There is no grand feast planned for Thranduil's Aur en-Onnad, nor a dinner held in the Dining Hall. For as long as I can remember, he has preferred a small gathering in his personal chambers, inviting only those closest to him. There have been times when he has not invited anyone at all.
He seems to enjoy the seasonal celebrations like the rest of the Eldar, and while he does not participate in dance or song, he watches his subjects' merriment long into the night. But he gives little regard to his Aur en-Onnad, perhaps feeling he has grown too old in years to honor it. I suspect a deeper reason.
Thranduil's large living chamber with its lofty ceilings makes the guests appear even fewer, though there are more than in times past. Legolas is leaning against the high stone wall near a tapestry of the forests of Doriath. He is conversing with Amdiron and Ferdir, likely about spiders and orcs and battles. I doubt Ferdir is a desired guest, but the father could not be invited without the son.
I look to the other end of the vast room, towards Thranduil's envied collection of books from the First Age. Sitting beside an extraordinary silver harp, the top of its curved neck shaped as a floating swan, are Lady Aethel and Caewen. I feel a small jolt of surprise. The Lady has never before been invited to the King's Aur en-Onnad.
As soon as Aethel sees me, she stands, and smooths her bright periwinkle gown before making her approach. Caewen follows. Both are adorned lavishly, the occasion worthy of their finest gems. A large diamond rests above Caewen's brow, the intricate silverwork of the circlet wrapping around her golden hair and fanning backwards to resemble wings. Her mother wears a ring on every finger save her thumbs, of gold and diamonds and emeralds.
I let out a small sigh. Why had Thranduil invited them? I look at the towering rock hearth, and see him sitting in one of the chairs arranged in front of it. His crowned head is lowered as he looks at a book.
"Ah, Rîneth," greets Aethel, Caewen trailing behind. "You must wonder why we are here. I overheard our King was in need of a harpist. Who better suited than Caewen?"
"I doubt anyone, my lady."
"It was the perfect timing, for she received a beautiful harp a few days ago. It was sent from…an anonymous source." Aethel utters the last three words in a loud whisper.
"An admirer?"
"Tis the assumption. If true, there is little doubt it was sent from Lord Ha-"
"Nana, you must not tell every one of your suspicions!" Caewen flashes me an apologetic smile. "It likely was sent from my friends in Lórien. I confessed to them often how I dreaded returning home without a harp of my own."
"A friend is one way of describing him," says Aethel.
I stifle a grin. "What is the significance of the swan shape? It must mean something…"
Nodding vigorously, the Lady turns to her daughter. "Just as I said also. A lovely silver swan, like your grandmother's sculpture. You must have told him how she taught you to play."
"It is mere coincidence, Nana. Swans are often used in the Golden Wood for decorative purposes. Lady Galadriel has a swan boat, more beautiful than even my harp. It is clearly of Lothlórien origin."
"Is that not where he resides?" Aethel asks.
I remember the swan sculpture atop Aethel's bookshelf, its elegant wings spread in preparation to fly, and am inclined to believe her assumption is correct. As I had ascertained after Caewen's arrival home, she is far too demure for there not to be something hidden under the surface.
"I see it as a declaration of love," I say. "Your admirer knows you and your history well. I look forward to hearing you play it tonight."
Caewen looks away, her expression inscrutable.
"Perhaps even the King will smile upon hearing her," Aethel says, delighted. "He appears as though he could use one. But when does he not?" She titters.
Following Aethel's gaze, I see Thranduil still sitting alone, ignoring his guests. Likely he is regretting the invasion of his space. I tighten my clutch on the package against my chest, wishing Aethel would take her titters elsewhere.
"What do you have for the King, henig?" Aethel's curious eyes are resting on the wrapped package.
"A book."
"How many more could he need? He certainly-" At the sound of the door opening, she turns around. Her mouth forms a smile at the newest guest's arrival. "I must greet your father. He will be surprised to see me…"
Thankful for the momentary reprieve, even if at Ada's expense, I start across the room.
"Lady Rîneth," Caewen calls. "Please wait."
I feel a strong desire to pretend I did not hear. I still have not wished Thranduil an oronnad meren. It is the King's day, not theirs…
A forced smile is all I can muster. Caewen casts a glance over her shoulder to verify her mother is still occupied, then leads me to the wall, far out of hearing range. Small white jewels glitter in her golden hair like constellations.
