgotten it until now.
I look over my shoulder in astonishment. "Why did you take this?"
He must have visited my scriptorium when I was absent. What use would he have had for it? Why has he kept it all this time? I am stunned, incapable of making sense of it. I re-fold the parchment and return it to its home between the tomes, and walk back to his bedside.
"You are a conundrum, Thranduil Oropherion."
A deathly silence answers me. I rub my arms to fight the forbidding chill, but it is no use. The fire is now little more than an ember, and I am too fatigued to continue standing. Hoping Thranduil will forgive me if he lives, I remove my slippers and join him on the bed. The woolen blanket is large enough to cover us both. I dare to place my head on his shoulder and grasp his hand. His wound is under his opposite arm or I would not have attempted it.
"Do you remember our day at Laurenendë? I have deemed that the pond's name, so you must never call it anything else." My smile is shaky. "It was...a good day. It was even worth riding on Gilroch."
Having never been this close before, I make a study of his face. Its planes and curves fascinate me, even his disfiguring burn. I have never noticed before how long his eyelashes are. I reach out to touch his mouth, but think better of it.
I suddenly desire to draw him, and I wonder why I never have.
"I followed your orders. I stayed alive. Do you not remember? 'Twas one of the last things you spoke to me, that my death would kill you. So you must wake up now. I demand it..."
I hover over his face, waiting for him to wake at my command. And I realize he is no longer breathing.
The blood drains from me, leaving my body a hollow shell, and I have no feeling in my limbs as I check for his pulse, but his pulse is gone, like mine, for I have lost my heart. I am dead as well.
But if I were dead, I would be in the Halls of Mandos, not still in his chambers. I would be seeing Thranduil's spirit instead of his spiritless body.
I look down at my spiritless friend and know I am not in the Halls of Mandos, but trapped in a life without him. I gasp for breath, even while wondering if I could brave suffocation. Why did the Valar not claim me as well?
If only I were a mortal woman and could leave the world entirely. I have never felt the Eldar's curse stronger than now.
There is an unsettling voice grieving his passing, loud and pained, its words indiscernible. I turn around and there is no one there, only a dead fire in a dead room. The awful sound is coming from my own throat. I bury my face in my hands to make it stop. My eyes are dry; my body is numb. I am weaker than a newborn.
"Eru...Eru..." One word. One name. It is all I can utter.
I must find my father and deliver the terrible news, but I cannot move. The fatigue from the attempted healing left me without much strength, but now it has fled altogether with my grief. It was all for naught. It was all in vain.
I did not save him. Perhaps he did not wish to be saved.
Unable to keep my head up, I fall on his shoulder. My eyelids are like stone weights, and close against my will, and I sink into an abyss.
"Please come back..."
-----
I am walking in darkness.
In the distance there is a burning light. An orange flame. I feel its fervent heat, yet I continue to walk towards it as if it is my salvation and my doom.
I am in the dragon's belly. It has found me again.
The light grows brighter. I look down at my palms; I am still flesh and bone, my robes are silver. My body is my own. Intact and whole. Nothing about me has changed.
Now that the darkness is lifting, I take in my surroundings. The world is shadowed and fogged, but I see I am walking down a stone-columned hall. The ceiling is so high it cannot be viewed by natural eyes. I know there are other halls, and other people nearby, but their faces are hidden to me.
It is obvious where I am now. The Halls of Mandos. I must have fallen in battle.
Death has finally claimed me.
"Thranduil."
A voice. Hers. I have not heard it in three-thousand years, but it is not one I can forget. I turn to the left, the right, but there is no one. Only darkness and shadow and death. Where is she? I try to stop walking but I have no control.
Still I am heading to the orange flame. The dragon's mouth. The point of no return.
"I do not believe you, Adar. These are nothing but lies born from your hatred of the world. She was kindness and warmth and light and everything you can never be. If it is true she was unhappy, it was because of you. You did not even save her..."
Legolas. The day I told him everything. The Valar are cruel to return his words to me now, after I have lost everything. After I have lost my life.
"It is easy for you to give commands, for you to put me in my place. You are King. You are Thranduil Oropherion. You are not to be questioned, never to be rebuked."
Rîneth. I look around me, but she is not here. I am in a hell.
The orange flame is not a mouth, but a portal to an eternal world of fire. Valinor is a lie. Everything the Elves have been promised is a ruse.
"Thranduil."
Her again. I do not bother to see if she is there; I know the answer. Instead I close my eyes and brace myself, for the flames are nigh and I must endure them. But I have endured them before. The dragon taunts me still.
"Thranduil."
A warm touch on my face, a hand. My feet have stopped moving.
I open my eyes and she is standing before me, bright eyes and soft skin and gold hair. She is a walking star as she has ever been. But there is something different about her, something which elevates her above the stars. I must know what it is...
"Itaril."
She embraces me. Any question I had of her existence vanishes; she is tangible and alive. And warm. A kinder warmth than the bright flame ahead.
"Why are you still here? Your death was long ago. Your spirit should now be residing under the trees of Valinor, not in these dark Halls..."
