Chapter 14 – Elderflower

"I could sense it," he explained, "concealed by the frivolous pleasures of youth, there had been a certain glint in her eyes – or shadow beneath her brows. It reflected none else but a calculating ruthlessness, buried yet beneath her genial nature and untainted memory."

A sigh followed, low and bleak. The King snapped the stem of an elderflower, holding the drooping bloom before him. He studied it in the morning light with almost painful rapture as he continued. "She has not had cause to frown often. Her conscience is lucid, but it will not remain long so.

"The elleth would hate deeply and forgive with reluctance, yet such a will would be much needed with bearing such a blemished history as Greenwood's. She is neither impetuous-" absently, the King caressed the stem of the flower, "-nor brutal. The light and grace within her would lead this Realm through poverty and abundance alike."

A wanton wind suddenly swept through the clearing; sunlight scattered, and a similar shadow passed over the elf's brow. "Eroth's attachment to our son is a source of comfort – yet no ordinary bond withstands the deluge that this long-brewing storm will bring."

Thranduil stopped; the silence of the clearing mocked him. What was he doing here, talking to himself like a befuddled old man? It must be that bush of elderflowers. They had always been Eruante's favourite. Such a secret as the identity of the new Princess of the Woodland Realm could not be trusted with the living, so the King had turned to the dead. And yet, in instances like this, he was almost convinced that she had always been with him, elusive as a scent lost in a breeze. Ay, as he inhaled deeply, lids fluttering shut, he could have been certain he had caught a faint, sweet fragrance – her own.

The King opened his eyes, and glared with spiteful hatred at the delicate flower in his grasp. It had only been the elderflower, it's deceiving smell igniting him with hope; frantic hope. Where was his crown? With dread, Thranduil's fingers closed around the coil of slender twigs, and he placed the ornament upon his brow.

He needed a meeting with his council, a roil of foolish and righteous voices, where his thoughts would be consumed by the din of heated Elven discourse. Well, he thought dryly, there was quite a topic to discuss.


Eroth whirled around when she heard a voice behind her, quickly schooling her features into an impassive expression. She stepped forward, nudging something behind a mop of grass with her foot. "Well, Feredir?"

The ellon did not notice the movement. A quiver was slung across his back, a bow in his hands, and he was absently testing the tension in the bowstrings. "Your father sent for you. He seemed troubled."

"Am I required immediately?"

"Ay mellon," Feredir replied, "'tis unfortunate for you. I am to meet Legolas in the archery fields, and you will not be there to witness his defeat."

The elleth smiled. "'Tis a pity indeed. I have not witnessed a miracle in a long time."

Feredir gave her a pointed look before turning back towards the path, where the noon sun was tempting coils of heat up to haunt the long grass. Eroth watched him spring onto a low bough and hook his bow over an overhanging branch. He began to swing a leg over the trunk.

"Wait," she called. "Have you heard of the meeting this morn?"

Feredir ascended to the next branch, pausing. "I have."

"What did they speak of; do you know?"

"Urgent matters, I suppose," replied the ellon vaguely, "your father attended."

"I see." The elleth lifted a hand to bid him goodbye, and her friend disappeared into the summer's foliage.

She was alone again. In the grass glistened a small blue gem embedded within a wooden clasp, which she bent to retrieve. Her fingers probed the grass around it, and closed around more objects: a letter, somewhat tattered, and a single feathered pen. Eroth picked up the scattered articles, studying them with an expression half of resignation, half of relief, before kneeling down beside a nearby stream. Her hands unclosed; the objects, those tokens of affection and disappointment, slipped from her grasp and were submerged within the currents of the woodland creek.

She stood; brushed the soil from her tunic. "I will not dwell."

The journey home was short, and when she stood outside her father's study, she realised that it was perhaps shorter than she would have liked. Eroth was no fool; she knew the meeting had touched upon, if not centred around, the plight of Smaug's desolation. To be thus shortly summoned – it was not be hard to believe that her father had somehow gotten swept into this ill-fated storm.

Slowly, the elleth parted the curtains to Balthoron's study. "Atar?"

The First Advisor must have been pacing before she entered. Manuscripts, files assembled with thin ropes and thread-bound books littered the floor in teetering piles, evidently having been pushed aside previous to that activity. The desk, at the present covered with a large map, was ornamented with a stool of fine walnut wood, while beside it rolls of parchment were stuffed into a woven basket, some so hastily deposited that they lay drolly on the floor beside it. Distantly, Eroth noted that the fir tree branch which had been for the past few days tentatively reaching for the study's window, was clinically snapped off.

Upon hearing her voice, Balthoron looked up. "My daughter," he smiled; but tiredness and worry drained it of its mirth.

Eroth stepped cautiously into the room. "What is the matter, father? How are affairs in Erebor?"

Wariness flashed across the father's features. "Eroth, come – you may sit."

"I will stand, father."

Balthoron's eyebrow rose fractionally. "Greenwood has come to a decision. Lake Town has sought help; we will provide them with it. In a fortnight a company will be dispatched, and they are to travel to Lake Town to settle there until its economy has recovered. I will supervise them."

Eroth stepped forward; her foot hit a pile of documents, and she stilled, brows furrowing. "Father, you will be endeavouring to rebuild Smaug's destruction?"

"That is correct."

The elleth sucked in a breath. "Can I go?"

"Eroth, it is not your duty."

Balthoron had stiffened, and his eyes were hard. Lifting her chin, Eroth tried to keep her gaze steady. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror; her clothing was dishevelled, coppery waves of hair escaping from her plait – not exactly the ideal appearance of a someone pleading their cause. She resisted the urge to straighten her tunic.

"I feel that it is my duty, father. It is my duty because it would be the deemed right here-" she touched a hand to her temple "and here-" she placed her hand upon her heart.

"How so, little one?"

"My head tells me that I am skilled enough for such a journey; I will contribute to its the purpose. My heart teaches of honour and compassion, and somewhere faraway a desolation lies. I need say no more."

Moments crawled. Balthoron extended his hands, and Eroth's breathing froze. "So be it," he said, "detholalle." (It is your choice)

Author's Note:

Guest: Ah... I wouldn't want to bet against you on that matter ;)