The Fourth Age
Chapter 2: The Trees Have Eyes and Ears
Italics - Elfish
Bold Italics - Tree speak
The journey from Minas Tirith to the Greenwood was long and, at best, it would take Legolas and Gimli a week to reach the borders of the Woodland Realm, during which time, they were unaware that King Thranduil's halls were to be beset with Dwarven visitors from Erebor.
On the third day since Elf and Dwarf had departed from the White City, word came from under the Mountain for the King of the Wood via a messenger bird. A raven. To say that the council gathering of Elves were somewhat puzzled when the bird flew into the Throne Room and perched itself on the arm rest, right by the King's hand, was an understatement.
The King himself lightly tilted his head and cut short his sentence on seeing the bird. His keen Elf eyes recognised the intelligence in the black eyes of the animal and he also saw the small roll of paper attached to its small, left leg.
"My Lord, what is this?"
"This, councilman, appears to be a Dwarven message bearer," the King answered. He reluctantly untied the scroll from the bird and then, without warning, it flew away, cawing as it left. He knew the Dwarves affectation for the dark feathered creatures, and after all, what other race would be presumptuous enough to send a mere bird with a message for a King?
"What say the Dwarves, my Lord?"
Thranduil let out a sigh on reading the note and saw that all eyes of council and guard were fixed on him, filled with curiosity, nervousness and fear. "This discussion is finished," he spoke, his voice echoing with authority.
"My Lord?"
"I said, enough, Alináer!"
"Very well, my King."
"As you wish," the council members bowed simultaneously and walked quickly, away.
"What is it, my King?" Tauriel ventured to ask. She saw him screw up the piece of paper in his long, pale fingers as he learned forwards in his throne.
"Captain, I want you to take your most trusted officers and stand watch at the border and escort our...guests into the palace once they arrive."
"Guests? The Dwarves, sire?"
"Yes, the Dwarves are coming, they say, to seek an alliance," the King sneered.
"Why would they seek an alliance now?" Tauriel couldn't help but ask.
"That is not the question to ask, Captain," the King told her and she furrowed her brow in question. "What you should ask is; what do they want of us?"
"This is not a good idea," Prince Durin VII, son of Thorin III told Gandalf. He was a well-built Dwarf with a thick black beard, the ends braided with silver and his clothes were a dark shade a blue to match his deep set eyes.
"This is a very good idea, Durin, the only thing that would make it a bad idea, is for you to allow old prejudices to squander an alliance that you so desperately need," the wizard replied. He rode the white stallion, Shadowfax, the Lord of all horses, beside the Prince who rode a small, boar like mount with sharp tusks and a shaggy mane. His young son, Dáin II, rode a younger version of his own mount and rode with a childlike pride at being given leave to visit the Elves. Though he had grown up with stories of the treachery of the mysterious race, he was curious about them, mostly due to the stories he'd heard from the Men of Dale and of Gandalf. His family were none too pleased about this though. *1 And behind them them rode and walked a considerable number of the King's advisors and servants.
"I don't have the patience to deal with Elfish politics. I don't know how you talked my father into this madness of yours. And just how did you manage to convince me to bring my son?" Durin asked.
"You've been saying the boy needs to see more of the world," the wizard shrugged.
"I'm not too keen on the idea that my son, my very young, only son, will be at the mercy of Elves. Nor am I too keen on being in their company, either."
"If you did not come yourself, Thranduil would take insult and you would get nothing."
"He'll take insult regardless of what we do or don't do," he replied, "And I suppose the only thing we're likely to get is a nice, long stay in the dungeons."
"You'll do well to keep remarks like that to yourself once we enter the Woodland Realm, Durin Prince," Gandalf sighed, "The trees have ears, you know."
"Do they really, father?" the young Princeling asked genuinely.
"No, they don't, don't listen to a word he says, he's a wizard. Wizards too often speak in riddles," the crown Prince told his son following a disapproving glance at said wizard.
"I can see you don't make a habit of walking the forests of the Woodland Elves," Gandalf said.
"Of course I don't."
"Well, if you did, you'd know that the woods have been cleansed of the evil that has beset them for centuries and the trees are speaking again. You simply will not be able to enter them without Thranduil knowing almost instantly that you're there."
"Elfish Magic," Durin muttered, unhappily.
"It is the power of nature, Durin, it is no magic. Nature has many surprises for those willing to see them...or hear them."
"I want to see these talking trees," Dáin smiled.
"No, you don't, boy," his father sighed. "This is your doing, wizard," he ground out at the smiling wizard.
