Lullaby

Images of the battle swam before Thranduil’s closed eyes. He rolled over onto his back, kicking away the tangle of linens at his feet, and ran his hand over his face. The flesh beneath his hand felt cold and clammy, alien to his own fingers. Thranduil pinched and pulled his numb skin trying to force feeling back into it.

Behind the locked doors of his chambers, Thranduil hid and drank himself into a drowsy stupor, which only momentarily eased his pain - long enough for him to collapse in sleep upon his bed. The darkness of dreamless sleep quickly gave way to nightmares from which he could not wake, even long after he’s eyes had opened. He did not know how long he lay on his bed, watching the scenes slowly fade as the sky lightened outside the balcony, only Saelbeth or Galion’s knock jarring him from his catatonic state.

Thranduil dropped his hand from his face and blinked. How long ago had the knocked occurred? Minutes, hours, days, years? The gray light of winter filtered through the curtains as sleet pounded against stone. What time of day was it? He could not tell with his mind so groggy.

Soft music filtered through the haze, dragging him to his feet. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, and stumbling around, Thranduil steadied himself against a chair as he pulled on a pair of wrinkled breeches and a musty tunic.

Thranduil peered out from behind his door. An elleth carried a basket of wrinkled linens toward the laundry rooms. He knew her, had known her since they had first come to the forest. She was a pretty elleth, gracefully adjusting the piled laundry.

He knew the routine. She would carry her load down the stairs to the laundry rooms, where they would soak in hot water infused with sweet smelling oils, probably sandalwood since he had seen her exiting Galion’s room.

His tongue slid across the cracked surface of his lips, his sweaty forehead pressed against the cold stone of the wall. The back of his throat burned with bile. The elleth appeared an apparition, out of place compared to the realities swimming in his head.

Something crashed behind him. Thranduil whirled around and reached to unsheath his sword. Sweat stung his eyes and the sound of neighing horses filled his head, the clanking of metal. Soft tinkling voices mixed in, confusing him. They were out of place in battle. Blinking his eyes, he watched an elleth stoop to pick up the goblets she had dropped, another elleth sopping up the wine on the floor. Down the way were the make-shift stables. Slipping back against the wall out of view, Thranduil wiped his hand down his face as he realized he, thankfully, didn’t have his sword with him.

Thranduil took a deep breath and stood, moving passed the elleth with her laundry, and made haste toward the wine cellars.

-------

Ghosts wandered the halls, and the week passed with soft murmurs. Amrun watched her son as his emotional and mental battle wounds festered, his physical ones healing quickly. She wished she did not have to pressure him or push him, that he would just heal. She wished she could have protected him from the ugliness of war. But as it was, she could not have, and with the alternative in mind, she would not have kept him from it.

Thranduil’s curses of the other Elven races echoed through her mind, the elves scapegoats for his pain. If one truly looked at it with logic and reason, Amrun knew that her son would see the necessity of the death brought to them. Sauron was a terrible force, and the dark ones would have killed them all, if it had not been for the many they had lost now.

Of course, these were Amrun’s thoughts when she was waking and able to control them. Her dreams were filled with terrors and would take time to lessen.

Her fears and mourning had been transferred to her son and people, her husband’s spirit urging her to remain strong for the living. Every morning she awoke, sat before the gilded mirror, closed her eyes, and imagined him standing behind her, whispering sweetly in her ear his encourage means. Dry eyes opened, and she forced a smile to her lips until it felt natural. When she left her chambers, none knew of her long night of torment and weeping. And those nights were becoming shorter. It was time that Thranduil did the same.

Amrun’s words did nothing for Thranduil, the words of a mother trying to help her son overcome his own fears. So she sought out Halathir.

-------

The training ring had been Oropher’s idea, via Galion. It was not that Galion did not want credit, but had confided in Oropher that no matter what ideals Oropher held regarding peaceful residence in this forest, dark forces still resided in the world. Training for battle would be necessary. Oropher had agreed with Galion immediately, and the cave had been modified into an arena for practicing sword play and hand-to-hand combat on one half, and an archery range on the other.

