In which I apply the knowledge I've gained from my parents and the books on marriage counseling I've read out of curiosity.
"Good evening."
Alagon stepped inside with the air of one arriving for negotiations with a foreign ambassador, which Taensirion did not feel was the category a nice, peaceful dinner in his and Lanthirel's arboreal home fell into. Kimbrel followed her husband in, looking equally haughty but never trailing more than a couple of steps behind him. "Hello, Taensirion," said his fellow advisor gruffly. "I trust all is well?"
"It is, and you?" He tried to smile at Kimbrel, but she was fiddling with the sleeve of her dark blue dress.
"Fine."
That was the extent to which Alagon engaged in small talk. Taensirion gave up and led them to the table, where both sat and proceeded to look very impatient.
Luckily, that was when Lanthirel emerged from the kitchen, carrying a delicious-smelling ham. "You are just in time. Taen, dear, would you help me bring in the food?"
"Of course."
. . . . . .
"I continue to be disappointed by the king's policies toward Lórien," Alagon remarked once everyone's plate was filled.
"Hmm," said Taensirion diplomatically. He had been the one to suggest said policies.
"This new king is a fool; we could take advantage of that fact, but instead Thranduil insists we keep to our own forest."
Taensirion rather liked King Amroth, who was empathetic if not unusually brilliant, the opposite of his father. "Would you have us stir up conflict unnecessarily? We have no need of more territory."
"I am not suggesting we conquer them, Taensirion; merely that we gain the upper hand in our alliance. There is quite a difference."
Lanthirel cleared her throat meaningfully.
Thank you, thought Taensirion. "Sorry, love."
But Kimbrel had apparently missed his wife's meaning. "You should stick to internal problems instead of foreign relations, Taensirion. It is really not what you are good at."
Alagon's fork missed the slice of ham it was aiming for. "Kimbrel!"
"What? Is that not what you always say?"
Alagon flushed scarlet and made a sign that translated clearly to be quiet. Taensirion and Lanthirel made eye contact and winced.
But Kimbrel didn't stop. "Well, it's what you told me yesterday," she insisted petulantly.
"Kimbrel! Shut up!"
Her mouth snapped shut, and she returned back to her food with a sniff that could have been annoyed or hurt, either one.
"I am so sorry," a flustered Alagon assured his hosts.
Taensirion looked to Lanthirel for help, and she coughed loudly and said, "Anyway... it is nice to finally have you two over." Somehow, in the two centuries since Alagon's appointment, Alagon had never once been free when Taensirion invited him to dinner; the Sinda was genuinely not sure if Alagon was avoiding him or really that busy. It would not surprise him if it were the latter.
"Thank you," Alagon muttered.
Kimbrel was mangling her salad with her fork and kicking the table leg.
Taensirion scrambled for something to say. "Kimbrel, Galion says you have been teaching Caliel your balancing exercises."
She continued to death-glare her lettuce, boycotting the conversation. Alagon gritted his teeth, but controlled his temper and folded his hands on the table. "Kilvara taught her those, I believe. Perhaps they are useful for tree-fighting, but less so for ground combat, or so I gather from her lack of improvement."
Kimbrel's head snapped up, hurt clear on her face.
Taensirion and Lanthirel used their thousands of years of marriage experience to communicate with expressions alone. Do something! Lanthirel's look said.
You think I know what to do?
I certainly have no ideas...
There was a long stretch of awkward silence, finally broken when Kimbrel blurted, "He did say you are incompetent and do not understand other rea—"
"KIMBREL! SILENCE!"
Taensirion and Lanthirel's mouths dropped open.
Kimbrel jumped up. "Why—why you—" She burst into tears and ran away, into the kitchen.
A beat.
Alagon shook himself, his face slowly returning to its normal color, and went back to his food. "I am terribly sorry about her," he told Taensirion again.
Taensirion stared at him.
When it became clear he was not going to do anything else, Lanthirel got to her feet and wordlessly went after Kimbrel, leaving Taensirion alone with his fellow advisor.
"What was that?" he demanded when he could not take the silence anymore—though, with Kimbrel's sobbing still very audible in the kitchen, "silence" was a relative term.
Alagon looked up. "Do not mind her, she often misinterprets things during our conversations. It really would be best if your wife left her to calm herself."
"Alagon!"
He was taken aback by Taensirion's tone. "Oh, what now?"
Taensirion held out his hand toward the kitchen. "You just frightened your wife into crying, and you are not even going to apologize?"
Alagon blinked.
"What did you shout at her for?"
"She should not have gotten involved."
"Your response was hardly appropriate!"
"Are you telling me how to handle my wife?"
Taensirion was speechless.
But after a minute of listening to Kimbrel's diminishing whimpers as Lanthirel tried to calm her down, Alagon admitted gruffly, "I should not have shouted at her, but she should not have said those things, either. I will talk to her when she finishes crying." Abruptly, he stood and stepped away from the table. "Kimbrel, come. We are going home."
The sniffles in the kitchen cut off suddenly, and after a few long moments, Kimbrel shuffled out to them, tears still running down her cheeks. She silently walked over to Alagon and stood there, staring at the ground.
Alagon took her not-so-gently by the arm and towed her out. "Thank you," he said over his shoulder.
Taensirion walked to the window and held out his hand, and Lanthirel took it as she joined him. They watched silently as the other couple descended the stairs and vanished into the forest. Tears were still visible on Kimbrel's face, and Alagon's cheeks were red with shame.
"Oh dear," Taensirion murmured, and his wife nodded.
. . . . . .
It was several years before the topic came up again, on the day when Alagon entered Taensirion's office unannounced and without documents of any sort—a rare occurrence indeed. In fact, Taensirion was nearly certain he was supposed to have today off, not that Alagon always obeyed such scheduled holidays. The red-haired Silvan's face was flushed and vaguely green at the same time. "I need your help," was all he said.
Taensirion stood immediately. "What can I do?" He had never seen Alagon like this—what could be the matter?
"I cannot find Kimbrel."
That was concerning. "Where is she supposed to be?"
"At home." Alagon threw his hands up in frustration. "Where else?"