"I must entrust you with a secret. It was not Haldir who sent it."
"How can you be certain?"
"He is pledged to another." She peers over her shoulder again. "He has only ever been a friend to me, Lady Rîneth. I tried telling Nana, but she does not wish to believe it. She is keen on the idea of a wedding."
"But she must learn the truth eventually…"
"And conclude her daughter will forever be alone? Her spirits are low already, but yet still she clings to hope. I must wait…"
"For whom? The one who sent you the harp?"
"I do not know," Caewen says. "I was not lying when I said it may have been sent from friends."
"Then what reason for anonymity?"
Again Caewen glances back at her mother, who has finished speaking with Ada and is looking curiously in our direction. She lightly touches my arm before going. "Please tell no one."
It is the most expressive I have seen Caewen thus far. I am mystified. Why would she choose to confide in me? Perhaps she was making certain no further gossip spread. Knowing my closeness to the King, maybe she feared the speculation returning to Lord Haldir and all of Lórien. It would place Haldir under suspicion from his betrothed…
If Haldir was not responsible for sending the harp, who was? It is possible someone in the Woodland Realm has gained an admiration for Caewen over the past few months. I take a deep breath and resume my walk, determined not even the King of the Valar could interrupt me now.
Thranduil looks up from a well-worn book on Quendian linguistics. His blue eyes soften when he sees me, but he withholds a smile.
"Oronnad meren, hîr vuin."
"Rîneth." He gestures to the adjacent chair. "Sit."
A warm amber light falls over the hearth area, adding a homey glow to the otherwise stark room. Thranduil lifts his book again when I sit down. I look at the package resting on my lap, wrapped in silver brocade, coincidentally the same color as his robes. It seems I should have chosen another day.
The visitors' cheerful expressions are unaffected by the King's disposition. Lady Aethel is attempting to join the discussion between Ferdir and Legolas, offering enthusiastic nods and glancing from one to the other like an eager elfling. Caewen watches from a distance, maintaining a graceful posture.
Growing weary of the silence, I cast aside my hesitation and boldly place the book in his lap. Thranduil looks at me then, his brows raised in high arcs.
"I believed it a favorable day to present this, but perhaps I was mistaken."
He unwraps the cloth to reveal his father's writings, bound in soft brown leather. His face unreadable, he lightly grazes his fingers over the cover.
With bated breath I watched as he scans through the pages, pausing to examine each accompanying artwork, lingering longest at the drawing of his father's elk. When he reaches the last entry, he reads it to the end.
He lifts his wintry gaze to mine. "It is far more than I imagined."
"I…put all my heart into it."
A faint smile lights his eyes. "I shall always think of you when I look upon it."
I feel a warm tingle spread through my body. It has all been worth it then, every long day and late night. Not trusting myself to speak, I smile in return, hoping it conveys how much his words mean to me.
888
Lady Aethel had not exaggerated. As Caewen plucks the strings of her harp, it gives forth a glittering, celestial sound, as if from the stars themselves. I am certain it rivals the music in Valinor. Judging from the rapt expressions from those listening, I am not alone in that certainty. All eyes are transfixed on the flaxen-haired maiden and her instrument. Thranduil has even put away his book.
Caewen finishes the song and begins The Sea-Crossing with hardly a pause, as though it is only a continuation. Her hands effortlessly move forward and backward with the soft melody. I look at Legolas standing beside me. There is a question niggling my mind, one I have kept too long.
With the other guests entranced, their ears tuned to the music of the Sea and Stars, there is no better time to ask.
"Why does your father give his Aur en-Onnad such little regard?"
His cobalt eyes widen in surprise. I instantly regret my boldness.
"Lord Gailon has not told you?"
"He does not share the King's secrets, even with me."
Legolas frowns, and shifts his vision back to Caewen and her harp. "It is no secret, Rîneth. But many have chosen to forget. It is…the day my mother died."
I inhale a sharp breath. "Please forgive me, mellon. I truly did not-"
"You have nothing to apologize for. He does not speak of it."
The sound of a cascading waterfall floods the room as Caewen's hands fly gracefully down the strings. Lady Aethel begins to clap, though the song is far from over.
"If he would rather be alone, why does he invite us?"
