Notes:
This fic's title comes from the TS Eliot poem 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' and is my attempt at something different with this pairing. There will be more parts to it, but it will not be anywhere near as long as "In Starlight and In Shadow." The entire thing will be posted here once it's finished- this is something of a (very) rough draft.
S.A. 3434
"Thranduil. Thranduil Oropherion."
It is what they call him now. He has not heard his own name spoken aloud since he departed from the Greenwood. Neither has he been able to say his father's name as part of his own until he had put hundreds of miles of distance between himself and his homeland.
The power of a name has never ceased to amaze him, what a mere word can elicit. Dagorlad. Oropher. Adar, goheno ion lin.
He did his duty and led what little was left of his father's army home. He has seen the soldiers' browbeaten faces, weary of victory and its cost, and knows that the same expression rests upon his own. For a time, he dwelt in the Eryn Galen in a state of alternating rage and sorrow. He was but a prince whose people longed for a king, for Oropher, and his gracious laughter that endeared him to so many.
Thranduil is not his father nor will he ever be. The thought of it stings his eyes and his throat swells with the effort to stifle the grief that binds itself to his heart.
He does not truly know how long it has been since he started running. He thinks of those he left behind, his mother, his kin, and the people who would look next to him to take the throne. But when he took in the sight of his father's place in the splendor of Amon Lanc, he thinks it will be forever and a day before he can sit in it and feel a true king.
"Thranduil Oropherion." He says again, to the open air. There is no answer for him but the howling wind and rustling leaves.
He continues south along the Anduin, fording the river where it narrows and then making his way through a long unused pass of the Hithglaer into Eriador. He does not tire even as he forgoes sleep and sustenance in favor of making progress into the West. Before much longer, the endlessness of the Belegaer stretches out in front of him and he is overwhelmed by its glory.
The sand beneath his boots is soft, like the riverbanks in the forests of his home. There are no rocks or washed up kelp—only the vast, pristine white that yields to the ocean beyond it. He treads toward the water slowly. Somewhere along the way he drops his rucksack, blade, and bow. There is no other living being in sight to do him harm.
Thranduil reaches down to place his hand in the water where it laps gently onto the shore. It pours over him, cool against his flesh, and the salty wind jostles his hair.
It is unlike anything he has ever experienced before, even in his earliest years spent in Harlindon 'ere his father led the Sindar eastward. As the sunlight upon the horizon sets the sea ablaze, Thranduil finds himself blinded and he falls. He lands on his knees and weeps for the memory of his beloved father, for the horrors he has seen of war and the crown he is ill-prepared to take.
The distant gull-song overhead draws him out of his melancholic stupor. Thranduil struggles to stand up, cringing as he feels in his whole body the strain of his journey. He falls again when his legs refuse to obey him, this time he lands flat on his back. The sand is a cushion warmed by the sun. He does not desire to move now, not when the sky above is so beautifully painted in cerulean and orange hues of sunset.
Thranduil closes his eyes as the tide recedes. He is safe here, he will not drown in the coming night. Some distant music touches the periphery of his awareness. It is purer than the gull-song and he knows if he listens closely it will lull him into sleep. He does not wish to dream before the stars and moon reveal themselves. Thranduil forces himself to sit upright with the intent of staying awake.
It is then that he sees her.
"Dhen iston? Man i eneth dhîn?" He asks slowly. There is something ethereal about her that behooves him to keep quiet.
She sits upon the sand within arm's reach. It startles him how close she came without him noticing, how her song dulled his sharp senses to her approach. Her visage is something feral—her eyes gleam brightly and even in the loamy dusk, he can see the auburn of her long hair. The breeze pushes the strands of it back to reveal her naked waist, his eyes travel downward to find that where legs might have been there is a beautifully formed tail ending in a fin. Her vibrant green scales are set off by the light of Ithil and he is reminded of the Greenwood.
She does not answer.
They remain there for a time, and eventually he lowers himself back down again, the softness of the sand too alluring to withstand. She gracefully pulls herself closer. He tilts his head so he can see as she too lies upon the sand beside him.
"You must have a name," Thranduil murmurs. On the cusp of sleep, he finds himself more willing to talk to this creature than he was to any of his kin. When she again neglects to answer, he sighs. "One of Ulmo's daughters perhaps? A lady of the mighty waters, who reigns o'er the Western seas."
She smiles at that. He finds his own lips curve into one too.
"Nemireth…Lothuial? Nay, I will not impose one upon you." His musings trail off when he begins to succumb to sleep. The rhythm of the waves soothe him. There is the slightest touch over his cheek and before he drifts away, he hears her whisper, "Tauriel."
When Thranduil awakens, she is gone.
Sindarin translations (from realelvish dot net)
1) Adar, goheno ion lin - Father, forgive me
2) "Dhen iston? Man i eneth dhîn?" – Who are you? (Literally: Do I know you?) What is your name?
3) "Nemireth…Lothuial?" -Jewel of the water…Twilight blossom?