"The Halls are for resting," she says. "And rest I have not found yet. Until I do, I shall not be able to leave."
"Why have you not found it?"
"Ada! Where are you keeping Nana? I do not like this game anymore. I cannot find her anywhere, not in the cave and not in the forest..."
Legolas again. I look around me, half expecting to see him appear as well, having died in the War. But there is nothing but shadows as far I can see.
"Did you hear him?" I ask. "He spoke those words when he was a child. It was only a few days after your..."
"Death. Nay, I did not hear him. The voices are different for everyone who passes through the Halls. They are memories. Until one can make peace with them, they will continue to speak."
"Do you still hear them?"
"No."
"Then why are you still here? You have not answered me."
She twists her mouth as though she is amused. "Indeed, I have not. I see patience is still not one of your strong suits. But pray tell me: How is our son? I have heard many things from those who have passed through the Halls and knew him. Is he as well as they say?"
Is he? I do not even know his whereabouts. Even now he may be fighting in a battle which will determine the fate of the world. But I must not give her such grave news. I must withhold it.
"He is happier than he has ever been. He is ever the adventurer. He speaks of you every day."
Itaril's laughter is musical. "That is pleasing to hear. I miss him so much, Thranduil. I have no doubt you have been a good father to him."
I look away. Perhaps I should walk into the flame willingly.
"Do not even think it," she says. "I witnessed it with my own eyes. You must be more forgiving on yourself. It was not your fault. The day will come when Legolas will no longer question it."
"If I had reached you in time, he would have had a mother."
"You could not have saved me. It was my time to leave the earth. It was the will of the Valar."
The cruel spirits who would steal a mother from her son. No wonder she has found no rest here. I am not so sure about the Valar now.
Itaril places her hand on my arm. "I...must ask your forgiveness. I never told you then, but I shall tell you now: You were a good husband to me. You protected me and did everything you knew to bring me joy. I should have been more appreciative, yet grief clouded my entire world. Even now I am sorry I could not give you what you deserved."
I shake my head. "It is I who should ask for forgiveness."
"I shall forgive you, if you forgive me."
Her eyes hold an ocean with a great depth. They always have. "I do."
"The Halls are a place of forgiveness. Now we have both found peace for our mistake. And perhaps we have a chance to rectify it. Tell me, if you could relive it, would you make the same choice?"
"Of course not. You know that."
I now realize what is different about her. She is wearing a smile. It is radiant. It lights up her entire spirit, her force. She is a queen of another kind.
"Yes," she says. "But your confirmation is relieving to hear."
"Why do you require confirmation?"
Itaril opens her mouth, but another voice interrupts her.
"I followed your orders. I stayed alive. Do you not remember? 'Twas one of the last things you spoke to me, that my death would kill you. So you must wake up now. I demand it..."
Rîneth. Yet I do not remember her speaking those words...
"So it is true," says Itaril, delighted. "Elros told me about your friendship just before you arrived. He seems to believe you are very close."
"I thought you could not hear the voices?"
"It must not be a memory, for I heard her clearly."
I suddenly look behind me. There is nothing there. No one. Only a black abyss. In front of me is still the bright flame, the dragon's mouth.
"Where are we, Itaril?"
The radiant smile again. She is enjoying knowing something I do not.
"Between two worlds. Beyond the flame door is the Halls of Mandos. If you pass through it, you cannot return. I have been given permission to meet you here, in the in-between. You asked me earlier why I have not left. It is because I have been waiting for you. There is...something I must tell you."
-----
"Rîneth."
There is a pressure on my hand, like it is being squeezed. Something faint and terrible reminds me I must not wake up, I must never wake up. It is better to continue on in mindless dreams which cannot harm me.
Again the deep, familiar voice calls for me, more urgent, sounding as if it is coming from another room. I know the voice from somewhere, but this somewhere is not where I wish to be. I am afraid of it. I cannot remember why.
"Rîneth. Wake up."
I open my eyes at its persistence, though not without a tremendous struggle. The room is dim and cool. A warm hand is clutching mine. My body jolts upwards, the relentless beat of my heart racing to the Sundering Seas and back.
Thranduil's sharp blue eyes are open. They are looking up at me.
"You sleep like a Dwarf. I did not think I would ever wake you."
If not for the tangible bed and the clarity of the room, I would believe I had drifted to the Halls of Mandos in my sleep. Still, I am not certain. I reach out my hand to touch his face. He covers it with his own.
"You were dead."
"Yes."
I lay back down and bury my face in his shoulder, not wishing him to see my tears. He wraps his arm around me.
"I heard you," he says.
A/N: I apologize if I gave you a heart attack, but it all worked out in the end, didn't it? ;) The "In-Between" is totally my invention, but the Halls of Mandos are part of Tolkien's amazing lore, the place where the elves go after death for rest. I recommend you reading about it if you haven't. I especially recommending reading The Silmarillion. I could probably spend the remainder of my life reading about Tolkien's world and still discover something new. It was truly his life's work.
I hope you enjoyed it! I hope you feel some relief that Thranduil LIVES! Let me know what you think. Did the leap to Thranduil's point of view take you by surprise? :D