"I don't know what people see in these accursed beasts," Gimli muttered to himself. "Why is it always horses? Why not a nice wild boar or even a goat?"
"These horses will bear us to the great forest faster than a boar or a goat," the Elf pointed out. "They have been with us through much and I would not see them left behind," he added. For they rode Hasufel and Arod, the horses of Rohan who were both fierce and loyal. Though even Hasufel's training was insufficient when his unfortunate rider was a Dwarf. Gimli remained, however much he had improved, a discontented Dwarf when he was forced to sit astride a horse and the creature could sense it.
"I seem to recall my father telling me that the great peacock, Thranduil, rode something even more strange than a horse," Gimli mused. He recalled that, as a boy, his father Glóin had told him tales in which the Elf King sat astride an Elk, and many a joke had been heard that night. They made him chuckle still.
"He called my father a peacock?" Legolas frowned.
"Aye, and other things too," the Dwarf grinned, "And I won't lie; I'm none too keen on entering his woods."
"I cannot wait," the Elf shrugged, "I have heard that the trees are speaking again."
"More talking trees...great."
"They stopped speaking for centuries as the darkness seeped in. It greatly distressed my father and my people," Legolas explained.
"What a shame," the Dwarf rolled his eyes as they rode onwards.
King Thranduil was troubled. The call of the sea, which still kept nagging at the back of mind, had made him much more pensive than he had been in centuries and now, as he waited in the safe silence of his study, he had the time to think on other things other than the impending Dwarf arrival.
The King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, along with his unfortunate nephews, Fili and Kili had been buried in the halls of their fathers over sixty years ago. Their sombre funerals had been attended by Dwarves, Men and Elves, and, most surprisingly of all, Thranduil and Bard had chosen to bury the Arkenstone with the King, claiming it a cursed and foul gem.
Legolas had left for the North at the time and Tauriel had stood with the remaining Dwarves of Thorin's company, with tears in her keen Elf eyes. Laments in all three languages had been sung and, for a time, old grudges had been forgotten.
As the Elves had been leaving, the King had cornered his former Captain and he felt a part of him he'd long since tried to bury, resurface. He had been many things in his long life, but he had only been a father twice, for Legolas and Tauriel. Both were now to leave him.
"What are your plans, child?" Thranduil asked her.
"I...I do not know," she answered quietly, noticing the Dwarves looking at her in concern. "I...please, forgive me, I should not have said what I did," she said, chancing to look up at him.
"But you did," he cut her off, "Everything I do or have ever done is in the best interest of my people. I was advised against caring for you once I found you but I didn't listen. I favoured you as I have done no other outside of my own family. I gave you responsibility when I was advised not to and you proved that my faith in you was not misplaced, but now I cannot allow you to return after publicly making a threat against me."
"I understand, my Lord," she bowed her head.
"This is of your making, not mine."
"I know...but I would do it all again."
"That is what pains me the most," he replied simply, walking away, leaving his second child behind, before she could leave him first.
He often wondered how Tauriel could have abandoned everything she had even known for a Dwarf she barely knew, but then he remembered that she had been in love. He knew that love was not to be reasoned with. It was not logical. But he could make no allowances after she had spoken to him so disrespectfully, even threatened him before soldiers who had previously fought in such carnage.
"Elven King," the trees of the forest spoke to his mind, "The Dwarves of Erebor draw nearer. They are not half a league away. They do not stop for rest."
His bond with the forest had returned with all of its intensity the instant that Galadriel and cleansed it. The act had used much of her power but he considered it nothing more than what he was owed by the White Council. He had not been given one of their precious rings of power to defend his land and so he had been called, 'less wise and more wild.' Surely he was owed something.
When the evil had begun to overshadow his lands, the trees had retreated deep within themselves and then they had withdrawn from the Elves. It had nearly driven the King mad to be without their whispering voices but he had told no one just how much it had affected him. Of course, there had been one Elf he hadn't needed to tell, one who was almost as old as he and one who kept a silent yet exasperating eye on the King, and he saw that same Elleth standing before him now.
She had risen to the lofty position of Head Healer in a Realm of warriors despite the people's initial prejudice of her Ñoldor origins. Her name was Vilaeltha and she had served Thranduil since his the beginning of his reign. She had been the one heal his grievous dragon fire wounds as much as was possible and had found the right glamour spell which would cost the least effort and focus. She had been invaluable in her discretion as to just how constant the treatment for his wounds actually was. Thranduil had been adamant from the beginning that he not show weakness to anyone, even his son and he'd been quite successful in hiding the fact that every six months, the wounds had to be cleansed, from his brow to his toes; or so he believed. The one drawback in his confidant was that she was very observant.