"Could she be with Caliel somewhere? Or Kilvara?"
"Do you think that has not occurred to me? No one has seen her."
Hmm. "Surely she has only gone to visit someone." Then again, as the wife of a very important member of the government with controversial opinions...
"Leaving in the middle of the night, Taensirion?" Alagon was pacing.
Taensirion paused in the act of pulling on his cloak, then hurriedly finished and ushered Alagon out into the tunnel. "She was gone when you woke?"
"And the bed was cold."
Why would Kimbrel leave so early without telling her husband? Taensirion stopped Alagon with a hand on his arm.
"What?" the other advisor snapped.
"There is something you are not telling me, I think."
Alagon held his gaze stubbornly, but not for long. "...We fought last night."
"You shouted at her."
"She—Yes. Yes, I did."
Taensirion sighed deeply. This put things in a new light.
"I have been searching for her all morning," Alagon growled. "Before, she—" He stopped himself. "Hurry, please."
But Taensirion had heard him clearly. "Before? She has run away before?"
Alagon began to walk again, hurrying his steps. "Only to her sister's house."
Oh dear... "Alagon."
"WHAT?"
Taensirion stopped and inhaled deeply. Evidently things were much more serious than he had thought, and he was sure Alagon's infamous temper was not only a large part of the problem but also a considerable barrier to its resolution. The elf had once broken his hand punching a wall, after all, and not all that long ago; for all Taensirion knew, it could have had something to do with Kimbrel. Something needed to be done, or else these two might end up like some of the sad cases he had known of, living separately and never speaking to each other—still married, but only in name. "You cannot continue like this."
Alagon's hands flexed and curled into fists as he tried to control himself. "Can this wait? My wife is missing!"
"Yes, and if something does not change, she will likely be missing many more times in the future, and eventually she may not come back." Taensirion stared Alagon straight in the eye to get his point across.
The other elf glowered at him. "We can worry about that later."
"If you—"
"I NEED TO KNOW SHE'S SAFE, TAENSIRION!" For once, Alagon's voice came close to breaking. "Could you stop with your advice for ONE minute?!"
Taensirion waited for Alagon to regain control of himself somewhat before holding up his hands in apology. "You are right, I am sorry."
Alagon rubbed his hand over his face and took a shuddering breath.
"But," the Sinda continued, "once we find her, you and I are going to talk about the way you have been treating her. Yes?"
Alagon's eyes hardened. "I will apologize to her. Come, I want to mobilize some of the guard to search."
Taensirion followed along, sensing now was not the time to press the point, but he had no intention of letting this go once Kimbrel was found.
. . . . . .
Firith was walking back to his quarters for lunch after a morning of organizing spices, when he heard a very out-of-place sniffling from higher in the narrow shortcut-chasm he was traveling along. "Are you okay?" he asked the stone walls on instinct, before even stopping to consider what the source of the sound might be.
"Go away," snapped a particular ledge a little way above his head.
Wait, didn't he know that voice? "Kimbrel?" he asked in concern.
"Go away."
She wanted to be left alone, but that didn't seem like the right thing to do somehow. "Please may I come up?"
"No!"
This was a dilemma. "Can you come down, then?"
The sniffling turned into crying. Firith didn't know what he'd done, but somehow he'd made things worse, and now he felt even more responsible to help. "I'm sorry... Please can I help somehow? I would go away, really I would, but my Ada taught me to never leave someone alone until you've done everything you can."
There was no answer except for wet snuffling.
Firith had a long debate in his head over what the ethical thing to do was, and he couldn't see any way he could leave without at least talking to her face-to-face first. "I'm coming up now," he announced.
"...Fine," Kimbrel mumbled weakly.
Thank goodness she'd finally seen sense. Now that it was appropriate for him to go up to her, he turned his attention to the roughly chiseled stone walls; they were slippery, but he'd been rock-climbing plenty of times with his Nana, and it took him only moments to scale the slick surface to the tiny cave in the stone where Kimbrel hid. She was just short enough and he just skinny enough for them both to squeeze into the small space without falling and breaking their legs. Now that he was up here, he didn't really know what to do, so he sat there awkwardly. Was keeping her company still a good way to help if she wanted to be left alone?
Her crying had gotten very quiet, but all of a sudden she started to sob. "I don't know what I did wrong!"
Firith had no idea what she meant, but he listened intently anyway.
"It's like... it's like he wants to be mad at me. I try to be a good wife and obey him and everything, but I guess I can't do anything right." Kimbrel forlornly laid her head on her knees. "I can't stand it anymore—I'm not going back this time. I'm not. If I'm that horrible at everything, he's better off without me, anyway." She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.
Did she mean... was she talking about Alagon? Firith didn't understand.
"What should I do, Firith?" the she-elf whispered.
Well... if she didn't want to go home... "Do you want to go to my parents' quarters?"
"No!" She shook her head vehemently. "They're too perfect together, I can't stand it right now..."
Perfect? His Nana and Ada were the best parents ever, but they weren't perfect. He'd even heard them fighting once, late at night when Tathor was asleep.
But if she didn't want to go there, even for a weird reason like that... "What about Kilvara and Felrion's house, then?"
"Okay..."
. . . . . .
"Kim! There you are!" Kilvara pulled her sister inside and into a hug; Kimbrel clutched her like a lifeline, snuffling into her shoulder. "I'm going to fight him this time, I really am. I've been thinking about it, and—"
"Kilvara," Felrion interjected. Firith quietly vanished from the doorway to alert someone who knew more than he did.
"No, I'm serious. This isn't okay, and it's getting worse, isn't it? Isn't this the third time this century? How long before he actually hurts her? Look at her, Felrion, and tell me he doesn't deserve everything coming for him."
Felrion pinched the bridge of his nose. On one hand, he didn't want to stir up trouble and had no plans to let his wife fight Alagon, but on the other... even as much as he preferred to avoid both Kimbrel and Alagon when possible, their marriage did appear to be headed for disaster if someone didn't do something. "Promise me you won't do anything extreme."