The large room had three known entrances one from the south, one from the east, and one from the northeast. The floor of the cave had been smoothed, the stalagmites removed except for the largest pillars. Along the western wall, a wall of oak had been installed with various styles of targets painted on the wood. The eastern half of the room had several arenas carved out of the floor with a number of medium sized stalagmites left to mark off the boundaries of the rings. The floor had been covered with a mixture of semi-fine and coarse limestone sand from the removed formations that had been ground by the elves. Near the entrances stood cabinets and trunks filled with practice weapons and armor.

The enormous room stood empty except for two figures.

Halathir dusted his hands with powdered chalk and walked toward the center of the northern most ring. Shifting his feet slightly more than shoulder width apart, knees bent, he held his arms extended downward before him, his hands in fists. Another ellon stood the same in front of him. Halathir took a step back and pulled his right arm back, elbow bent, and fist cocked beside his waist. His left moved toward the center, but still straight, protecting his groin. The other ellon let out a terrifying yell, and Halathir stepped forward as if attacking his opponent with a punch directed at his face. His opponent blocked the punch, pushing Halathir’s arm outward. He made a striking motion with the heel of his palm into Halathir’s nose.

The defending ellon paused, his hand just millimeters from Halathir’s face. He struck at Halathir’s side with the heel of his foot, stopping before he touched him. Halathir stepped forward again, attacking. His opponent spun around and extended his leg, slapping away Halathir’s foot with the bottom of his foot. Halathir smiled and his opponent set his foot down and grinned.

“You are coming along, Lir.” Halathir sat down in the middle of the arena with his legs outstretched.

Lir returned to his original position and proceeded to go through the moves of a simulated fight, his body moving fluidly, like a cat. “And when shall Master Galion come down again? I enjoyed his lessons while you all were away.” He spun and kicked, punched and blocked an imaginary foe.

“It is hard to believe that while we were away, you became an adult without us to celebrate your majority with you.” Halathir watched the young ellon, dark braid whipping around with each move, black eyes focused intently. “Galion has been training you well, but then again, he was the one to teach me this style…” Halathir trailed off as Lir stopped and laid down on his back in the stand, his lithe body shiny with a thin layer of sweat.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Halathir jumped to his feet, Lir following suit a bit more slowly.

“My lady Amrun,” both ellon bowed as Halathir greeted the queen.

“I seek your aid, Halathir. My son. As his mother, I cannot convince him of his duty, nor ease his pain. I thought perhaps…perhaps he would be here to find an outlet different from his current chosen one.” Amrun looked down at her shaking hands and dropped them to her sides in closed fists.

“My lady, I am here for your whatever you need.” Halathir dismissed Lir who quickly bowed again and left the arena.

Lir dusted the sand from his body and dressed, leaving the queen and Halathir to their private conversation. He bowed to Galion as the steward entered through the eastern entrance.

“The last I heard of him, he was heading down to the wine cellars, my lady. I would be delighted to seek him out for his daily…reminder.” Galion appeared stoic as he addressed Amrun from behind. She turned and smiled more as he bowed to her. “You have not asked for my help, but let me take this burden from you, and perhaps we will have our king when I am through.” A harsh gleam entered into Master Galion’s ancient eyes, and Amrun thought she could see the flash of a cold mithril blade in them.

“O-of course, Master Galion, I had not thought to ask you for your help, thinking a mother’s love would work. Or nagging as it were…oh dear,” Amrun frowned and glanced up at her silent sentinel. “I have been a nag…but out of love.”

“My lady,” Halathir spoke carefully, “And what have Lathdir and I been but bullies, trying to knock sense into him?”

Amrun let out a laugh, gentle at first. But as the sound echoed in her ears, it filled her with warmth, a warmth she had not felt in a decade. It became louder, melting the ice around her heart. “Oh sweet Eru,” she mumbled, then clearer, “we have not been ourselves, a nag, and two bullies trying to force Thranduil to listen to us, but if it had been us, we would not have listened to ourselves.” She turned and placed her hand on Galion’s. “Go to him, and with all your ancient wisdom, bring my son back to me whole once again.”