"For that I have no answer," he says solemnly. "I have wondered if the presence of others helps to lessen the memory."
"I do not remember your mother well, but I remember her golden hair. And her kindness…."
"We were both young when she died. But I was younger. I…do not remember what she looked like."
The dramatic harp-song fills the silence which falls between us. Caewen is now moving her head with the music, her usual composed manner crumbling as she loses herself to emotion.
"How did she die? I have heard there was no grave…"
He makes sure his father is still sitting in his chair, far from hearing range. "She was murdered. At an orc stronghold at Mount Gundabad, south of Angmar. She was…thrown into a fire."
My heart wrenches painfully. "Goheno nín…"
His unsettling answer only conjures more questions. Why was the Queen at Mount Gundabad? Had she been captured? Where was Thranduil? Noticing Legolas's tightened jaw and the way his brows pull together, for a fleeting moment not a warrior prince but a boy who has lost his mother, I know the wound pains him still.
I wish I had not asked. I certainly cannot ask more.
I chance looking at Thranduil. His eyes meet mine. He has been watching us. Has he discerned from Legolas' expression the intimate topic of our discussion? I return my gaze to Caewen, hoping it was a coincidence.
Though the Greenwood is my home, every oak and beech around the village and cave known to me, there is much about the forest I do not know, many secrets I have yet to discover. Thranduil is like his forest. A mystery, vast and remote. I once believed I knew everything about him. I was wrong.
After a final crescendo, Caewen ends her song with a barely audible pluck, leaving the guests breathless before they break into applause. Lord Amdiron nods his head with his claps, offering an impressed smile before remembering he is made of stone. Ferdir looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Remembering his unenthusiastic responses about Caewen the night of his arrival, I wonder again at his behavior.
The King stands from his chair, and the room falls quiet.
"Lady Rîneth, sing for us."
If he had deduced the subject of my conversation with Legolas and is punishing me, I will perhaps never know, but the sudden command could not have shocked me more. As if I am stuck in mud, I cannot move. Everyone is looking at me expectantly. Lady Aethel's mouth is agape.
"You are good at the Hymn to Elbereth, I recall," says Thranduil, his deep voice dispassionate.
"I…I shall try my best, my lord." I bow my head.
I force my legs through the mud. They are wobbly from the effort. Though a few steps away, it feels like a journey to the Iron Hills. Or the Sundering Sea. I finally reach where Caewen sits with her harp in front of Thranduil's endless wall of volumes and tomes and scrolls. She looks up in question. I nod.
I shut my eyes to recall the lyrics, and to gather my strength as well; I have not sung in front of an audience since Ada's Aur en-Onnad a hundred years ago or more, and only at his sincerest request. Why would Thranduil command this of me? He never has before.
I open my eyes and see him. He has moved from the hearth and joined my father, and both stand in front of me. He gives me a small smile. With a nod to Caewen, I open my mouth to sing.
Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!
O queen beyond the Western Seas! O light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!
The flowing notes from the harp complement my voice and fill me with courage. I sing louder, with more feeling, and lose myself to the words and to my own thoughts.
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, si nef aearon!
My mind whirls over what Legolas revealed, what I have never known before. It is obvious Thranduil still grieves his wife's passing. Was he there to witness her being cast into the fire, unable to save her? It is unfathomable. No wonder he does not speak of it.
Without intending to, the Hymn to Elbereth, usually played at celebrations and happy feasts, lacks its usual joy.
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas
The harp fades with a last melodic strum, and the watchers applaud softly. Ferdir claps loudest, flashing his teeth in a wide grin. Thranduil bows his crowned head, and returns to his chair without voicing another request.
"Let us now hear Caewen sing," says Lady Aethel. "She has the prettiest voice in all of Arda, I daresay!"
I step back into the small audience between Ada and Ferdir. Ada grasps my shoulder, a comforting gesture after Aethel's thoughtless words. But I know the Lady meant no harm. Her adoration for Caewen surpasses her awareness.
As Caewen begins the Song of Nimrodel, her high dulcet voice as clear and beautiful as the celestial melodies from her harp, a warmth floods my cheeks. I wonder if it is too early to take my leave.
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey
"Your song was far better," Ferdir whispers, his vision fixed ahead.
"You are too kind, my lord. But my attempt-"
"-carried more feeling. A song without feeling is no song at all, which Caewen would do well to learn. Have you determined yet who sent her the harp?"