She pursed her lips, but turned her attention back to her sister, who had her arms folded tightly around herself. "C'mere, Kim, let's get you changed." Kimbrel was still in her nightclothes; she hadn't paused to think about what she'd do after running away.
"M'kay..."
. . . . . .
"Nothing?"
Alagon's hard-heeled boots clicked loudly on the stone as he paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on a bridge high above the underground river. Another of his groups of guards had come and gone, apparently without any knowledge of Kimbrel's whereabouts. "No."
"I wonder if we ought to extend the search radius, in case she went to her parents' house... You have most of them searching in the forest, yes?"
"Yes." Alagon's tone was curt, but his face was pinched with worry, an expression that was strange to see on the ruthless elf's face. "She is not with her parents, I sent a runner."
"You are going to have the whole realm on alert before long."
"Good." Alagon focused on something behind Taensirion. "My lord prince."
Legolas was approaching, with Firith at his side. "What's going on?"
"Kimbrel is missing," Taensirion explained as Alagon continued to pace. He did not mention the underlying reason, which he could only assume Legolas was too young and not connected enough with Alagon to have noticed.
The prince, bless him, already had an offer of help on his lips. "Do you need—"
"I know where she is!" Firith burst out.
"What?" Alagon was upon him in two strides, grasping him tightly by the shoulders. "Where?"
"Alagon," Taensirion warned, prying him loose so the alarmed younger elf could step back. "Where, Firith?"
Galion's son hesitated—did he know more than Legolas?—but, at Taensirion's nod, he confessed, "Felrion and Kilvara's house."
"We checked there," Alagon objected.
"I took her there just a few minutes ago."
Alagon closed his eyes and nodded to himself, then turned on his heel and marched almost at a run in the direction of the door to the outside world; Felrion and Kilvara still lived out in the forest.
Taensirion thanked Firith and Legolas and asked them to tell the soldiers before running after him.
. . . . . .
"You!" One of Kilvara's knives slipped into her hand as she took a step toward Alagon, glaring menacingly. "I warned you this morning—"
Felrion grabbed her unceremoniously by the arms and held her back. "Kilvara, no." Alagon, as always, had two razor-sharp swords and knife at his hip, within easy reach, and the healer was not letting Kilvara get anywhere near them under hostile circumstances.
Taensirion similarly stepped in front of Alagon. "Is she here?"
Kilvara stared daggers at him, so he turned his gaze to Felrion. "She is," the healer admitted reluctantly.
"Good," Alagon said tersely, trying to step around Taensirion, but the Sinda did not let him pass. "Get out of my way."
Taensirion ignored him and addressed Kilvara again. "May I speak to her?"
She was still rolling her dagger in her hands—Felrion had his arm around her shoulders more tightly than would normally be needed—but, seeing his sincerity and remembering the kindness with which he'd always treated Thranduil—not to mention Aleinia—she finally nodded.
"Stay here," Taensirion ordered Alagon. The Silvan advisor looked ready to argue, so he added, "If you force her to return home, she will only hold a grudge and run away again before long, you know."
Alagon said nothing, but made no protest when Taensirion left him and went inside; Kilvara and Felrion continued to stand guard outside, and when Taensirion double-checked to make sure they were not killing each other, Alagon had retreated as far as he could go along the branch wrapping around the porch, and had his head turned away from the house.
Taensirion found Kimbrel right where he expected, on Felrion and Kilvara's spare bed, her legs dangling off the edge and swinging back and forth. Her eyes were red from crying, and from her lack of surprise he gathered that she had heard some of what went on outside. He took a wooden chair from a corner and sat in front of her. "Hello, Kimbrel."
"He's going to make me go home, isn't he?" she asked dejectedly.
Taensirion took her hand, and was relieved when she didn't flinch—there was a dark possibility in his mind which he meant to ask about, but this was a good sign. "You do not have to go with him."
Her brow furrowed. "But... isn't he here to get me?"
"Yes, he is."
"Don't I have to obey him, then?"
If you were my sister, I would want to make Alagon regret this, too, Taensirion realized. But that was not his role here. "Normally you would, but he has not been treating you as he should, and so if you do not wish to go with him, we will not make you." He found himself speaking to her as he would to a child, as he often did on the rare occasions he encountered her; the way she thought could be childlike at times.
She wrapped her arms around herself. "He will."
"We will not let him."
Her jaw dropped. "B-but..."
"Kimbrel, listen to me. Several of us have been watching you and Alagon for some time, and we do not like the way he has been treating you; he is often very harsh with you and cannot control his temper."
"He's not always like that," she protested. "He—he only yells at me when I do something bad."
"Could you explain what you mean?"
"I always say things I shouldn't, or stupid things. Sometimes he tells me afterward why they're bad—I say things I shouldn't say, or things I don't know anything about. I wish he would tell me which things I shouldn't say before I say them." She sniffled, and accepted Taensirion's handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
This was a very different Kimbrel than the one who usually showed herself in public; Taensirion could only conclude that Caliel was right about her friend's "prickles" being for self-defense. "That is why I would like to talk to him, so that he will be more patient with you. Alagon often expects elves to know things they cannot know, in my experience."
She half-smiled. "Yes, he does."
"So," Taensirion concluded, "if you do not want to go home yet, I would say you should stay here. Alagon will not like that, but I will speak to him, and perhaps some other elves will as well—" If he could convince Thranduil to come, Alagon might listen to him better. "—and in a few days, when both of you are ready, you can go back home."
"Really? I don't have to go back right now?"
He smiled gently. "Really. Are you happy here with your sister?" He suspected somehow that a certain healer might not like the current arrangement, but it would have to suffice for the time being. Perhaps she could stay with Galion's family later if needed.
"Yeah." The change in her mood was considerable. "But won't Alagon be angry?"
"Let me deal with that." He was not looking forward to it, but he would take the brunt of Alagon's wrath if he had to.
She nodded skeptically.
"It will all work out," he promised as he replaced the chair in the corner. "One last thing."
"What?"
He knelt in front of her and held her gaze. "Has he ever hit you? Besides while sparring, I mean." According to both Caliel and Felrion, Alagon was no gentler with his wife in such matters than with everyone else.