"My Lord," Vilaeltha bowed as a guard held the door ajar for her.
"Come," he motioned to her and the guard left them alone, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" he asked her, though he knew the answer.
"My Lord, to get straight to the point, you have missed your last two treatments and as your physician, I must..."
"As your King, I suggest you hold your tongue," Thranduil countered quickly.
"Were I not concerned for your wellbeing, sire, I would do so," she replied, inclining her head in a submissive, yet somehow prideful gesture. Her long brown hair fell about her face as did her robes of midnight blue and silver.
"I have been far too occupied to deal with such trivialities," he waved a dismissive hand.
"Trivialities? My Lord, your life depends on this 'triviality'," she said.
"How many times must we have this same conversation throughout the years?"
"As many times as is necessary...my Lord," Vilaeltha replied kindly. Though she was always sure to show respect, it wasn't entirely out of deference to his rank as King and Commander. She respected him as a being, not just as a King, and when he permitted it, they were oftentimes, good friends. But it was difficult to be open with a being such as Thranduil. He refused her advice as a Healer more often then he took it despite the effect he knew it would have on his health.
"I have no time for medicine; the company of Durin are almost upon us," he told her.
"And...what will you do once they arrive?" she asked slowly.
"That depends on them," the King said honestly.
"Hmmm," the Healer hummed, "Well, sire, if you still refuse my medicines, I will bid you good night. I will leave this for you, as ever, should you require it. It's prolonged use, as you know, is not recommended, but in lieu of any real treatment, it is the best I can offer you," she said, placing a small glass jar with an elaborately sealed lid on his desk.
"After this business is over, then you shall have your wish," he sighed. Whether either of them believed that statement, they did not say, as she bowed once again and left, knowing that there was no talking to the King into anything, even if it was for his own good. Only Prince Legolas had that ability and he was not available for her to petition.
As the door closed behind her, Thranduil lifted the jar from his desk with a sigh. He detested the thought, as he had done for centuries, of being so reliant on medicines and treatments to numb the pain. This particular one was designed to be ingested purely because the area of the wound, in its entirety, would take too long to cover in a soothing balm if done on a daily basis and the King was nothing if not impatient.
What had concerned him more was the thought that his people would see his weakness. They would see the battered, scarred and burned Ellon that ruled them and he would be forever shamed for Elves prided themselves on their beauty. The illusion he cast would never fail, even in the midst of battle, far from the magic of the woods, it would hold strong. He'd been relying on it for so long, he doubted that even on his death bed, would the spell fail. Unless he willed it to.
With an unnecessary turn of his head to check that he was alone, the King removed the lid from the jar, poured its contents into an empty goblet of silver and drank it. It seemed to taste worse each time he did so.
"The gates to Mirkwood," Prince Durin let out a deep sigh sometime later.
While the crown Prince stared with a heavy heart, his young son stared in awe at the huge gates that seemed to merge with the forest around them. The trees themselves had been whistling in the wind throughout their journey through the woods and it unnerved the Dwarves greatly, though they couldn't explain why. "There's no turning back now," Durin said to himself.
The gates were open, as they always were now, with a handful of armed guards standing by. They suddenly stood aside to allow a woman to walk out to meet the Dwarves.
"Prince Durin, Mithrandir, you arrive earlier than expected," Tauriel smiled. During her banishment she had spent much time with the Dwarves of Erebor and had come to know Durin and his father well. It would be of great help, she was sure, in the near future. She had also come to know Mithrandir, formerly the Grey wizard but who still chose to use his names of old, and trusted him greatly.
"I thought it best not to linger in these strange woods," he replied with familiarity.
"You are welcome in Greenwood, all of you," she smiled, watching him and his armed guard, dismount.
Several elves came forwards and lead, what seemed to them to unusual beasts of burden, to the stables. "We have prepared rooms for you all, and food," Tauriel told the Dwarves, leading them inside, "Council will begin at first light."
"Where is Thranduil?" Gandalf asked her.
"My Lord is...otherwise occupied," she frowned and the wizard raised an eyebrow.
"Too busy to welcome his own guests," Durin scoffed.
"It is no surprise, Durin, you cannot expect a grand welcome with barely a day's notice," Gandalf told him, though with the look in the Elleth's eyes, there was something she was not willing to say on the matter in company.
"I don't require a grand welcome, Gandalf," he shook his head.
