Behind the Shadows of the Soul II : The Best Foes

Behind the shadows of the soul
Part II: Test est foes

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000@yahoo.fr )

Website: www.thecryscjb.cjb.net

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas (implied), Elrond/Thranduil (slight)

Rating: PG

Warning: none

Summary: They were friends once, but even the strongest feelings may die out one day.

Disclaimer: Just toying with the little elves.


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Chapter 4: Friends and Foes

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They were alone in the large office dedicated to the meeting, facing each other in a tense and stubborn stillness, avoiding each other’s gaze. Maps of Arda were spread upon the large table in the center of the room and both of them tried to seem interested in the rare scrolls left next to them. That painful silence had arisen the very moment Glorfindel, Erestor and two of Thranduil’s councillors had left them alone after spending long hours discussing about the disturbing reawakening of Sauron’s power in Mirkwood and the weakening of the Wood-elves’ defenses. When the debate had ended, as it was required by the protocol, the councillors had left the room so that it enabled Thranduil and Elrond to make decisions. But they had not exged ged a word, preferring to stare blindly either at the maps or at the trail of odorous food a pretty red-haired servant had brought a moment ago.

Recalling the conversation he had shared with Glorfindel a day ago and the piercing gaze the blond advisor had given him when he raised from his seat, Elrond sought desperately words that would not sound harsh or disdainful. But, before he found them, he was outstripped by the King of Mirkwood, who had decide one of them should say something before he went mad. Taking a deep breath, the blond elf tried to sound detached from his words, as if discussing of any matter of little importance, “Well… Have you made a decision?”

Elrond jumped imperceptibly, as he did not think the blond elf would speak, least of all, would be as direct. He looked at the tall elf, who was staring at him with huge blue eyes and stroking mechanically the smooth wooden table with his long fingers. He returned the gaze, biting slightly his soft bottom lip and replied with no hint of teasing in his voice, choosing to acknowledge simply the truth, “I‘m not sure yet, Thranduil Oropherion…”

The Sindarin elf stared for some extra seconds at his former friend, trying to discern whether he was serious or not. Seeing that it was indeed no joke, he let escape a bitter chuckle and stretched an alabaster hand toward the crystal carafe filled with golden wine to pour him a glass. Thoughtful, he held the delicate recipient aloft, twirling the translucent liquid in it. Then, he levelled his gaze, crossing Elrond’s stare, eyes slightly narrowed, nostrils flared and a ghost of cynical smile upon his fair features and asked, “You’re not going to make that easier for me, are you?”

“Have we ever made anything easy for each other in the past years, Thranduil?” replied Elrond, not taking time to think about what he said. He noticed, not without surprise that he had sounded somewhat as bitter as his interlocutor.

Taking advantage of the pretense of peace between them, Elrond closely watched the blond King of Mirkwood, trying to find in his interlocutor’s face explanations for that unexpected lull. It was said elves did not change and remained the same, indifferent of the inexorable passing of time. It might seem right to the human eye, which only noticed the grasp years had upon one’s features, but the knowing gaze of another elf saw otherwise. Thranduil might appear as young as the first time he had met him or as the last time he had seen him, namely half and a millennia ago, but Elrond noticed the havocs of time in his former friend. Physically, the Sindarin elf was the same, still handsome and proud. His skin was as pale as alabaster, as smooth as marble, as soft as the best velvet. His nose spoke of nobility and valor. His face bore asserted angles characteristic of the Firstborn. His well-drawn jaw betrayed his strong temper and his high cheekbones enhanced the impression of wild will emanating from him. His chin was short and voluntary. In his face framed by his long and vaporous blond hair that was mastered by an intricate net of braids, his eyes, blue like the distant sea, were two bottomless pools of deep colour, and his lips, full and luscious, seemed two sweet fruits. His whole frame was still lithe and slender, full of a grace that concealed an unusual strength. The changes were not in his body that was claiming every inch of his pure elven lineage. They were subtler: in his eyes, in his pose or in his unusual quietness that might be in fact weariness. Thranduil seemed tired and wry, as if he had lost the last of his hope. And somewhere, it frightened the Loremaster, as he had never seen the blond Sinda lose his pugnacious rage.