Galion softened his gaze at her and frowned. “I will bring him to you, but whether or not he is whole, will be up to him, whether it happens in minutes or years.” With a bow, he turned from her and left her to Halathir’s care.

“Come my Lady, and allow me to accompany you. I have seen a few green shoots poking through the snow within the courtyard. The early crocuses I believe should be blooming soon.” He stepped from the arena and pulled on his tunic. Halathir reached out for Amrun and took her elbow.

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The barrel sloshed as Thranduil rolled it none too carefully down the stony bank of the stream. The flow of water magnified in sound as it echoed against the cavern walls and became a roar in his tired ears. It did not bother him, but relieved him as the noise drowned out his thoughts. Pushing the barrel into place, he collapsed and leaned against it, the wood rough and cool against his face. Turning the spout, he filled his cup and gulped down the wine, his mind growing hazier with each drink. “To the King of Eryn Galen,” he mumbled.

He closed his eyes and drifted back into his nightmares. The mud, the blood, the blinding light when Gil-Galad fell. His gloved hand cradling his father’s pale head as his growls and sword warned away the scavengers. The distant look in Rumil’s eyes of one who’d seen his first real war and battle. The rotting stench of the dead. At least with the wine, he was not skittish, looking over his shoulder expecting an attack at any moment.

A heavy weight pushed against his back and he felt as if he were falling, deeper and deeper in his misery, and he could not fight against the sensation. The abyss was bottomless before him, and his head lead his body as he tumbled forward.

A blast of frigid water stunned him, filling his nose and lungs. Icy fingers stabbed through his brain, twisting and shredding him to a new awareness of his circumstances, and with a quick movement, he found his way to the surface of the stream, moving easily against the gently flow. Golden hair darkened by the water, he broke the surface, coughing and choking, to find himself staring into the dark turquoise eyes of Master Galion. There was no humor to be found in them. To his left, Thranduil heard another splash, and turned to see the barrel floating down the stream toward the river, bobbing like a happy and fat mortal merchant. Scowling he turned back to Galion who had stepped back and was smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of the front of his robe. Beside Galion stood Lathdir, who seemed amused at his friend’s current position, but dared not to laugh.

Thranduil started to climb out but Galion merely stepped on his fingers and pushed him back in.

“ARRRGHHH,” Thranduil pulled back his hand and attempted to grasp the shore with his other hand, only to feel the sole of Galion’s other boot crushing them.

“Lathdir, I often find the frigid waters of a winter stream refreshing and rejuvenating to the soul. In all my years, it is one of the few things I have not become insensitive to.”

Lathdir hid his smile quickly and glanced at Master Galion in understanding of the connection to Thranduil’s shivering appearance.

“The sharp icy stabs of the water’s temperature tends to clear the mind and forces one to practice a certain level of self control and meditation. You must completely blank your mind and focus your attention away from the cold. It takes some practice, but eventually the ability to refresh becomes second nature.”

Thranduil’s feet found the streambed and he stood up, his clothes clinging to his shivering body. Wet and morose, Thranduil glowered at Galion. To a mortal the water would have been deadly cold, and to an elf, bitter and biting.

“I have spoken with Lathdir and Halathir about the war, and I need not your account to understand your pain.” Galion crouched back down and his expression softened. “I cannot offer you any advice for how to make it disappear, for it merely fades as time moves on. They told me of your strength on the battlefield, of how you held your head high though the Noldor and others mocked you. They told me of Amroth’s jabbing and pushing, and how you gracefully handled yourself with quiet and thoughtful replies.” Galion rose and moved, blocking Thranduil as the he inched toward one side or the other, seeking his escape. “They even said you smiled with Malterin after entering the wood. Yet now that you have returned to your home, you have made it into a prison. Chilling those that would follow you if you were king.”

Thranduil had stopped and though he made the outward pretense of ignoring Galion’s words, he listened.

Lathdir listened as well, remaining quiet as Galion’s words echoed softly against the stone. If it had not been Galion, he would have shoved the elf aside and pulled his friend from the water and dried him, offered him more drink to chase away the chill.