"No." But she looked away.
"Has he made you think he might?"
"...Yes." She shifted nervously. "Will he be angry with me for telling you that?"
"I will make sure he is not, at least by the time you see him again." Taensirion hoped he could keep all these promises; at least that particular situation was better than he'd feared. "I think I may ask Lanthirel to come visit you tomorrow; is that all right?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Then I will see you later." He smiled at her one last time and left the room, closing the door behind him. Once out of her sight, he winced before continuing outside.
Alagon glowered when he emerged without Kimbrel, and he leapt back onto the porch. "Where is she?"
Taensirion took him by the shoulder and steered him to the stairs (which healers' houses were required to have, plus a lift for elves too weak to climb) in much the same way he had steered a younger Feren when his son was in trouble. "Come," he commanded when Alagon resisted.
But the Silvan elf threw his arm off. "I came to get my wife, and I plan to do so."
Taensirion caught his wrist as he started to turn, and for a moment he thought Alagon might go for his knife, with the way his eyes were blazing. "Would you like to keep her? In your home and on good terms, I mean, rather than having to tell elves you are married but have not seen your wife in years because she could not stand your treatment of her?"
Disbelief flashed across Alagon's face.
"Or would you prefer to have us prevent you from seeing her by force? Because if she is afraid you may physically harm her, I believe most elves would agree we are justified in doing so."
He had finally done it. He had shocked Alagon so much that the other elf could not respond, though his mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish's. If Alagon's face had shown a faint green tinge earlier, there was no question about its shade now; evidently it had not occurred to Alagon that he might actually have to answer to a higher authority for his actions. Of course, Taensirion highly doubted Alagon even realized he was treating his wife badly; Alagon was in some ways kinder to her than to most elves, but that did not mean his behavior was appropriate.
"I am doing this because I do not want to see your relationship disintegrate before my eyes," Taensirion said more gently. "Things have not been going well of late, have they?"
Alagon stared at him in dismay. "I-I—"
"We will meet at your home tomorrow evening," Taensirion interrupted. "If we encounter each other before then, we will not speak of this, understood?"
Alagon nodded weakly, still stunned out of his voice.
"Go home. I will see you tomorrow."
. . . . . .
"Good evening, Alagon." Thranduil folded his hands in front of him and considered his advisor; though the king had at first been reluctant to discuss the subject of marriage, he had agreed to help once Taensirion explained the situation further. "You know why we are here, I think."
Alagon nodded, working his jaw but staying uncharacteristically silent; either Thranduil's presence or Taensirion's lecture the previous day must have had some effect.
"So," Taensirion said, "the first thing we would like to know is what happened two nights ago."
The Silvan elf's reply was curt. "She was chattering about something inane and I finally told her to shut up."
They waited. "In more detail, please," Thranduil prompted.
Taensirion specified, "What was she speaking about?"
"You expect me to remember?" Alagon snapped irritably.
"The actual topic likely does not matter," Thranduil remarked before Taensirion could say that yes, he expected Alagon to remember what it was his wife had gotten so upset over. "What was her reaction?"
"She snapped at me, and I..."
"Shouted," Taensirion provided.
"Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I do not know..." Alagon sighed in frustration and put a hand over his eyes. "Something about how I did not want to hear another word out of her, I expect."
He was actually trying, at least halfheartedly, Taensirion realized. "And then?"
"She had a breakdown."
"Meaning she began to cry?" Taensirion probed.
"Yes, Taensirion, that is what a breakdown is."
"Continue," said Thranduil.
"I went into my study and finished my work—yes, Taensirion, I ignored her, I was not going to dignify her tantrum with anything else—and when I emerged, she said nothing about it for the rest of the evening. When I woke in the morning, she was gone."
"I see," was all Thranduil said.
"Well." Taensirion rubbed his chin. "We have a lot of work to do, I think."
"Indeed," the king agreed.
Alagon's fingers tapped restlessly on the table. "I do not see why this was the final straw."
"Perhaps because there were quite a few straws under it," Thranduil replied dryly. "Now..."
. . . . . .
"Hello, Kimbrel." Lanthirel greeted Kilvara and Felrion's houseguest as if they were meeting at one of the get-togethers she and Taensirion sometimes hosted, like Kimbrel wasn't huddled in a corner with her legs drawn up to her chest.
"I want to go back home," she whined, sounding for all the world like an elfling a fraction of her age.
"I know, sweetie." Lanthirel did not question why Kimbrel was still here; she understood that Kilvara's sister was torn between homesickness and her resentment at her husband. "Would you like to talk about it?"
Kimbrel just drew her knees in tighter.
So Lanthirel sat with her in silence for a while, hoping Kimbrel would change her mind. Taensirion had asked her to come in order to learn more about the situation, or at least improve Kimbrel's mental state a little; he had said the poor little creature was quite torn up. Lanthirel could not blame her, as she knew she, too, would be absolutely miserable if—heaven forbid—she and Taensirion ever had a fight so bad she felt she had to leave the house for an extended period of time.
Kimbrel was rocking back and forth now, biting her lip hard, and Lanthirel decided to start a conversation just to distract her. "Why did you marry Alagon?"
The orange-haired she-elf seemed taken aback by the question. "I... I don't know."
"Do you love him?" Lanthirel probed.
"I guess so. Yes."
"What do you like the most about him?"
"Um... he's very confident. He always knows what he's doing and elves listen to him."
"Go on," Lanthirel urged. "What else?"
"He's very strong, too. And brave, and smart. Even before he was Thranduil's advisor, I knew that." Kimbrel's eyes were dreamy now; she either loved him or idolized him, Lanthirel thought. Likely both.
"What was he like when he courted you?"
"Oh, he was wonderful." Despite her words, Kimbrel's voice was glum as she stared down at her hands. "He would bring me flowers, and he wanted me to go everywhere with him, and he told me he loved me all the time." She rubbed her eye.
Lanthirel stood up to bring her the tissues someone had left on the dresser. "Does he not do those things anymore?"