Elrond was destabilised: that encounter was not what he had expected. It was different than others they had ever Les Less tensed, less aggressive… More serene… And, somehow, it was more dreadful: it was exactly the kind of quietness falling upon a devastated battlefield once the final blow had been delivered and each side was counting their dead. It was a defeating quietness, full of resignation and empty of any fierce will. Briefly, Elrond wondered if his imationtion was tricking him or it was truly the case.

Feeling himself under close scrutiny, the son of Oropher raised his glass to his lips, trying to disguise his discomfort, enumerating silently all the reasons why he should not have come. He did not drink, even if his dried throat was reclaiming his attention. At that exact moment, he did not trust his stomach anymore, and he preferred glancing toward the half-Elf, seeking to read his thoughts. He watched closely Elrond’s unreadable face, whose dark mane was giving him a more somber expression. Even if he did not like to admit it, the piercing gaze fixed upon him make him ill at ease and he was struggling not to show it. Showing his uneasiness would mean showing that blasted elf had yet some affects on him. And that was not the case, wasn’t it?

For what seemed an eternity, but did not lost last more than a minute, they kept on staring at each other, assessing themselves, each of them judging his foe. Then, an ironical smile, that looked more like a grimace, distorted his lips and he acknowledged, “Point taken, Peredhel…” Then, he added, his tone willingly disdainful: “But I’m not surprised… You have always had a twisted mind. Surely your human blood…”

The dark-haired Lord gritted his teeth forcefully, fighting against the need to answer Thranduil in the same way. But he should not, as that kind of behaviour would lead them to a deadlock as ever. Leaning against the back of his chair and sighing, Elrond asked with a weary tone:

“I have enough of that little game of yours, Thranduil. I have enough of that situation. It had lasted for too long… Can’t we have a civilized conversation for once?” Something looking like melancholia surfaced in his voice when he added softly, “We were friends once… Can’t we at last face each other without getting on each other’s nerves?”

The King of Mirkwood let his untouched glass fall down upon tableable with a thud, oblivious of the numerous rare maps threatened ruin by his gesture. His hand clenched into a fist, betraying his state of mind and he hissed, more than he said, “Do not recall the past, Peredhel... What had been will never be again, so why do you want to call back memories that belonged to the ghosts? We’re not here to speak of us… My realm is assaulted, my subjects are doomed to leave the forest to end as food for stinking orcs. I have no time to discuss of that interesting matter. If you agree, we will concentrate upon the object of my… visit here”

His voice rose of some octaves and the Loremaster recognized the suggestive signs of one of the legendary Oropher’s storms. Thranduil had always been a quick-tempered elf, especially when it came to him. Elrond himself had been on the receiving end many times- too many times for his own taste- and knew from experience those storms were violent, but short lived if one did not answer the angered elf. But today was not a day for such exhibition of temper and the dark-haired Lord decided to calm the King, whose eyes had darkened dangerously, taking the colour of the depths of the oceans. He raised a hand while saying, “Peace, Thranduil. You won’t get anything you want if you keep on screaming as a slaughtered orc…”

The blond Sindarin King seemed to react to the implied meaning of those words and quieted his voice, but impatience was still flaring in his voice when he followed,
“My realm needs help, Elrond. Mirkwood needs protection, its inhabitants need protection. And I cannot protect them. A long time ago, I thought it would be possible for me to do so, but I know now I was mistaken. I have to turn toward someone else than myself and…” Thranduil took a large gulp of air as to sustain his voice and prevent its quivering. “And I would like that someone to be you, Elrond Peredhel…”

The dark-haired Lord did not say anything, still upon his chair, staring at the other elf, asking for his help while they had departed so long ago on the promise of never needing each other again, on the promise of never being lulled by the mirage of friendship again. The questions he wanted were there, but could not leave his lips. Seeing that his former friend was staring at him without answering, Thranduil let escape a snarl and he exclaimed, bitterly, “I should have known, shouldn’t I, Peredhel? You won’t help my people, will you? May I ask why you have given my son some hope that you deny him thereafter?”