Lips pressed in a thin bluish line, Thranduil made a move toward the bank.

“You may not leave the water till you have accepted your position. There are others in our realm who have lost as much as you, if not more, and you have to be strong for them, and give them the hope they are seeking that it was not all in vain.”

Thranduil rushed Galion, almost slipping as his feet touched the stone bank. Lathdir jumped to the side as Galion stepped back calmly and blocked Thranduil’s hands reaching for his collar. With swift movement, Galion pushed Thranduil’s hands to the side and smashed his elbow against the prince’s face. Blood oozed down from Thranduil’s lips, and a deep red mark appeared across his cheek. The combined forces made him lose balance and Thranduil crashed back into the water with a splash that wetted Lathdir and Galion’s boots.

“Master Galion…” Lathdir broke the silence as Thranduil righted himself once again, the bruise already beginning to purple.

Galion waved him off. “The water will soothe his wounds, both physical and emotional, if he would let it.” Eyes boring into Thranduil’s, he added, “If you try again, I will give you another to match that one. You seem to forget that I have many years of experience over you. Do not let these robes of a steward fool you.”

Thranduil appeared the petulant child about to burst into a tantrum, his face beginning to purple with rage. He no longer shivered, his anger warming his body. He gave Lathdir a side glance, taking note that his friend had folded his arms, standing like a sentinel beside Galion as if he too would smash Thranduil to smithereens if he dared to breach the shore again.

Thranduil sucked in a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to calm, closing his eyes and concentrating on nothing. Opening his eyes, he tried to take on an air of nonchalance despite his appearance.

“I would not have taken you for a bully, Master Galion, using such brute force against someone sitting and minding their own business.”

“It is not bullying when it is apparent that you have lost your senses and are ignoring your business. It is not bullying when one is defending oneself either. Lathdir brought you clothes in anticipation of this predicament you have found yourself in. When you are willing to accept your mother’s prodding and your friends’ ‘urgings’, I will allow him to help you from the stream and offer you warmth and comfort. Your people hunger for it, your mother weeps for it, and I demand it.” Behind Lathdir was a pile of clothing draped over a stalagmite, a drying cloth resting on top.

Galion admired Thranduil’s stubbornness, his unbending demeanor. With experience, Galion knew that the young prince could be a great king, with ability to convince his opponents in any matter of his desires with just a few well placed words. But currently, one would have merely laughed, and perhaps in years to come, they would laugh over this situation, sitting before a warm fire, and age darkening Thranduil’s eyes.

For a brief moment Galion and Thranduil’s eyes met and Thranduil saw the fondness and love for him in their depths.

“But my father…” Thranduil’s whisper quickly disappeared with the flow of the water. His body relaxed.

“Would be ashamed of you in this moment. He did not wish to raise a son that gave up easily to despair.”

“I’m afraid….I’ll make mistakes…”

“All kings do, whether they are willing to admit it or not. The great ones come through despite them. And the ones that don’t, are remembered for their strength in the final moments. Kings like your father.” Galion squatted before Thranduil. “He did make one fatal mistake, and he knew it in the moment when it was too late. But he did not hesitate and show his fear, and those that died beside him felt his strength. I was not there, but I knew your father. I dare you to tell me that I am wrong.”

Thranduil did not back down from Galion’s challenge yet did not reply. The truth cut into his heart, and he knew that Galion was right.

“Forget his death and final moments, and remember his life as your father, loving and doting. As a king, pulling together two different Elven races to create this haven. As the husband of your mother. Do not forget her losses and comfort her. Do not make her lose you as well to an even worse fate than death by the blade.” Galion reached with his long slender fingers, Thranduil hesitating but a second, then placing his icy hand in Galion’s. Galion wrapped his hand around Thranduil‘s and pulled him effortlessly on the bank. “Lathdir will stay with you and escort you to your chambers once dressed. I will alert your mother to begin her plans for your coronation. By tomorrow night you will sleep as king.”