"How do you-"
"How do I know? Dearest lady, I suspect everyone in this room knows, perhaps the entire Woodland Realm. Caewen may wish to keep her secrets, but her mother sees little point in them."
Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
And fair she was and free
"That is certainly true." I notice Aethel is watching her daughter with a smile which could light the beacons of Gondor. "I am not closely acquainted with Caewen. I would not even know where to begin in guessing. But I warrant whoever he is, he is…interested."
"I would say so."
"Do you know who sent it, Lord Ferdir?"
"Ferdir. And no, I cannot say for certain, but I have a few guesses." He lowers his voice further. "One in particular shall take you by surprise."
"You act as though they are in this very room."
"You are astute."
Where now she wanders none can tell,
In sunlight or in shade
The mischievous glint in his bronze eyes is puzzling. "If your guess is Prince Legolas, I can assure you he only has eyes for our Captain of the Guard. But you have not been around us long enough to know."
"Yes, he is in love with Tauriel. I surmised it the night I arrived. You are not thinking hard enough, my lady."
Ferdir continues watching Caewen as though keen on hearing every lyric. I wonder if my newest friend might be a bit of a troublemaker. Who could he possibly be alluding to? Lord Amdiron has a wife waiting in Valinor, and Ada is not even worth contemplating.
"If this is your idea of a jest, your skills are lacking," I tease.
"Do you give up?"
"I…yes, of course. I have no other choice." I playfully roll my eyes. "But now you have piqued my curiosity."
"I believe King Thranduil sent her the harp."
I laugh out loud. I cannot prevent it. Quickly I cover my mouth to stifle the sound. Lady Aethel casts a displeased glance over her shoulder.
"I was wrong," I whisper after the Lady turns back around. "The joke was quite funny. Well done."
"I was being serious."
At first I do not believe him. But when he does not speak further, I realize his sideways grin is absent, and his dark eyes lack their humor. I step back, feeling a twist of unpleasant emotions. Troublemaker, indeed.
When dawn came dim the land was lost,
The mountains sinking grey
Beyond the heaving waves that tossed
Their plumes of blinding spray
"You have clearly had too much wine, so I shall forgive you. Consider putting down your goblet before you start spouting out this impossibility to someone who will not be so kind."
"Why is it impossible, my lady? Even my father noted Lady Aethel has never before been invited to the King's own chambers. It is interesting she received an invitation now that her daughter has returned…"
"His harpist has been unavailable for some time now. Caewen plays the harp. It makes sense." I strain not to raise my voice. "His wife waits for him in the Undying Lands."
"Do not be so sure." He sneaks a glance at Thranduil, who is still sitting in his chair a world away. "I have heard she did not love him."
"What a preposterous claim. Why would she not love him?"
Ferdir raises his brow. "You and your father may be close to him, but the rest of us see how cold he is. An ice king would be a fitting title, if only his cave was not made of stone."
"Where did you hear such a rumor? Is gossip a favorite pastime in Lórien?"
"I will not tell you from whom I heard it, for their sake, but I believe its validity." He looks back at the King. "See how he watches her."
Despite my reluctance, I look. Thranduil is watching Caewen with the barest hint of a smile on his shadowed face, his eyes unmoving. An unpleasant sensation roils in my stomach. I shake my head and the sensation leaves.
Of old he was an Elven-king
A lord of tree and glen
"Caewen sings as if she is one of the Maiar. Do you not see how everyone is entranced? This rumor was invented by a gossip who holds a grudge against the King. I shall never believe it."
"Then forgive me," Ferdir says sincerely. "When you find out the sender of her gift, please let me know. I am…curious."
The wind was in his flowing hair,
The foam about him shone;
Afar they saw him strong and fair
Go riding like -
A host of guards suddenly stride through the door, led by the Captain of the Guard. Tauriel's flaming hair clings to her neck in wet strands, evidence she has been in a hard rain. There is blood on her hands. Her usual placid features appear distressed, even afraid.
"What is it?" The King asks, standing.
"My lord." She keeps her head bowed. "We were ambushed by orcs. Gollum has escaped."
A/N: A double chapter update! I hope you enjoyed them both! Thanks again to all my readers, and as always, reviews are much loved and appreciated. :)