Attacked on the matter of his own honour, Elrond had no other choice than to reply, more harshly than intended, “I said I would help your people, Oropherion, and I will do so. Never doubt my word! I never spoke lightly.” His sentence ended on somewhat looking like a feral growl.

Elrond watched as the blond King of Mirkwood got up unexpectedly in a twirling of his richly decorated ceremonial robes and stood in front of him, clenching in his hand the hard wood of his seat, so strongly that his knuckles whitened. The blond Kind of Mirkwood’s face did not show any signs of emotions and for some illusive seconds, it seemed to the dark-haired Lord that he was sent back a month ago when a young elf looking very much like that one had stood proud and unreadable in front of him. But Thranduil’s stillness did not remain for long. His whole composure seemed made of ice and Elrond realized he had never met that side of his former friend. Suddenly, it seemed the temperature of the room had decreased drastically and the Loremaster felt a shudder running the length of his spine. Truth struck him: even if he had known it, he had never fully realized that Thranduil had become a perfect stranger to him. And somewhere, it hurt him. There was nothing left of the joy of life, of the warmth that had been part of the former Prince of Mirkwood. They had vanished, leaving the blond King of Mirkwood like a cold and frightening creature. With every inch of his being, Elrond felt the strength and the regalness of the elf standing close to him, and he also felt the suffering hidden behind it. Suffering that was covered with many layers of ice, but that Elrond was able to see. It was a chilling impression, as cold as the eyes staring at him. Lost in those thoughts, he did not see the bottomless blue eyes narrowed slightly, and it was the Sindarin elf’s voice that pulled him out of his contemplation, “Always? Are you sure of that, Elrond? I seem to recall at least one time when you did not keep your word…”

“What do you mean, Thranduil?”

Elrond’s voice had snapped as he also got up, not wanting the blond Elven King to feel as if he dominated him. His robes rustled when he moved, echoing the threatening words. Both elves faced each other on each side of the table, their eyes hard and impermeable. They were a sight to behold, both of them tall and noble, their regalness enhanced by the heavy formality of their clothes. Elrond was a bit shorter and slightly larger than Thranduil, but that took naught away from his presence in that silent face to face. In the space of a few words, the peaceful lull between the two rulers had become a tense contest of wills. The air was heavy and it seemed for some seconds that, outside, the birad sad stopped their singing. They did not speak, each of them seeking the breach in the other. But, then, the tension broke suddenly, as the Sindarin elf averted slightly his stare, sighing deeply, “Forget my words, Peredhel… They were spoken out of mind…”

But Elrond refused to let it go and he said it aloud, neither his voice nor his gaze quivering, “No, Oropherion. You won’t dodge it like that. What do you mean?” In front of the stubborn silence that met his question, he insisted, plunging his dark gaze in Thranduil’s. “What do you mean?”

But, still refusing to answer Elrond’s request and cursing himself inwardly for bringing back the subject he wanted to avoid the most, the King of Mirkwood only shook his golden head, hlondlond mane catching the very light of Anar when he did so. But the Loremaster refused to accept that situation. Seeing he would obtain naught if he attacked directly, he decided to skew and stated with a disdainful intonation that Thuil uil would not miss to notice, “That’s well what I thought... You were lying, son of Oropher…”

The dark-haired Lord had tried to provoke the other’s anger and had fully succeeded. The ice had melted under the warmth of the fierce fire burning in the King of Mirkwood. He hit violently the table with his fist, not caring if the glasses and the crystal carafe might spill their content on the maps. “I am a liar?” he inquired, his voice no more than a low feral growl. “And what are you then? If I’m not mistaken, it was you, who said you would be always there when I would need you. And yet, it was you who left when he came…”

Elrond was taken aback by that surprising declaration. He had no clue about whom Thranduil was speaking about. He was left speechless and could not find immediately the words to reply. Instead, he stared widely at the Elven king with disbelieving eyes. Thranduil’s hand was still clenched into a fist upon the table and he was panting heavily, his chest rising in deep motions. His eyes were shining and an emotion Elrond was not able ttermtermine flickered in them. After some extra seconds, he found his voice again, “Whom are you talking about?”

