Lullaby

Part Four


The hazy gray of winter began to cast its dull light over the naked branches of the trees of Greenwood. Thick-coated beasts burrowed deep into their caverns of hibernation, a few still scurrying about to gather what little there was left for their consumption before the snows began to fall. The snow would start slowly at first for a of couple days, soft flurries dusting the branches and ground. But it would not be long before the blizzards hit, a whirl wind of white that would blanket the world in an icy cloak.

A pair of midnight blue eyes peered out from a tree along the southern border of Greenwood. Malterin wrapped about her shoulders a dark blue cloak embroidered with the symbol of the House of the Beech Tree. Beside the huddled form rested the remnants of a loaf of way-bread and a handful of the first winterberries to appear. She held a small water-skin to her lips, refreshing her spirits and quenching her thirst with a slow swallow.

The branch swayed slightly as another joined Malterin in her watch.

“Malterin, you have kept long hours watching for their return.”

Malterin did not acknowledge her sister’s presence except with a blink of her eyes. Tossing her loose white hair back over her shoulders, Motherin settled down beside Malterin. She took the liberty to pull her sister’s cloak around her shoulders as well, so that they shared the warmth from the cooling air, their bare feet swinging below the branch.

The two Sylvan ellith did not speak any further, but watched the sky darkening in the horizon, reveling in the warm of each other beneath the cloak.

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“My lady, Amrun,” Galion stood behind the Queen of Greenwood. She had grown distant in a few years, her gazes often focused on the south. It was no secret why, since the day Galion had found her frozen to the balcony, crying. She had whispered to him, repeatedly--he is gone. He is gone. Then she had collapsed into his arms, weeping.

Her words had shaken him to the core. Oropher was gone, whisked away by the cold blade of war.

Though she had been the first to feel the breeze of death, soon the entire palace had been overcome. Galion had taken her back to her bed, comforting her with the few words he knew, his own mind cloudy with the memories of the dead king. He had held the king long before he was king, back before he had taken his first steps. Had held the babe as he came squalling into the world.

Now he stared at her back; she was nothing more than a cold, pale statue in the finery of her position. None of it had ever meant anything to her, and now it meant less. He remembered the days when she was merely, Amrun, wife of Oropher the Sinda. Child of Lindon. Evacuee. Time had not changed her, truly. She merely took the role out of love for her husband.

Now that role was nothing, nothing without him.

“When my son returns, I will give him the choice to take his father’s responsibilities.”

Galion shivered; her voice was ice, the warmth of her countenance gone.

“Or what, my lady? If he does not take it, who will take his place?”

Pale blue, the color of ice, her gown only made her seem harsher and colder. Silver embroidery of the stars around her waist and bodice, spread out into a sea of widely spaced constellations over her floor sweeping skirt. A circlet of silver leaves accented her golden hair. Terribly beautiful she seemed, so different from the warm and simple elleth of her youth, who had been all smiles and laughter.

“Then I suppose Halathir or Lathdir will, but I think they would only if Thranduil asked them specifically…” her words petered off and she turned to Galion.

Her eyes were sore from weeping, the rims red, her cheeks stained with salty rivers. “I thought, Galion, that we were free from the curse of the exiled Noldor…” She paused. “But I feel myself barely holding on, only to see my son again. Yet, I have no desire to fade.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I am so confused,” she whispered.

Galion stepped closer to her, his arms wide and she fell into his embrace yet again.

“I am so weak,” Amrun murmured against the velvet of his robe, her tears starting anew.

“Hush, sweet one,” he whispered into her hair, untangling the circlet from her tresses and tossing it to the bed in the center of the room. “It is natural to mourn the death of one’s mate. And you have been strong for your people--”

“--But cold toward them, when I should be comforting.” She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand and stood straight, smiling weakly at the elf before her.

“Here,” he wiped away her tears with the cuff of his robe. Pushing her chin up with one finger, he bent his head to look in her eyes. “No one thinks of you as cold, nor unfeeling. We all understand your loss.” Kissing her forehead, he smiled fondly at the memories of watching Oropher and Amrun’s courtship. Such innocent and young love.

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Falling from the sky in soft flurries, snow dusted the slow moving band of elves. Tired ellon trudged along on their feet or horses, listening to the monotonous bump and creak of the cart wheels. Occasionally fingers rubbed at eyes blinking away the snow on eyelashes. A month, a month and a half, maybe two, had passed since they had left the battlefield of Mordor.

