Chapter 36 – Blade
Her fingers skimmed cold metal. Eroth caught the dagger, heart in her throat, her hands tight upon the handle. Savage delight. She brought up her hand, searching for marred skin, and found none. Another triumph; she took her stance, sucked in a breath, and repeated the throw.
A nick of ice. Eroth turned the dagger to the light. A thin line of dark clung to the edge. Fumbling, she set down the weapon and drew back her sleeve, frowning down at the cut. It was only a shallow scratch; she ran a finger along it, felt no more than a sting.
It was no use; her thoughts wreaked havoc upon her focus. The fancies of dreams stole upon her, cloaked in half-truth, and she feared them. Strange that a mere elf could bring this upon her. Who was she, to be brought to her knees by a sentiment, to be forced to relinquish her hold over her own heart? Eroth was not one to make sacrifices, and she had enough sense yet to steer her own fate.
And yet – she wished that she had never known the King's son, never let monstrous longings creep beneath her skin. She wished she had met someone more ordinary, less lethal, and accepted a quiet life away from trouble; that her path promised less storm and shadow.
On resting days in Greenwood, there hung a string of flets drifting in tangled ivy, where the idle ellyth gathered with hairbrushes and whispered words and smiles quiet as the woodland sunlight. But Eroth would not belong with them – she knew not exactly why. Like a crow among doves, she would seem.
Upon the mattress, the dagger flashed cold in the firelight. It was enough that her dreams taunted her folly, and now even her weapons gleamed in mockery. A hiss of frustration escaped her throat, and Eroth snatched it up, flinging it across the tent. Its point bit into the wooden table.
Maddened further, she stalked over, and hesitated. Pinned beneath the blade was a fold of paper which she tore from the table and ventured to study. It was Arphen's letter. The black ink smelt of whispers and woodland sunlight. Impulse spurred her to fling it out, but something gave her pause.
She moved wearily closer to the candlelight, and began reading.
His daughter was stalking across his room, her fists clenched.
Balthoron grasped her by the elbow and turned her firmly to face him. Her eyes flashed in the dark room, cold as morning light.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because I deemed it sensible – "
"Sensible?" she shook her arm from his grasp.
Balthoron bent down, holding his gaze level with hers. He knew this moment would come, had known since Arphen's letter reached his hands and the black Greenwood ink marked out triumphs in the candlelight. The King was committed to the betrothal, she wrote, and some other sentimental nonsense besides that Balthoron bothered not to read. The only matter of importance was Eroth's future, alight before his eyes then to a brilliance only his daughter deserved.
"Out of consideration, I hoped that the arrangement would be better received if told from a friend."
She laughed, her eyes hard and furious. "You call my betrothal to Legolas an arrangement?"
He spread his hands in a placating gesture. Eroth stopped, her breathing harsh in the stillness. Such a response was not what he had hoped; but it would not take long for her to see.
"You must recognise the advantages of your betrothal, lellig," he murmured, his hands coming to rest upon her shoulders. He had intended for gentleness, but in his conviction they pressed down upon her, and he saw her flinch. "It is wholly for your benefit. Do you not see?"
Eroth did not reply; dark eyes bore into him, disbelieving. Balthoron drew back in resignation, his hands spread before empty air. The candle flickered angrily between them. The first advisor had come to the agreement with the King in light of his daughter's best interests. Happiness and love were fickle, but power would secure her future.
Someday, she would come to know that it was all for the best.
Balthoron let her leave. Through the cloth of the tent her shadow lingered before the path, shifted, then faded into dimness. A wind breathed upon the opening, the shivering of cloth like settling wings, and the father wished his daughter freedom for the future fit for the birds of the forest.
His hands shook; were they hands that had forbidden her flight?
When Legolas was an elfling, he loved high places. The Elvenking would stand silent beneath, hiding his clenched fists, watching him tumble upwards towards deeper canopies, up until open sky. He would listen for the hiss of branches, impatient, waiting for another flash of pale hair and small feet skimming the leaves.
Perhaps there would always be places where a father couldn't follow. Thranduil lifted his eyes to the crown upon the table; touched with heavy fingers the slant where lithe wood met black shadow. Perhaps there, too, were things that a king could not command.
The thought brought him springing to his feet, and with the feverish scrape of velvet robes he paced the room, lengthwise and then back again. The betrothal was rightful, inevitable as the scrambling of small feet all those years ago, returning down from reckless heights. The open sky was a caprice, a fleeting dream, a child's fancy. A Prince had duties.
But could a King command his heart?
Thranduil did not know. But age had not yet coloured him a fool – there was to be no way to make his son stop loving Eroth.
It was unclear just how much stubborn denial was required for Legolas to remain oblivious to the fact.
In the softness of his eyes, in the tilt of his smile when he was with her, Thranduil knew. He had known since one windblown evening, with the light dying and the sound of falling laugher, and when Legolas leaned to press a parting kiss upon her nose, her smirk faltering, her farewell still upon her lips. Constellations did not pass between the eyes of friends. There was brightness upon his face then, the kind that rivalled morning light upon the sea.
Legolas was hers the moment she asked. The Elvenking had accepted this first with shuttered disapproval, then fatherly bewilderment, and then by some inescapable caprice of fate he had determined the Prince's betrothal to Eroth of Lorien ten winters later, and his nervous fingers clenched upon themselves traitorously at his sides.
She hated the river, Eroth decided. Hated it for the dawn it wound from, for the lands to which it rushed. Hated it for its folding currents, silken and reckless, the colour of wine under the grey sky, intoxicated by its own freedom. She hated it for the sake of envy.
Dusk unfurled upon the edge of the town, and northward winds carried the smell of storm-clouds. There would be rain in the ruins. The elleth took her stance, tried to look only at the light upon her daggers, and fought against nothing but the tides of fear in the fraying of her heart.
Yet the arc of her blade scratched out patterns of longing, and love in futility. The white glint of metal whispered of shattering, shattering alone even as they shared everything else; for he could take her whole being, and Eroth had no right to ask for the same. She would have him as the tangle of kindred words, as sweet grass under swift feet and turning pages in late nights – but she would not have the part of him he could not give.
When the rain came she felt for her heartbeat beneath her chest. It was with surprise that she felt no falter to its rhythm to match the unravelling there.
She bent her head, clenched the daggers tighter between her fingers, raw skin against cold wood.
Author's Note:
So, we fanfictioners have come our merry way through the tortuous paths of a friendship-that-is-not-quite-a-friendship, and then BAM, here comes a ten foot drop in the form of a long due revelation. Will this change everything?
WickedGreene13: hmm... I believe I would agree. Let us hope that it will come true someday ;)
legolasgreenleaf15: hey! Trust me, you're not the only one rooting for Pelior and Eloen (I do ship my own characters) :p In the end I guess I grew too attached to leave Eloen behind, so here she is, fated to travel the lands after all! I'm glad you liked the older side of Eroth - because Elves are fundamentally complex creatures beyond mortal comprehension I found it really quite challenging. The dance was admittedly one of my favourite scenes, and I felt like a lil dash of sweetness (and spice) was overdue for our bewildered elves. As for fire... I suppose this chapter was more of a hurricane, but do tell me what you think about the Eroth here!
I know! It's all nearly come to an end. I've yet to find something to fill the Middle-Earth shaped void once all this is over.