Elrond’s voice reflected the disbelief he was experiencing and he enhanced his question by a most unlordly furrowing of his nose and brow. The only answer he received was a short snort from Thranduil before the blond Sindar turned upon his heels to go and watch the distant landscape by the opened window. The meeting was held in one of the rooms standing in the heights of the manor and a marvellous view of the vale, illuminated by the bright light of the day might be seen. But Thranduil did not care of the view, other matters were plaguing his mind, as unbidden images of the past came twirling in his already agitated mind. Years of despair alternating with years of joy. Years spent wearing a mask that only slipped in the secret of the night when he purged his darkened soul with his tears. Centuries during which he had repressed memories, pretending naught had ever happened. Millennia durihichhich he had refused to speak of the past. Years that came back to him now with their full strength and power of destruction.

“Thranduil, for the last time, saes, whom are you talking about?”

Exasperation flared anew in the Half-Elf. He hated being the toy of his own emotions, but, now, he could not help it. He did not understand what the blond Sinda was talking about and it angered him a lot that he refused to explain his words. Betraying his state of mind, he drummed his fingers on the table while watching closely the lithe frame of his former friend, noticing the visible stiffness in his shoulders. Slowly Thranduil turned again toward Elrond and told, refusing to capitulate and clearly expressing it, “I do not want to discuss that now, Elrond! Is it so difficult to understand?”

The dark-haired Lord refused to acknowledge that last refusal. Too much had been said… Or not enough. He would not bear another kind of that scene once more. They could not remain thus. He hated to admit it, as he made him feel as he was millennia ago, young and brash, but he had reached the end of his patience. He wanted to know and he refused to have that stubborn King of Mirkwood opposing him in his defiance. Taking a deep breath, but unable to master his impatience anymore, he spoke and regretted his words at the very moment he uttered them, “I’m not sure I am ready to conclude an alliance with somebody who treats me like a foe, rather than like an ally…”

That was a despicable attack, unworthy of the noble elf he was supposed to be, and, even if Thranduil did not voice his opinion, he made sure his eyes spoke for him. Again, nothing moved in the place and time seemed to hang from his stream before the golden-haired Sindar’s nostrils narrowed in disgust. Then, pushing aside a braid threatening to bother his sight, the King of Mirkwood laughed bitterly.

“How noble of you, Elrond Peredhel! I was aware you had many faults, but I did not know you had the mentality of an orc” he spat, his lips distorted by anger, his eyes glaring darkly at the other elf.

But Elrond refused to let himself be intimated. He was not proud of himself, far from it, but he had gone too far to back down now. And he knew that, even if Thranduil had many flaws, he was above all a good ruler, who would never put the well being of his people behind his own. But the Loremaster had no time to follow such thoughts, as the golden-haired King seemed to walk toward him, never breaking eye contact, still majestic in his burning anger, his voice looking like many snakes crawling in the air.

“You want a clue, Peredhel? I will give it to you! Do not tell me you do not recall him, you were always speaking of him, always telling how wonderful he was, how beautiful, how brave… You had only eyes for him and, yet, he never looked at you, he never acknowledged you… Yet, he did it one day. And that day, you were so happy that you forget everything, everyone that had cared for you… And you left.”

Word after word, the tension perceptible in the blond elf’s voice increased until it quivered, the sound barely passing the barrier of the clenched jaw. His the last syllable died out, Thranduil stopped his advance, his body tall and straight, seeming to defy the dark-haired Lord, his blue gaze still plunged in the Loremaster’s. He repeated, leaving a short pause between the words, articulating extremely, making the sounds slide on his tongue as it brushed his palate, “You… Left…”

And with a steady hand, he reached the back off his chair. Pulling the seat toward him, he sat, never wavering, never swaying, his arms crossed upon his firm chest, breathing deeply as to calm himself.

And, suddenly, Elrond was sent back millennia ago and knew, as images of old fights and ancient arguments came to his minds. A single name passed his lips as he closed his eyes, looking more like a whisper, “Gil-Galad…”


TBC...