"He lets me come with him to some things, but he doesn't like to because I say stupid things and embarrass him. He tells me he loves me every night, but he doesn't mean it."
Lanthirel interrupted, "How—sorry—how do you know he does not mean it?"
"I just know." Kimbrel blew her nose on one of the tissues and hurled it at the trash can; it bounced off, and Lanthirel retrieved it. "He doesn't kiss me when he says it anymore."
What a strange reason, and yet...
"He does give me flowers again, though." Kimbrel smiled a little, still playing with her hands. "Since a few years ago. So maybe he still loves me a little bit."
Lanthirel was beginning to see a pattern. "I do not think he does not do some of those things because he does not love you, Kimbrel. I think Alagon does love you, very much."
"No, he doesn't." She picked at her clothes; she hadn't looked at Lanthirel since the very beginning of the conversation.
"Why do you say that?"
"I told you. He used to do nice things for me and pay attention to me, but now he doesn't. I try to do nice things for him, but I guess it's not enough." She turned around to face away from Lanthirel, into the corner. "It's my fault. No one wants to be around me... except Caliel, I guess."
Oh... "Kimbrel, that is not true."
"Yes it is," she mumbled to the wall.
Poor dear. "If you want to spend time with us, why do you complain and say unkind things when you are with us?"
Kimbrel turned her head and blinked at her. "Do I say mean things? Is that why Alagon gets angry at me?"
"Sometimes." Lanthirel sighed and reached out to tenderly stroke Kimbrel's hair. "But I do not think you mean to do it, most of the time."
Kimbrel's eyes were tearing up. "That's why no one likes me?"
"Oh, little one..."
. . . . . .
"So you see, Kimbrel needs more obvious tokens of affection to know that you love her. Telling her so in exactly the same manner each evening is not going to do the job."
Alagon fought the urge to roll his eyes; first he had been lectured for hours on how good husbands were gentle with their wives and never, ever scared the poor fragile little things—Kimbrel was tougher than that, he was sure—and now Taensirion's wife was explaining to him why he and Kimbrel were not getting along.
Lanthirel could tell he was not impressed. "Let me explain it this way, then," she said, and she vanished from the room for a moment, returning with a bottle of ink, a quill, and a sheet of paper. She sat next to her husband and wrote, For Kimbrel, love = flowers; going places together; kisses, hugs, and hand-holding; telling her you love her, but like you mean it. She flipped the paper around to face him.
He frowned at the list. Love equaled flowers?
"She-elves work differently than we do," Thranduil explained.
It would seem so.
. . . . . .
"I told her not to marry him." Even a day later and with a mug of her favorite tea in her hand, Kilvara was still furious. "He's a walking military ledger, and a narcissist to boot. You'd get a better husband out of an ice cube."
"Ouch," said Felrion.
"That may be, but they are a couple now whether we like it or not, and while Alagon has many things to improve, I cannot help thinking Kimbrel is not making it easy for him," Lanthirel pointed out.
Kilvara bristled. "Kimbrel hasn't done anything wrong here."
"You yourself do not always get along with her."
"Well, this isn't her fault. Don't say it is." Kilvara drained her mug and dumped it in the sink, causing Felrion to wince as it clanked loudly against the other dishes in there, and went to check on her sister; Kimbrel had absolutely refused to leave her temporary bedroom, and Kilvara had finally given in and taken her drink to her.
"Kimbrel's always been different," Felrion confided to Lanthirel when his wife was out of hearing. "Kilvara won't admit it, but she has. She didn't play right as an elfling, and she never did learn to filter her thoughts—Sky and Storm thought it was funny when she blurted things, and her parents said she was just opinionated, but I told them something was wrong. And now it's too late to do anything and she's my sister-in-law." Felrion wrinkled his nose.
"She does not have much choice in the matter."
"That's a nice sentiment, but you don't have her over for dinner every month."
"Perhaps I should." Lanthirel tapped the countertop thoughtfully, and an idea occurred to her. "In the meantime, I know who I should bring over tomorrow..."
. . . . . .
Late that night, Kimbrel squeezed a fluffy pillow against her chest, trying not to cry. The more time went on, the more she had to work to stay mad at Alagon; she didn't want him to yell at her, but she missed him a lot. All she really wanted was for him to hold her in his strong arms, and she thought seriously about sneaking back and pretending she'd never left.
But then, maybe he was happier without her. He'd left her here this time, and she knew now that what she'd always suspected was true: everyone else knew things she didn't. She said mean things to elves without meaning to. That wasn't true of Alagon; he always meant what he said.
What if... what if he didn't want her anymore?
. . . . . .
Alagon lay awake, staring at the empty side of the bed. He knew it was silly to feel lonely—he'd been without his wife for months numerous times when he traveled—but he had grown spoiled by her closeness every night, her warmth, her soft skin, the sound of her breathing. He also missed more concrete things, like not having to hunt down his own meals, and finding the bed made as if by magic after he got up.
What if—here, alone in the dead of night, he finally let himself think it—what if Taensirion was right and she refused to come back?
Even worse, what if he deserved it?
He'd thought he was being a good husband; he provided for her and spent some of his precious time playing games with her and tried to listen patiently to her chatter, but now they were telling him there was much more he was supposed to be doing. He'd been told many times that he should be more affectionate with Kimbrel, but never thought much of it, and it'd never occurred to him that she might somehow need those things to be happy. If she wanted that, why didn't she ask for it?
And... could it be true he'd upset her as much as Taensirion seemed to think? Kimbrel cried easily, and he had never thought much of it; she-elves were bound to cry sometimes. But...
...he was supposed to protect her...
...and now that he thought about it, he had not seen Taensirion, or Felrion, or hardly anyone, really, make their wives cry. He was not sure he had ever seen his mother cry.
Was he too harsh with Kimbrel? If nothing else, he had to admit that chastising her was not working; her embarrassing behaviors were not decreasing over time. But then, what was he supposed to do?
Enough of this. He would get some sleep, and tomorrow evening he would try to listen better to Taensirion and the king in case their ideas had some merit. He rolled over and pulled the sheets over his head, trying to ignore the empty space next to him.
