6 days! That's how long it's been since my last chapter! *Victory dance*
Okay, time for sadness. But first, have a flashback.
"Greenwood," Oropher announced proudly, holding his arm out toward the emerald sea of leaves stretching into the distance. The hundred and twelve Sindar—counting the child in the arms of one she-elf, but not the four warriors they had lost along the way—stood on a high hilltop on a beautiful spring day that reflected their hopes, overlooking the northern tip of their potential new home.
The tall, silver-blond, icy-eyed elf with ambitions to be a king let his gaze linger on each of his followers in turn, taking in their reactions to the sight of the forest. "You have all heard what I plan to do, starting when we arrive within its borders tomorrow." He ignored the skeptical murmurs and raised eyebrows of his elves (and especially of his son). "However, even should we fail—which I do not anticipate—" Not as much as Taensirion did, anyway. "—I promise all of you that I will not ask you to continue your journey with me. This is our home now."
None of them had been expecting that.
"We will set up camp here," Oropher added. "I want each of you to practice your Silvan tonight—no Sindarin or Common until sunset. Check with Heledir if you cannot remember a word." Taensirion's son-in-law, having been responsible for much of what little trade Doriath did with the eastern regions, was the only thing they had resembling an expert in the Silvan language and customs.
Oropher made his way over to Taensirion as the elves began to prepare for the night. "I very much hope your daughter's husband knows what he is speaking of," he told his friend—in Silvan, of course.
"He does," said daughter assured him. Faena watched lovingly as her husband wandered about the camp, making corrections to the elves' clumsy attempts at Silvan small talk.
"You talk too formally, Oropher," Milaera teased, tossing a bedroll at her sister. "Heledir says the Silvan elves do not do that."
"Perhaps that will change," said Oropher, who did not know how else to speak. "After all, we will surely add some new ideas to their language."
"Such as 'King'?" Taensirion asked dryly.
Oropher smirked confidently. "Precisely."
Taensirion shook his head doubtfully. "I suppose that if any of us could do it, it would be you." He nodded at something over Oropher's shoulder. "Thranduil is wandering off again."
Oropher glanced behind him. "I wished to speak to him tonight, anyway." He clapped Taensirion on the shoulder and set off after his son.
. . . . . .
Thranduil did not realize where he was heading until the trees loomed up before him, black against the darkening sky. The place looked less welcoming than the wilds, and he could not imagine its inhabitants being any different; what sort of elves would live in such a place, closed off from the sky?
"Thranduil."
He spun, startled, but of course it was only his father.
Oropher took his time walking up to him, his piercing stare focused on the growing shadows within the forest. "What do you think?"
Thranduil smirked. "Are you asking for my approval of your plan?"
"Yes."
Thranduil could detect no hint of sarcasm in his father's expression, or in how he gave that so very out-of-character answer. "I think you have gone quite mad," he said honestly.
He had expected to be ignored, or perhaps laughed at, but Oropher only smiled sadly. "Perhaps I have."
Thranduil tilted his head to regard his father, mildly concerned that perhaps he had lost something, but contrary to his words, it was not Oropher's mind he was thinking of. It had begun the day after Thranduil's mother was killed, the day Oropher abruptly switched from insisting they could hold Doriath until their kin returned to speaking of a faraway forest called Greenwood. Thranduil had been too caught up in his own grief and helplessness to notice at first, but since the morning when Doriath's few remaining defenders gathered to discuss their fate, Oropher had moved with an almost desperate energy. He planned constantly, paced, spoke of the future they had in Greenwood, hardly rested unless someone reminded him to, and yet he did not seem excited as they drew closer to their goal. It was all business, all encouragement for the others, all his energy focused on the journey itself; the destination did not seem to matter. He smiled less, too, and in the rare moments when he could not find anything to occupy his time, he was strangely quiet, staring off into the distance. Thranduil had never known his father to be quiet.
Minutes passed; the shadows lengthened. "You realize what it will mean if we succeed, of course," Oropher murmured finally.
He did. How many times lately had he considered all the responsibilities inherent in being a prince? But his father had made his decision, and Thranduil would not protest.