"Galion will show you to your quarters," Tauriel told Durin, "I'm sure you are tired after your journey."
"This way, Prince Durin," the Elf stepped forwards, seemingly out of the shadows and led the Dwarves away.
"Now, tell me all, Tauriel," Gandalf turned to her the second they were out of earshot.
"I should have known I could hide nothing from you, Mithrandir," Tauriel sighed. They meandered slowly outside the front gates, side by side under the stars.
"What troubles you?"
"Oh, many things, but...first and foremost is the King, he is...distant."
"That's not unusual," Gandalf remarked.
"No," she shook her head, "But more so than is usual. Healer Vilaeltha tells me he has refused his last two treatments for his old wounds. He does not know that she confides in me, if he did..." she trailed off.
"Indeed," he held back a small smile.
"I have heard the call of the sea," she admitted.
"As have we all, even Thranduil, I imagine."
"Why have you stayed?"
"I will sail one day, of that I have no doubt, but my time has not yet come. Some who hear the call are not necessarily bound for shores unknown," Gandalf told her enigmatically.
"This...alliance, it is your doing, isn't it?" she asked after a moment.
"My doing? My dear, surely you don't mean to suggest that I have influence over Dwarven royalty," he chuckled, "I doubt whether anyone has such an ability."
Tauriel couldn't stop herself from smiling at his words despite her unease, "Mithrandir, tell me you have news of Prince Legolas," she said.
"I have none that you don't already know," he sighed, "Legolas is in Gondor, where he has been this last year."
"I fear that the Prince is the only one with the ability to help the King," she said.
"Does he need help? Thranduil has fought the call of the sea before; he has survived much when all thought he would fade."
"Everyone has a breaking point."
"True, but you are the Captain of the guards not Nursemaid to the King. You do not owe him anything for what happened in the past, if anything, he owes you, and he'll not thank you for appointing yourself this duty," he said insightfully and she sighed.
"I fear this Dwarf alliance of yours has come at an inopportune time," Tauriel confided in an attempt to change the subject.
"Or a rather opportune one," Gandalf countered.
"They could leave disappointed."
"I hope not."
"As do I, but I do not make the laws," she shook her head.
"Neither do I, but that does not mean that we are powerless, Tauriel."
Whilst Prince Durin delighted in pointing out the fact that he and his company had not been welcomed by the Elven King on their arrival as he and a close friend and advisor sat drinking in their rooms, the aforementioned Elf was experiencing what mortals called 'nightmares.' It was, for him, brought on by a combination of months of sleepless nights, an insufficient diet, and a wilful disregard of his health, repressed stress for his son and his people, as well as the stress caused by ignoring the call of the sea for the third time, which was no easy feat. And, finally, what his Head Healer would describe as the ill-advised behaviour of taking medicines on an empty stomach.
Even Elves could experience vivid dreams, and the King had plenty of terrors to choose from. As he had done for several nights passed, he felt himself burning as his skin was singed from his body and his armour welded itself to the bone and sinew beneath. He watched his father die and be hacked to pieces before him and finally, when he saw Legolas in place of his father, it became too much to take. Thranduil couldn't bear the sight of his child being torn to pieces by monstrous Orcs even if it was only a dream, it was too much.
The King sat bolt upright in his bed, beads of sweat trickling down his face as he breathed heavily and laboured. It wasn't often that Elves could be made to sweat, let alone by dreams, so the fact that he was doing so now was of great consternation. His dreams had disturbed him so much that the wounds on the side of his face had started to seep through his illusion and he quickly brought it back. Even in the privacy of his quarters, he would not allow himself to show any weakness.
With slow, graceful movements, Thranduil stood from his bed and pulled his silver robe around him he made his way silently into the forest where the trees called to him.
"You are troubled, young one," the trees whispered before he'd even set foot outside of the palace.
"Young?" Thranduil scoffed.
"You are young amongst us," they replied.
"Perhaps I am."
"Your mind deceives you."
"It does, more frequently now, I fear," the King sighed heavily, only now, did he step into the woods, into the night air.
He hadn't always had the ability to speak to the trees, before he had settled here with his father he hadn't had any such talent. It was only after he had been brought back, half dead after seeing his father cut down before him, after losing two thirds of his men in battle, and after having been horrifically burned by fire. The trees had given him strength when he'd had none; they'd spoken to him in the depths of his unconscious mind and pulled him back to the land of the living. Had it not been for the trees, he would not have survived. They had given him strength but his son and his duty had given him purpose. It had been difficult to adapt to the loss of their voices for so long when they had favoured him so. But he knew that they were not to blame.