One last hazy thought crossed his mind as he fell asleep: she liked the flowers. About that, they were right...
...and the butler had been right, too.
Maybe...
. . . . . .
"Hello, Faena." There was a hint of petulance in Milaera's tone, and the way her hands rested on her hips suggested an adolescent elfling's bossiness.
Her sister eyed her warily. "Hello, Milaera."
The dark-haired sister snatched a cookie off the plate on the table.
"Milaera!" Faena swatted at her sister with her book, eliciting an offended squeal but not the return of the cookie. Milaera retreated to the rocking chair with her prize, glaring.
Lanthirel had a hard time not giggling. "So, Kimbrel, why did Faena hit Milaera with her book?"
Kimbrel was sitting cross-legged in a chair, pouting. "Because she's mean."
Hmm. "Think about what Milaera did."
"She just took a cookie. In fact, how come I do not get a cookie? That's not fair."
"You could try asking."
Kimbrel made a face. "I don't want a cookie."
"Oh, I must have misunderstood; you do not have to eat one, then."
Kimbrel folded her arms across her chest and began kicking the chair leg. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
"Of course, if you change your mind, you are quite welcome to get one."
Kimbrel sniffed and turned her face away.
Lanthirel shook her head and went over to the elf sitting on the other side of the room, observing and taking notes.
"Interesting," Tairen remarked. "I never would have thought she was missing so much."
"Do you think she is? I cannot tell if it is that or if she is being uncooperative."
"I think she's missing it, though she tries to hide it. Watch."
Kimbrel lunged for the cookies and grabbed one, then danced back out of Faena's reach, eyeing the Sinda as she retreated to the far corner of the room to nibble her snack.
Faena hadn't moved an inch, and she shook her head, chuckling. "I was only acting, Kimbrel!"
Kimbrel hid her frown by turning away to glare out the window.
Tairen tapped his graphite stick against his lip, a habit of his which explained the smudges he often had there. "Felrion said she had some learning problems as an elfling?"
"Yes—I asked him more about that this morning. He told me she talked late and would line up her toys instead of playing with them; does that mean anything to you?"
"It does. Do you remember when I spent those years with the humans?"
She did. He had been gone a full century, studying a large village's children as they grew up and aged in exchange for some medicines which Oropher needed an excuse to send them during a plague, and she and Taensirion had gone to visit him twice. Those were the only times she had seen that many humans, and she still could not believe how many children there were! Of course, humans had to constantly replenish their numbers. "Of course, why?"
"Well, see, I noticed a pattern while I was there—humans who had certain things in common as children, and were a little strange as adults. Only a small percentage, and some were a lot more that way than others. It was—oh—social behavior, and things—I have a list somewhere—but when I came back, I started seeing it in elves, too, just never enough to be really obvious, you know?" Tairen's eyes were bright with excitement.
Lanthirel had never heard such a thing. "Do you know why they are that way?"
"No." He pursed his lips. "And there are things we can do to help elflings, but with Kimbrel... I don't know. Maybe it'll help us understand her, at least."
"Hmm. All right."
. . . . . .
"You mean there really is something wrong with me?"
"No, Kim, there's nothing wrong with you, don't listen to them. You're perfect the way you are." If looks could kill, Kilvara's glare would have left Tairen and Lanthirel in desperate need of medical help.
"But they're right." Kimbrel's eyes were brimming with tears. "I'm bad at everything."
The other three all made unhappy sounds. "Kim, don't say that," Kilvara protested.
"You are good at plenty of things, dear," Lanthirel said. "It is only that certain other things do not come naturally to you."
"This does not change anything," Tairen chipped in. "But we hope it will help us and you understand why Alagon gets frustrated with you."
She sniffled. "You just said he gets frustrated because I'm stupid and... and I don't know what's going on."
"That is not what I said." Tairen took her hand, and suddenly he looked so much like his grandfather. "I said sometimes it is harder for you to understand how you are supposed to act. Kimbrel, you are a very special she-elf, and—look at me—remember that Alagon did choose you. He saw something in you that he loved."
"He doesn't love me anymore."
"Yes, he does. I should know." Tairen didn't explain what he meant by that statement, but Lanthirel suspected it had to do with his quiet observation of Alagon over the years. "And I do not think there is anyone he could have married whom he would not get frustrated with now and then. Please do not think badly of yourself."
She was hugging herself with her free arm and wouldn't make eye contact. "Mm..."
. . . . . .
"There is NOTHING wrong with my wife!"
"Told you," Felrion muttered to no one in particular as he watched from a safe distance.
"How dare you," the fuming elf snapped at Taensirion, who was nursing his jaw where he'd just been punched.
Thranduil stepped between them to protect his friend. "Alagon, sit down. Now."
Alagon was so furious he was shaking, and he most certainly did not sit down. "Kimbrel is not..." He had to search for a word. "...broken!"
"No one said she was broken," Taensirion risked saying. He had taken the punch quite well, and now folded his hands behind his back even though his face surely hurt quite a lot.
"You did. You said—"
"Alagon!" Thranduil snapped. "Sit down."
He ignored the king, glowering at Taensirion, who, for his part, was greatly relieved he had talked Tairen out of breaking the news to the volatile elf.
"She is still the same elf you married," Taensirion continued bravely. "In fact, I do not know that it matters if she has traits in common with those humans or not; we know her, and we can see she sometimes does not pick up on things, yes?"
Alagon circled around to a chair and, rather than sitting in it, gripped the back until his knuckles went white, but did not respond—perhaps in an attempt to control himself, as it looked like anything he said would come out as shouting.
"However," Taensirion continued after a long pause in which he waited for Alagon's face to return to its proper color, "this does reinforce the idea that perhaps it is unrealistic to expect Kimbrel to be as socially adept as most of us. That simply is not what she is good at."
"And what does this mean I must do?" Alagon growled through clenched teeth. "Avoid conversation entirely? Describe my every thought out loud?"
"The latter might not be a bad idea," Taensirion mused. "Or rather, it would likely help greatly if you clearly expressed what you wanted from her."