But Oropher was not done, and his eyes were haunted as he turned to look at his son. "The odds are good that you will someday be a king."
Thranduil flinched.
"I know, it is too soon to speak of that," Oropher sighed. "I have no plans to die anytime soon, I promise. I merely wanted to make sure you are aware of the possibility."
He was aware of it, though he tried very hard not to consider it. Never mind the pressure of being king; he did not know if he would want to live after losing the only remaining elf he truly loved.
"You miss her," Oropher said, as if he had read Thranduil's mind.
"Yes." How could he not? How could his mother—like so many he had cared about—be dead, their souls departed for Valinor?
Oropher closed his eyes. "We have to keep living, Thranduil."
That was the explanation for his father's recent behavior, then. Oropher pushed himself—and, to some degree, everyone else—to continue on, like a bird that knew it would fall if it stopped flying. He dealt with the grief by giving himself a purpose.
Thranduil stared into the mass of trees, feeling lost. His father was so much stronger than he was, always able to find a reason to keep on going when he himself wanted to pull away from it all. But Oropher was right. "I know," he said. "I am doing my best, father. But..."
"It is hard," Oropher agreed, and he turned Thranduil to face him. "I am proud of you," he said gently. "Really. Whatever happens, please remember that."
"I will."
. . . . . .
"King Thranduil?"
Those two words stung. "Could you not, Kilvara?"
The red-haired elf winced and held up her hands in apology. "I am sorry, my lord..."
"Stop that," he snapped, though he regretted the words almost immediately. "Just... What do you need?"
"Storm is back."
"Ah." He would be expected to hear his brother-in-law's report, then. He spun on his heel and brushed past Kilvara without another word, heading for the less steep side of the hill from which he had been overlooking the remains of his army.
. . . . . .
"Storm!"
Storm squeezed his sister back, relieved to find her in one piece. "How's Thranduil?"
The look in her tired eyes answered his question for him.
"That bad?"
"He's not sleeping."
"At all?"
"No." She didn't elaborate.
Storm's keen eyes took in her every movement, reading between the lines. She hadn't hardly slept, either. "So... you're a queen now?"
"The soldiers voted. No coronation ceremony; the next king steps up immediately. It's simpler."
This wasn't like Sky, these short, distracted answers. She was glancing outside the tent every few moments, presumably looking for her husband. "Well." There wasn't much else to say.
"Yeah."
Other elves were starting to enter the tent now. "Welcome back, Storm."
"Thanks, Taensirion."
Felrion appeared and rested his hand briefly on Storm's shoulder before sitting down in one of the chairs placed in a circle around the large tent.
Sky took one of the pair facing the entrance, the ones that made the observer think of a throne, and Storm had a feeling he could only describe as the ground shifting under his feet.
The guards at the door straightened. The gathered elves fell silent.
Thranduil entered, with Kilvara at his heels; she took a seat next to Felrion. Storm might have gasped at the king's appearance if he had not seen the injured king before he split up with the army—the flesh on the left side of his face was simply melted away, leaving a gaping wound under a clouded eye, and Storm wondered if Felrion was still saying Thranduil would regain his sight on that side within a few years. Taensirion hesitated a little before sitting on the king's left, and Sky's worried gaze was fixed on her husband's face as she took his hand.
Storm had never felt so out of place as he did giving his account of the systematic orc hunts still taking place in and around Mordor. All had gone as well as could be expected, and the only interesting piece of news was something seemingly small, something Elrond had told Storm about the survival of Sauron's ring. Most of the elves in the tent didn't have enough context to understand why Elrond was so upset; Storm thought that might be a good thing for the moment.
"Anyway, nothing should attack us anytime soon," Storm concluded finally.
All the elves nodded, then turned to see what Thranduil would say.
The new king did not look like he had been listening. "Thank you, Coryn." He stood and left, Sky trotting after him.
"No new orders," Taensirion clarified for the others before he, too, followed Thranduil.
Storm knew he wasn't the only one who'd seen the grief swirling behind his brother-in-law's blue eye.
. . . . . .