Galion was gone before Thranduil could reply, and with a stunned expression, allowed Lathdir to attend him. With careful movement, Lathdir peeled the wet clothes from his friend and soon to be King. Love for Thranduil warmed him, his loyalty steadfast. With a hot breath, he melted the ice that had formed on Thranduil’s eyebrows and lashes. He twisted the wet clothes, squeezing the water from them, and laid them out on the limestone formations surrounding them.

Thranduil noticed how the stone glittered with minerals in the torchlight. His movements were dreamlike as Lathdir dressed him, the dry clothes chasing the chill away. He slid his arms into the sleeve of his tunic, and glanced down, taking note of the silver and gold embroidery of his father’s emblem shining out from a deep green, delicate leaves on vines curling about him. Already his hair was beginning to dry, and the soft ends curled slightly.

Lathdir stood back, and taking in the full picture of Thranduil, dressed as a king but with the expression of a scared boy. He started to kneel, “I offer my…” Thranduil cut him off.

“Wait, not yet, Lathdir. Galion apparently anticipated my acceptance, the wily and wise ellon he is.” Thranduil almost smiled and shook his head. “I can still feel all the pain and I am afraid. Your profession of loyalty and allegiance can wait till the coronation. Just offer your support to me now as a friend.” Thranduil clasped Lathdir by the forearm. “Please?”

“My friendship to you will always come first, Thranduil.” With a grin, Lathdir stood back gestured toward the door in invitation.

---------

Down the halls and to the south, beyond the Great Hall, the head seamstress of the caverns, Mistress Aida, found herself busy making modifications to many a tunic and gown for the coronation. She was a bit stunned by the fact considering that Oropher’s coronation had not been such a formal affair. Half naked Sylvan’s had attended and modestly attired Sindar. But even she could not deny the difference that Thranduil’s meant. Galion had already alerted all those who served in the caverns that their world would change, that they were to expect visitors from other realms during the new year budding before them. Imladris and Lorien were just two of the realms mentioned in the rumors.

Aida delegated many responsibilities to her apprentices, and still she felt overwhelmed by the sudden amount of work pressing at her door. The ellon before her was not helping in easing her apprehension.

Halathir blushed deeply as the maidens fussed about him, measuring and taking notes, prodding at him with her pins. He’d chosen a dark blue silk tunic for his costume, making his light green eyes brighter and his pale yellow hair lighter.

“We only have a few hours, Halathir, stand still and stop behaving like a child.” Aida sighed and deliberately poked him with a pin. “It will be crooked.”

“Aida, how would you like if I poked you with my sword and told you to stand still while others stood around and found amusement at your situation.” Halathir bit his lip and winced as he felt another deliberate stab to his side. Glaring he looked down at the elleth kneeling on the floor beside him, her dark hair pulled back in tight bun at her nape. He followed the line down her spine and shifted uncomfortably.

“Damnit you terrible elleth!” Halathir jerked away as she poked him again. He stepped down from the pedestal and walked to the mirror. “It’s fine the way it is, and I will have no more of your tortures.”

Giggles erupted from the other seamstresses, a hearty laugh from Lathdir who stood across from him, an elleth stitching and pinning a seam along his sleeve. His raven hair framed his handsome face, offsetting the crimson of his tunic perfectly. The elleth aiding him flirted shamelessly.

Aida folded her arms across her breasts and scolded Halathir. “You are behaving worse than a spoilt child. The seam will not stay in this manner, and I have just a few more stitches to secure it. Get back in your place or I will have you tied down so I may finish my work.” She challenged his reflection.

“My dear lady,” Lathdir chuckled, “Do not encourage him with such words, you may make him behave worse to prove your threat true.” Halathir turned red and stomped back to the pedestal.

“Close your mouth, Lathdir, before I close it for you.” Legs spread in a firm stance and arms crossed, Halathir stood as though about to face a raging hoard, tense and prepared for battle.

Lathdir refrained from laughing, but wiggled his eyebrows at the flirtatious maiden

Aida rolled her eyes and muttered something about warriors and ellyn, continuing her stitching with gentle hands.