Alagon first scowled at him, then, when that failed to elicit a reaction, threw his hands in the air and stormed out.
Taensirion sighed.
"My thoughts exactly," said Thranduil.
. . . . . .
"Now remember, Kimbrel, when Alagon becomes angry with you, he has likely already tried to tell you he does not like what you are doing, but not out loud. I am going to try and show you some ways he may be doing that." It was difficult for Lanthirel to imagine that Kimbrel had not picked up on certain social cues over the course of over three thousand years—she was far older than Alagon—but they had already established that, indeed, Kimbrel missed many of the intricacies of conversation. "Let us try one. Pretend that I have come to your house for tea, and we are having a conversation."
Kimbrel got up and made for the kitchen.
How very interesting. "Kimbrel," Lanthirel called.
The other she-elf turned, confused.
"We are pretending, so we have imaginary tea." She winked and mimed sipping from a cup.
"Of course." Kimbrel returned to her seat and, with a great effort toward accuracy, went through similar motions.
"Now, let us say we are talking about our families, and you ask about my parents because you have never met them. Go on, ask about my parents."
"Didn't your parents die or something?"
They had a lot of work to do. "No, they went to Valinor after Doriath was destroyed. But for the exercise, pretend that instead of answering, I did this." She looked down at her hands with an exaggerated unhappy expression for a few seconds, then back up at Kimbrel. "What might that mean?"
Kimbrel tapped her foot irritably. "I don't know. Maybe you don't want to talk to me anymore."
"I will give you a hint. What is this expression?" She made the unhappy face again.
"Sad," Kimbrel answered, with a massive eye roll.
"Exactly. So I am feeling sad. Why might I be looking at my hands?"
"How would I know that?"
I see how this could get on one's nerves, Lanthirel thought, but she was more patient than Alagon. "You were very close when you said I might not want to talk to you. If someone is sad and looks at their hands, it might mean they do not want to talk about the thing you are talking about at that time. Or it might mean they are willing to talk about it, but it is very hard for them because it makes them sad. In this case, it would mean I do not want to talk about my parents because I miss them very much—which is only true in our pretend world, because really I like to tell elves about my parents, if they are curious."
Kimbrel took this in. "But how do you tell the difference?"
Between not wanting to talk and finding it hard to talk, Lanthirel assumed. "It can be hard. You might have to wait and see if they start to talk about it or not."
"Oh." Kimbrel played with a lock of her loose hair. "If I do not want to talk about something, should I look sad and look at my hands?"
"You could, or there are some other things you could do that I will teach you about later, if you will let me. Or you could say, 'Can we talk about something else, please?'"
Kimbrel's eyebrows were scrunched up until they almost touched, but she nodded slowly. "I want to learn more of this."
. . . . . .
Alagon's hand hovered in the air for a long time before he mustered the courage to knock, and when he did, he almost decided to walk away before anyone could answer. It was pitiful in a way, what he'd come here to do, and he could see the guards who always stood in front of the king's chambers eyeing him from down the hall—but the door opened before he could give in.
"Kimbrel's not here," Caliel told him as she pulled the last braid out of her pinkish-blond hair, letting it fall around her slender shoulders; it was late, and her tone asked why he thought he'd find his wife here this late in the evening, when most elves were preparing for bed. Then she cocked her head. "Or are you even here for her?" As he was trying to determine how she knew, she welcomed him in and called for her husband. "Galion! Alagon's here to see you!"
The butler appeared in one of the doorways, dressed in soft evening clothes with his hair down as well. It made Alagon uncomfortable to see him dressed as an actual person and not a servant, and he tried to compensate by squaring his shoulders and reminding himself that he, at least, still looked professional.
"What can I do for you?" the butler asked, bemused but still bound by habit and instinct to be helpful.
Alagon cleared his throat, but the words burst out of him without any of his careful preparation. "You knew about the flowers."
Galion blinked, surprised by Alagon's mention of his previous advice. "You did give them to her, then?"
The advisor was too preoccupied to answer. "And Kimbrel thinks Caliel is lucky to have married you. She talks about how much you two love each other and how kind you are to your wife." Alagon pressed his palms over his eyes, then, in a flash, grabbed Galion by the shoulders and shook him. "How do you do it?"
Galion squeaked. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you! It's not a secret!"
Something long and wooden poked at Alagon's ribs—the handle of a broom Caliel had pulled from somewhere. "Back up," she requested. "Back." She jabbed the stick into his ribs, and he had to step back to relieve the pressure. "Back."
Galion, thus rescued, smoothed his clothes and gestured to the round table by the entrance to the kitchen. "Sit down and let me get you a drink, and then we can talk."
. . . . . .
Early the next morning, Taensirion opened his front door and found the elf he and his wife had discussed until, frankly, much too late at night. "Hello?"
"I am ready to listen now," declared Alagon, who, though he had not spoken to the butler for long the previous evening, had spent much of the night rolling what he had learned over and over in his head.
"...Right. Ah... Keep that mentality," Taensirion said after pinching himself to make sure he was not dreaming.
. . . . . .
"But then he came home late and—oh hey, sis."
"Hi," Kilvara returned, but her smile was forced.
"You're having a bad day," Kimbrel stated.
Kilvara actually jumped. "Huh?"
"Lanthirel says that when elves only smile when they talk to you and frown the rest of the time, they're only pretending to be happy," Kimbrel recited proudly. "But what happened?"
Kilvara seemed stunned. "I... I'm just worried about you and Alagon, that's all."
"Oh." Kimbrel's shoulder's slumped. "Can we talk about something else, please?"
"Sure. Yeah." She pulled up a chair and sat between her sister and Lanthirel at the counter. "Tell me what you two have been doing."
So Kimbrel did, and after she finished and left the room to work on the puzzle she'd started with Lanthirel's older daughters the previous day, Kilvara grabbed Lanthirel's hand. "She never asks about elves' feelings, not ever... I... could Tairen be right?"
"I think so, but I understand why you did not want to believe it," Lanthirel said kindly.
"I guess... I guess I always knew, deep down. I just thought... I know you don't mean to say she's damaged or anything, but that's how it always sounded to me when Felrion said it."