Thranduil walked straight to his tent and dismissed the guards, then sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands. Eithryn joined him and squeezed his arm. "We'll be home soon," she reminded him. "Only another week."
Home, where he would take up his father's responsibilities.
"Think Galion and Caliel got married without us?" she asked softly.
He knew she was trying to distract him, or at least to make him say something. He did not mean to frighten her by being distant, but he felt so numb.
"You should offer to do their wedding if not," she whispered. "It would mean a lot to Galion."
He thought of his butler's reaction, and despite everything, the corner of his mouth turned up a little.
"I saw that smile," his wife told him.
"It was not a smile."
"It was close enough."
Close enough to a smile. That was where he was right now.
Eithryn's head turned toward the entrance. "Come in, Taen."
The advisor did so, and knelt on the ground in front of Thranduil, searching his king's face. "Is there anything I can do?"
That question was almost funny coming from Taensirion, who had done Thranduil's share of the work as well as his own until the king was well enough to take over. "You have already done far more than anyone would have asked of you," Thranduil replied.
Taensirion smiled weakly. "That is not what I meant."
Eithryn reached down to hug him. "Just be here."
Thranduil's first response was to internally protest that he wanted to be alone with his wife, but did he?
No. Taensirion might not have lost his father, but he still had every right to grieve with them, and Thranduil discovered that he wanted the older elf to stay. It seemed right somehow.
Still, he had spent enough time alone with his thoughts, and he spoke to break the silence. "Taensirion, what else do we need to do before we return?"
The advisor searched his mind and could not come up with anything one of the three had not already taken care of. "You will eventually need to decide who is next in line after the two of you, but I suppose that could wait a while."
Yet another choice on which thousands of lives could potentially depend. Which elf would he put on the throne, if something were to happen to him and Eithryn? "Who did my father decide on?"
Taensirion made a face, looking very much like an elfling caught sneaking away from his chores. "I was always afraid to ask..."
There really were not many other options, were there? "I see no reason to break tradition."
"Of course not," the advisor muttered under his breath.
"King Taen," Eithryn giggled.
He wrinkled his nose. "My lord, my lady, please have a very long reign."
Even Thranduil had to smirk a little. "Perhaps you should try on my crown when a new one is made." He sobered somewhat, thinking of what had happened to the previous one.
"I do not think that will be necessary," Taensirion said firmly, shaking his head at them disapprovingly. Then he brightened, having thought of something. "Though... the war is over now..." He winked at Eithryn. "Perhaps I will not be next in line for long." He noticed how Thranduil was staring at the ground and winced, realizing he was talking about children in front of an elf who had just lost his father. "I am sorry, I did not mean..."
Thranduil interrupted his apology. "We will see." He got up. "I should ask Coryn more questions about that ring he spoke of. Would either of you like to come along?"
They both agreed immediately and trailed after him, worried by his behavior until Thranduil turned around to suggest that perhaps they could put Taensirion in charge of the kingdom for a few years when—when!—their child was born.
Their king was going to be okay.
. . . . . .
A week later, Lanthirel was helping Galion and Caliel plan their wedding—which was being delayed only by the absence of two elves very important to the butler—when word came that the army had returned, and that it was much, much smaller than it should have been. Lanthirel and Galion turned rather pale, and all three raced to gather their friends and families and rush to the forest's edge, which they had temporarily moved very close to as they waited to welcome their loved ones home.
They met up again on the way there, and arrived just as the army reached the trees. Galion cried out upon seeing Thranduil and Sky at the head of the procession and ran to them, but Lanthirel was searching for her husband. Surely he was not... he could not be...
And then he was there, lifting her in his arms, and they both were crying with joy and with grief, because they were together again, but their friend and king was gone.
All around them, elves were hugging and crying and laughing. Their family was about to become one big mess of tearful welcomes, Felrion and Kilvara's already was, and Galion was trying to comfort a lost and weary king.
Only Storm hung back, watching.
Ow! Ow! Stop throwing tissue boxes at me! Oh, fine... I promise the next chapter will be happy!*
And yes, a certain prince will be arriving soon(ish).
*Promise dependent on lack of other urgent sad ideas