-------

Beyond the edge of the balcony the dimming light of day quickly vanished, though the clouds remained to block the moon’s comforting glow, the sleet never ceasing. Inside the room, Galion lifted the top of a delicately blown glass swan and lit the wick of the lamp. The warm scent of lavender wafted through the room, stirred by the breeze coming in through the balcony.

Thranduil watched the steward’s movements, soft and gentle, quite different from the force he’d used just the day before, but no less deliberate and controlled. He pressed his fingers to the bruise on his left cheek and puffy lower lip. It wasn’t too bad, and had already begun to fade, mostly due to the frigid waters of the stream and Lathdir’s attentions once Thranduil had returned to his chambers. The marks would be gone by morning at the latest. A tremor surged through his hand and he dropped it to his lap.

“Galion, I am nervous, a shaking mess of nerves. What am I to say to them? What do I say to bring about hope and loyalty?” Thranduil stared at the stranger in the mirror, dressed in a blue silk dressing gown, sash untied and front open, and matching sleep pants. A box lay open on the table before him, the crown shining up at him, mocking his nervousness. Reaching for it, he lifted the crown as if it were some mysterious object for which he must use caution. The metal was cool against his fingertips, hard and unfeeling. Contemplating the fine craftsmanship as he traced the veins of leaf and curve of each vine, he turned it in his hands and then raised to his head. The leaves had barely touched his hair when he tossed it back at the box

“How did Elu Thingol manage?” Thranduil turned from his image and faced Galion who’d remained silent, shaking out Thranduil‘s clothing for after the ceremony. “And he king of a greater realm than this?”

Galion laid the tunic and breeches out on the bed, running his palms over the wrinkles. “Do not compare yourself to him, or any other. They are not here, they are not now.” He moved to Thranduil and gestured for him to face the mirror. Galion combed his fingers through Thranduil’s warrior braids and pulled back the silken strands into an intricate design reserved for royalty. “Thingol’s people are not yours, and his worries are not yours.” Galion picked up the box and closed the lid over the crown, tucking it beneath his arm. “Only think about tomorrow and the security and solidity our people will feel as you bring the realm back together. Everything else can wait till after that.” Kissing Thranduil’s cheek in a fond gesture rarely seen from Galion, he quickly stepped back and bowed. “Sleep tonight, sire.”

Thranduil inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly through his mouth, eyes closed as he imagined his doubts flowing out of him with that breath. When he opened his eyes, Galion was gone. He stood and picked up the clothing Galion had laid out and draped them over the back of his chair. Changing his mind, he held the tunic up in front of him. It had been his father’s and Aida had modified it to fit Thranduil’s more slender form. The face looking at him startled Thranduil. Except for the slight difference in built, it could have been Oropher standing there. He picked up the crown and place it on top of his head and focused more intently on the figure staring back at him. A king stood within the golden frame, and Thranduil watched as the ghostly figure of a female moved beside him. Before him, their appearances and the scenery behind them changed, as if time were affecting the two. Thranduil blinked and he stood alone, holding a tunic up against his body as if he were trying to see how it would look on him, the crown slightly off centered on his head.

-------

The forest river rushed beneath the bridge, but Thranduil barely heard it as he concentrated on his mother’s eyes and mouth. If there was wind, he could not feel it, and if there was light, he did not see it.

Thranduil strained to hear Amrun’s words. His heart beat thrummed in his head drowning all else out. Her lips formed the words silently, with the Grace of the Valar, crown you king of Eryn Galen. His hair depressed as she laid the crown atop his head. Her blue eyes sparkled wetly, and he knew she was holding back tears. Her control gave him strength as he stepped forward. To his left the courtyard was filled with Sindar, and to his right, the Sylvans stood or watched from the trees.

It was done. None came forward to denounce him, or to say they rejected him as king. Of course, Thranduil swallowed, time would tell. He’d merely proven himself on the battlefield as a leader in war. Now that times of peace were at hand and the future uncertain, he would be tested in different ways. The thought terrified him. A cold sweat dripped down the side of his face despite the ongoing sleet. The scent of the battlefield, and the sounds of war still plagued him, but grew faint as Galion’s words from the stream returned to him.

Thranduil cleared his mind and smiled boldly at those around him.