"This is a time of peace, you need not fear," a single tree told him. It was quite possibly the oldest tree in the forest and it had been one of his oldest friends before the quiet times. Most Wood Elves had the ability to sense the strongest emotions from a large population of trees but it was another thing entirely to be able to communicate with individual trees.
"Peace does not last long," he replied heavily.
"That does not mean that you need to seek out war,"the tree told him, perceptively. "We do not wish to be a forest without Elves now that we are freed. There has been a high price for this peace already, Elven King, you would be ill-advised to squander it."
"I do not wish to squander it," Thranduil said, "I do not wish to see more of my people dead...But I do not know how to live in peace. All I am has been forged in war...it has cost me much," he added, thinking of his son.
He would never admit it to any other being except these trees, but his war like, cold and calculating mind had cost him, what could have been a much more happy relationship with his son. He knew that Legolas loved him, but loved him as what? As a subject loves and respects a King? A Commander? As a father though; perhaps not. He had not been much of a father and he was ashamed to think of it. He couldn't even tell his own son that he was loved, utterly and completely. What kind of father couldn't even admit that?
"Then let it cost no more," he was told slowly.
"What have I left to take?" Thranduil murmured, sadly.
"Need you ask? You have your people. You have a great responsibility; you are the last Elven King on these shores. You have a chance to make peace for them."
"Peace with a world I have shielded us from for centuries," he shook his head. "This is the dawn of the Age of Men, but I have no faith in Men, they are weak. This Age will not last."
"Is that what you believe truly or what you desire? Even if this Age ends, it will not bring back the Elves, will it?"
"No, I fear it will not. But they are not worthy of this world. My people have walked this earth before they learned to speak, why must we leave it for them?" he hissed, "I do not understand and I will not leave!"
"They fought amongst us as we were burned, did they not show bravery as much as the Elves?"
Thranduil sighed, knowing that he could not deny the truth in those words. He had not requested aid in the forest fight but aid had indeed come from both Dale and Erebor. Had their positions been reversed, he wasn't sure he would have made the same decision to sacrifice his people for the sake of lands not his own. He'd seen enough of his people die.
"I cannot comprehend their actions," he said slowly.
"Can you not?" the tree whispered, "Can you truly not understand?"
"How can they allow their own people to be slaughtered in defence of foreign lands?"
"For the same reason you have always done; because you do what is right."
Tauriel stepped into the quarters of Prince Durin sometime later and found him alone and pensive in the gentle candlelight. The empty goblets and mugs that had been used beforehand lay scattered around the table and she gave him a knowing glance.
"Tauriel," he looked up at her from where he sat, "Is something wrong?"
"Of course not," she smiled, "I just wanted to see if there was anything you needed."
"Is that the job of the Captain of the guard?" Durin asked, surprised.
"Not exactly," the Elf admitted, sitting opposite the Dwarf. "Mithrandir has told me that you and your father hope for an alliance," she said after a moment.
"It was the Wizards' in the first place idea and he tricked my father into his madness," the Prince scoffed.
"You're not hopeful?"
"An alliance between Elves and Dwarves? Don't be stupid."
"We are allies, are we not?" she asked perceptively and he stared at her, confused, "If we can be allies, why can our people not share the same view?"
"It's not the same," he shook his head.
"Why not?" she pressed.
"There's too much bad blood between us, you know that. Some things can't be undone no matter how much we try."
"You wouldn't be here if you thought it was hopeless," Tauriel smiled. "No one can make you do anything you don't want to do; you know it's for the best if we at least try. Maybe there is hope for Elves and Dwarves."
"If only your King was as wise as you," Durin scoffed.
"The King is...he does what he sees as is the best interest of the people, but sometimes he is wrong," she sighed, "He knows that, but he won't admit it."
"He's a fool."
"I fear this won't be easy for you, Durin, the King has much on his mind."
"Such as? What is more important than this right now?"
"The risk of him fading," she answered bluntly, "I can still hear the sea's call. It's faint now but it makes it difficult to concentrate. I'm sure he still hears it too. I'm not asking you for a miracle, but please, be patient."
"Patient? With the 'great' King Thranduil," he mocked.
"Please, Durin, I don't want our people to be at odds again, and I don't think you do, either."
"I hate Elves," Durin muttered to himself and Tauriel gave a small smile.
*1. I don't think Durin actually has a son in the canon, actually, I read he's the last of his line, but here, he has a son.