Their spirits were low, heavy with the weariness of travel.

Lathdir stretched his sore arms over his head and leaned forward, searching the horizon for that familiar dark shadow that would herald the presence of his home. He shook his head, shaking the white crystals from it in a shower that was quickly replaced by more.

“All I want is a warm cavern and mulled wine,” grumbled Halathir, his hands tucked into the folds of his cloak.

Lathdir grinned. “Do not tell me that as an elf, you are bothered by this cold,” he snickered, keeping his eyes searching ahead. “Perhaps you mingled with the Second Born too much…”

Halathir frowned. “No, just tired of this. I’m just ready to be home.” He looked over to Thranduil. The blond elf slouched on his horse, head jerking up occasionally as he tried to stay awake. “As others are too…”

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Galion walked along the corridor; he left the sleeping queen huddled beneath her coverings, a sleeping spell aiding her in her reverie. A few turns and he approached the door to Thranduil’s chambers. Everyday he came here, aired out the room, made sure the bed was ready for his return. Whenever that would be. If it would ever be. But they hoped.

Smoothing his fingers over the velvet of the quilt, Galion sat down on the edge. Over come with grief, he let his tears fall for the first time. Oropher was gone, and now he would serve his son, as he had served Oropher, and those before him to his grandfather Legolas of Gondolin, founder of the House of the Beech Tree. He had loved him as a father loved a son. Had raised him as a father would.

Swallowing, Galion stood and walked to the mirror on the far wall, looking at his reflection. He wiped away the tears. If any ever returned, mourning would be brief. And life would go on as it had for so many centuries, millennia. Galion had witnessed the devastation of war first hand, had seen the balrogs and dragons leveling their world, has seen Doriath sacked and Oropher’s grandfather slain. He had wielded his own weapons against an enemy, killed his share.

But experience and life didn’t make the loss any easier.

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Skeletal trees swayed in the wind, silver hair whipped. Malterin brushed it away from her face and turned from her daily watch. She slid from her branch, her feet soundlessly hitting the ground, bare toes squishing the snow between them. Careful and sure, she broke the barrier of trees surrounding the edge of the forest. Outside of the comfort of the trees, the wind was harsher, colder…louder in its howl.

She stood out in the world of white, a dark blue blot against the background. The spindly trees of the outer world did little to cover her lone figure. The gray sky darkened as night fell.

A heavy sigh and she turned, walking back into the forest. Drifting, weaving, among the trees, she made her way. Huddled Sylvans watched her from their flets, sympathetic hearts. All had kept vigil, waiting for a return that never seemed to come.

Malterin stopped at the base of an ancient, thick oak, and leaned against the warm bark. She breathed deeply a couple of times, then climbed into the flet above. Curled into a ball, her sister slept in the center of the flet. Malterin crawled across the boards, snuggling against Motherin, facing her. Spreading out her cloak over both of them, she pulled it over their heads and kissed her sister on the cheek.

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A cracked voice broke the silence, trying to be heard over the wind.

“Home!” It echoed, barely registering to his companions. A few heads raised. An ellon at the front of the march had stopped, his hand shielding his eyes as he stared into the distance. The dark shadows of trees loomed on the horizons, gray blurs in the falling snow. His words dawned upon the others, and the elves halted, stunned eyes raised.

“My lord! Home!” Another suddenly discovered his long forgotten energy and ran toward Thranduil.

Jerking his head, Thranduil stared blankly at the ellon before it registered. Home.

Lathdir was already riding along the edge of the group to the front of the line. Dark hair and cloak flapped in the wind. They were closer than any had thought, and he blamed their states of exhaustion that none had noticed the shadows sooner. Night was falling fast, and he could not be sure what the others would want to do, to rest or plow on till under the protective covering of familiar trees.

He reined his horse around and rode back to Thranduil.

Thranduil’s expression gave him his answer--they would continue on till the trees welcomed them home.

His first smile since they had left. It spread across Thranduil’s face. Their pace quickened as soon as they started walking again. Spirits lifted. Thranduil blinked and rubbed his eyes, thinking he imagined a figure watching them, waiting for them. But he attributed as his mind playing tricks on him, his own wishful thinking. His own dreams of one so warm beside him, one that had watched him with laughter in her eyes from the branches of the trees, sunlight playing in her silver hair and giving it a red glow.

He let the pleasant thoughts draw him nearer to home.