Lanthirel nodded silently.
On impulse, Kilvara hugged her friend. "Thank you for trying to help her. That should've been my job, but I wasn't paying attention."
"I am sure you did help her in many ways," Lanthirel promised. "She looks up to you."
"I need to remember that more often."
. . . . . .
On the sixth day after Kimbrel went missing, Alagon declared he was ready, and—with only a bit of hesitation—Taensirion, Thranduil, and Galion agreed on the condition that he continue to meet with them once a month, or more often if needed. So, after dinner (and after sending Tathor, who'd been coming along with his father, ahead to warn the others), off they all went to Felrion and Kilvara's house to let him take another shot at retrieving his wife.
Alagon walked along in silence, considering everything he'd been told; a large part of him was still unimpressed by their insistence that she-elves needed tenderness and romance and that he was as terrible at communication as they believed, and yet, Taensirion and the butler were each married so happily, as the king had been before the queen's death (as much as the queen had driven Alagon out of his mind, she'd apparently been essential to the king's well-being). They had to know something, as must Taensirion and Galion's wives, surely, being she-elves themselves. So, after his conversation with the butler that night, he had resolved to swallow his pride and take in their advice, and, intermittently, he'd succeeded.
After one brief stop, they arrived at Felrion and Kilvara's house, where they were greeted by the healer and his wife. "If she says no and you don't leave, I'll shoot you," Kilvara warned Alagon.
He did not dignify that with a response; Kimbrel would come with him. The tiny speck of doubt he channeled into fingering the item he held behind his back, reminding himself of what he needed to do. She-elves were like everyone else; you did certain things and they responded in (somewhat) predictable ways, even if he was still learning what to do.
Taensirion answered for him. "If she says no, we will leave, but it would be good if she would speak to him at least briefly."
Kilvara grimaced, but nodded and went inside.
"Please convince her," Felrion said when she was gone. "I can't stand her another moment."
Alagon narrowed his eyes at him; the healer ought to be careful what he said about Alagon's wife.
The door opened, and Thranduil tapped Alagon on the shoulder and leaned down. "'Sorry' is a useful word," the king hinted.
Alagon's response to that was halted by the sight of Kimbrel. Lanthirel had said she was enjoying learning what they were teaching her, but despite that, her eyes were shadowed and red, and her fingers picked nervously at her simple green dress. She wasn't better off without him, and while part of him was smug at the knowledge that she needed him, at the same time... he had done this. He'd made her tired and sleepless by chasing her out of the house.
Had he really failed so badly in his role?
Kimbrel approached but stopped a few steps away, looking up at him with her pretty almond-shaped eyes wide with worry at what he would do. Taensirion was right; she shouldn't be afraid of him. How could he fix this?
He held out the object he'd been hiding behind his back: a perfect red rose. She looked to him for permission before taking it, and he was glad he'd cut the thorns off with his knife. "Please forgive me." He refused to say the word "sorry" as the king suggested.
Kimbrel held the flower to her nose and sniffed it, then sniffed again, only this time it was involuntary. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Not again, Alagon thought. How had he managed to upset her now? Flowers were supposed to equal love, yes?
"Go on," Taensirion urged.
He knew what he was supposed to do—they'd drilled this one into him—but really, was that wise right now? Clearly, she was not happy to see him.
Galion caught his eye and nodded.
The butler had never led him astray before. Alagon cleared his throat, then awkwardly moved closer to Kimbrel and put his arms around her; how this would help, he did not know, but then, hugs were supposed to equal love as well.
To his surprise, after standing frozen for a moment, Kimbrel melted into his embrace. "I-I'm sorry I said things I shouldn't," she told him. "And that I said things that were mean. I didn't mean to—I try to be a good wife, really! I just don't know how sometimes... please let me try again? Lanthirel is teaching me all sorts of things, and I promise I'll do better!"
He had not done so well either, and maybe later, when they were alone, he would tell her that. For now, he just rested his chin against her hair and closed his eyes. "Come home with me?" He had not intended for it to come out as a question, but it did.
She laid her head against his chest and nodded.
So he let go and stepped back, and, when no argument came from the others—Kilvara looked pleasantly amazed—took her by the arm to lead her away. At Taensirion's silent correction, he released her arm as well and took her hand, which felt strange; very rarely did they hold hands anymore. She smiled, though, and walked with him obediently. The others didn't follow, giving them space.
They walked in silence for a few minutes; Kimbrel still held the rose, and smelled it every so often. Her tears had dried.
So things were back to normal, Alagon thought. Or they would have been if not for Kimbrel's hands—one holding a rose, the other resting in his. It was strange how much of a difference those two little things could make, and it was almost as if they had gone back to their courtship years, when these things had been commonplace. There was something about those years that Alagon missed sometimes, something having to do with the way she smiled as she twirled the rose in her fingers.
On impulse, Alagon stopped her. She looked around, confused—they were in the middle of the forest, no trace of civilization in sight except for the path they stood on. All alone. "Kimbrel, I love you."
Her eyes went wide, and for a moment he was afraid she would cry again. "Really?"
Why... why were his eyes prickling like this? Stop that, you are NOT going to cry in front of her. "Yes," he realized. "Yes, of course."
A tear ran down her cheek, but her smile was so wide he decided to allow it. "I-I love you too—you know."
His eyes felt wet. This was not acceptable at all—he had not cried since he was an elfling—and the only way to keep her from noticing was to turn away and avoid looking at her until it stopped, ending the moment. Or...
As it turned out, kissing her worked quite well too.
. . . . . .
Early the next morning, Alagon woke with a start, his hand instantly going to the far side of the bed, prepared to find it empty. It hit something warm instead, something that gave a startled "Mm?" and rolled over.
The breath he'd been holding came out in a huff, and he relaxed. She was still here.
Kimbrel blinked sleepily, most likely wondering why he'd jabbed her in the ribs, and scooted over, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling into his shirt with a sigh of contentment. He returned the snuggling, thinking again how much he had missed having her here, and soon drifted off again. It was good to have a wife, and even better to have Kimbrel.