Sorrow
The door to the King's sleeping chamber opened quietly, admitting his squire. It was dark and cold, the fire having long since gone out. Thranduil, slumped in a chair by the fireside, did not react while Rhosgon lit the candles on the bed stand and went about his nightly routine of tidying up.
"You need to sleep."
"You know I cannot." Thranduil did not open his eyes. An empty goblet dangled in his hand. "Bring me wine."
"No, rather not." Seemingly unperturbed, Rhosgon picked up some discarded clothing. He did not flinch when the goblet crashed against the wall besides his head, but a pulsing beat was visible at his throat.
"Do as I say!" Thranduil shouted, ignoring Rhosgon's worried glance.
"With all due respect, sire, you have already had enough. More wine would not help, just make you more miserable."
Thranduil was out of his chair in the blink of an eye, looming over his squire, his face murderous, teeth bared. But he just wrenched his gown off Rhosgon'?s arm, threw it over his shoulders and stormed outside, the door slamming shut behind him.
Thranduil stopped, realising only now that he had run. As if he had fled from Rhosgon, who was anything but a threat…? what was wrong with him? He shook his head, stepping onto the balcony which looked out over the clearing in front of the main entrance and the bridge over the river. The opening was hidden behind a rocky parapet and indistinguishable from below, one of many, cleverly constructed to observe unseen what happened in front of the halls, or who was arriving.
Moonlight bathed the forest in an eerie light, and mist rose from the river, dissolving between the black trunks of the trees, obliterating the difference between the snow-covered ground and the air. He stood and breathed deeply, feeling as if he had not tasted fresh air for a life-time.
He felt trapped, trapped inside his Halls, trapped inside his body, trapped inside something he could not even name any longer. What was happening to him?
-oOo-
In the morning, he went in search of his squire. He found Rhosgon in the laundry, busy with the wine stains the flying goblet had left on a wall hanging. Thranduil flinched at the sight of the dark splotches on the lighter ground, taking a deep breath to quench the rising nausea. This was not blood, but wine, as he forcefully needed to remind himself.
He stepped close, laying a hand on Rhosgon's shoulder.
"I am very sorry for last night, old friend," he said quietly. "Did I hit you?"
Rhosgon, who had been rather tense at the sight of him, relaxed under his touch. "No. So far, you have never forgotten to take care to miss me,"? he said with a wry grin.
Thranduil nodded ruefully. "Perhaps, but still, it was inexcusable. You had better leave me alone when I am in such a foul mood. It might be healthier."?
Rhosgon, who had been dabbing the wall hanging with a cloth drenched in some liquid, put both down, and looked around. Seeing they were alone, he said: "?Fear not, my reactions are still good. But I worry about you, Thranduil. You are barely sleeping, and I know you are having nightmares. Your mood has become erratic, sometimes distant, sometimes irascible… I do not like this."
Thranduil sighed. "I know, I know. But what else can I do? I keep to my routines, visit people, exercise. I try to eat and sleep, but more often than not I am unable to do either. I wish there was somebody I could talk to, but who? I am their king, I need to be strong and reliable for my people."
Before Rhosgon could answer they were interrupted by an elf carrying a laundry basket, and Thranduil left after a last glance at his squire. He wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. Rhosgon was right, his moods changed often, and he knew he sometimes overreacted badly. He wished Legolas was still here. But he had sent him away himself to Imladris, feeling that his son needed a change of scenery and to meet new people, learn about a different culture. He had always hoped his son would become friends with the Peredhel twins. He wished he could talk to Elrond, wise, always reliable Elrond. He might know what was happening to him, and what could be done to amend it.
-oOo-
The stench was horrible. Blood, entrails, torn flesh… there were piles of bodies, orcs, elves and dwarves alike, ripped open by claws and teeth, and everywhere the foul beasts poked their snouts into corpses to find the tastiest bits, growling and snarling at each other and sometimes even going at each other'?s throats. With a pained yelp, one of the wargs fell dead, slithering down a mound blackened by blood and landing at Thranduil's feet. He stood, the broken stump of his sword in hand, unable to move, terrified, when a guttural voice screeched something he could not understand, and then a new wave of wargs with riders on their backs jumped over the corpses and closed down on him.
Thranduil started up, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, the sudden darkness terrifying him until he slowly realised that he was no longer on the battle-field, but in his own bed. It was just a nightmare, not real, but more brutal and vivid than the last one. They grew worse, haunting him every time now he fell asleep - which happened less and less often.
He threw his coverlet off, unable to remain any longer between the clammy sheets. With trembling hands he reached for the decanter on his bed stand, refilling his goblet and taking a deep sip. But his clumsier, scarred, left hand misjudged the distance when he put the decanter back, and it tumbled, spraying the sheets with dark red droplets. With a panicked cry he scrambled backwards. Memories and dream images flashed through his mind, and he could no longer distinguish between reality and memory and if this was happening now or was a thing of the past. He fell off the bed with a cry, came to his feet again, and stumbled blindly towards the door. He needed to get out, out into the forest, needed to get somewhere where there was no blood, no killing, no fear, anywhere, just away from here.
Thranduil ran, ran through the dim corridors not heeding where he was going, trying to flee the images in his mind, the scent of blood which clogged his senses. When he ran out of breath he found himself in front of the large gates of the main entrance. Out, he wanted out, he needed to get out and, not even noticing the guards who were addressing him with concern, he tried to open one of the small side doors.
"Sire, are you all right?"
He spun around, ready to attack the elf who was standing far too close for comfort, but then he recognised the russet hair and the clear blue eyes of his captain.
"Ýron," he gasped. "Out. I need to get out."
The firm gaze of the captain took in his King's dishevelled look, the unkempt hair and bare feet, the absence of any adornment he usually wore even with his most casual clothing. There was doubt in his eyes, but also understanding.
"If you must, then, sire. But not unarmed and unprotected."
Thranduil nodded mutely, accepting the other elf's boots, leather jerkin and dagger, and a cloak from one of the guards. Then he turned for the door again, which was now opened for him, and hurried outside. He had gotten a bit of control back and knew again where he was and what was happening, but this did not change his need to move on and go into the forest. He stood for a moment, sucking in the frosty air greedily before he continued, quickly but not running, over the bridge crossing the river, over the clearing, and then he merged with the trees.
He breathed with relief as he felt their presence, felt the embrace of the branches and slowed more, walking briskly but silently. He touched the trunks in passing, finding solace in the contact. Every step brought him more out of his frenzy. But, with the lessening of his panic, his awareness of the forest around him and its suffering increased.
Without being consciously aware, Thranduil headed towards the south-west, deep into the forest towards a clearing which was the most secret and sacred place of the Greenwood. The Enedh, the centre, was the sanctum of the Woodelves, nay, of the wood itself. When he realised where he was heading he began to run again, for the clearing was a long way to go.
Bit by bit he also became aware of the sound of night-birds. He knew some of these were not uttered by birds but by his sentries giving each other signals of his passing. Some of these were scattered all over the forest in a wide perimeter around the Halls, but he suspected that Ýron had also sent one or two to follow him discreetly, just out of sight, to protect him if necessary. The King of the Greenwood usually did not need a guard for safe-keeping, for the forest would guard him even against the spiders, but since he had left in less than his full capacities it was probably as well.
-oOo-
