Last of the Edhel, Chapter 4
by CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie
Hermione fumed as she stomped through the woods, the hastily-packed items in her rucksack clunking noisily as she tripped over tree roots and skidded over rain-wet leaves. It had been over an hour since she'd left the Elf in the little clearing, and her anger had yet to abate.
Certainly, it had been rash of her to tell him she loved him. After all, simply because she had some strong emotions for him— whomever and whatever he was— didn't mean she had to actually mention that fact to him. His reaction, while perfectly reasonable, was still not entirely necessary.
He'd laughed at her. No, not laughed. "Guffawed" was a better word for his reaction to Hermione's proclamation of love. The ethereally handsome creature who'd come to occupy her thoughts almost as much as the Source in recent days had stared at her in utter astonishment, said, "Do you, now?" and then burst into peals of laughter that would have made her weep at the beauty of the sound if she hadn't been so infuriated.
She wondered why she wasn't more embarrassed. Actually, she thought, coming to a halt and leaning back against a tree, I'm not all that embarrassed, really. She didn't think there was much to be embarrassed about, if she were to be honest. Being in love was nothing to be ashamed of.
Hermione supposed he had a point, laughing at her. After all, she didn't imagine it was every day that strange women appeared in a magical wood declaring their adoration for reclusive, pointy-eared forest-dwellers. She was fairly certain, however, that if more women knew about him, they'd be flocking to the Forbidden Forest in droves.
A mental image rose unbidden, then, of Hagrid trying to restrain a horde of amorous females from entering the Forest and searching for the elusive creature whose masculine beauty surpassed all others, and Hermione found herself grinning at it even as she tripped over yet another root and pitched forward onto her face.
"Huh," she grunted, spitting out a mouthful of leaves, and wondered if she were going in even remotely the right direction to bring her back to the edge of the Forest bordering Hogwarts. Then she thought, Why am I bothering to leave? I need the Source, and I'm not likely to find it by going home. Fired by a new determination, she sat up and rummaged in her backpack for the thermos of now-cold tea to rinse the remaining bits of leaf from her mouth.
Standing, Hermione slung the pack on her back once more and peered around. She could be wrong, but this particular area was looking very familiar—was she traveling in circles? She tied a strip of fabric torn from her undershirt to a tree branch at eye-level, and began walking. Sure enough, after another hour she was confronted with the same bit of shirt, and sighed.
The direction she'd been walking looked no more promising than any other. Intuition was not considered a major aspect of magic as she'd learnt it at Hogwarts, but hers had rarely failed her and she'd had no other success so there wasn't much to lose, was there? Blowing out a gusty breath, Hermione closed her eyes and turned. She stopped when it felt right to stop, opened her eyes, and began striding with great purpose once more.
Hermione had no more success this time, either, walking for what felt like ages before stopping. "This is hopeless," she muttered sourly. There had to be a way to refine the location spell—it wasn't enough to simply identify the general location of the Source. The Forbidden Forest was too large, and she was just one person. The Elf who'd captured her heart wasn't going to help her any time soon—just the opposite, she suspected—and so she would simply have to be more precise in finding out where the Source was.
Besides, the sky was beginning to lighten with the coming morning, and she was tired. She thought longingly of the bed that awaited her at Harry's apartment, and made to Apparate.
Except that nothing happened. Frowning, she tried again. And again. And again, until she was panting from the effort.
"It is not only your wand-magic that will not work here, if I do not allow it," said a soft voice, and Hermione whirled to find him standing behind him. If she'd thought him handsome by the pallid light of the moon, then the pale gold sunlight stealing through the canopy of leaves overhead made him nothing short of magnificent, and her heart lurched in her chest.
Focus, she scolded herself. Think about the Source. Think about your research, about all you've done to get to this point. Think about Ron. Feeling calmer, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin to confront him.
Thranduil followed the woman as she wandered through the woods. Did she have any idea whatsoever where she was going? His doubt was both great and sincere. Stealth seemed an utterly foreign concept to her: she made as much noise as a boar, tramping through leaves and snapping twigs. Had his presence not dissuaded various of the Forest's creatures from making the woman's acquaintance, she'd have been dead a dozen times.
He was baffled as to why she was able to recall him, in spite of the forgetting spells he'd placed on her. After a week of them, she should have scarcely been able to remember her own name. And yet, she not only remembered him, but doggedly continued to come into the Forest, searching for the Source.
Thranduil was not stone-hearted; indeed, he sympathized with her plight. Had he an ill friend so dear, his fervour in locating a cure would have surpassed hers. But he had no such friend. His was but a duty, one he'd taken upon his shoulders three Ages ago, and he meant to keep it. The son of Oropher would not be dissuaded from his responsibility, no matter how prettily the woman might plead for him to do just that.
And there was the matter of her declaration of love. He had no doubt it was nothing more than mere attraction; perhaps a mild infatuation at worst, the result of a young woman's fanciful romanticizing of a male of his appearance. After all, people simply didn't fall in love at first sight any more; the last instance of which he was aware was Elrond and Celebrían, five Ages ago.
She certainly seemed convinced of what she was saying, commented a small and rebellious part of his mind determined to irk him. He ignored it, concentrating on tracking her. At one point, she had thought to navigate by knotting a scrap of cloth to a branch. Thranduil felt no pangs of remorse in moving it once she'd moved on several dozen paces, easily skirting around her trajectory to tie it on another tree in exactly the same manner. He wished to see her reaction; would she give up? He would have allowed her to leave, then, if she had tried to go.
But she was of sterner stuff than that, this Hermione Granger. She'd chosen another direction, and set off with firm purpose in her step. He was not pleased to note that, while it had been an arbitrary choice, she was heading with almost uncanny accuracy toward where the Source was hidden.
She was not going to relent, he realized. The part of him not indignant over this imposition to his guardianship was grudging admiration—in his experience, few of the race of Men were this committed to pursuing a goal, especially when the benefit was for another. Another, infinitely more worrisome realization came on the heels of the first: he could not permit her to pass on what little she had learnt of him and the Source.
He must kill her.
The idea sat in his stomach like a stone. Never had he been a proponent of waste, and this woman's death at his hand, far before her time and with a life of accomplishment before her, was not something he would relish.
When had it come to this? he wondered, and allowed himself a soft bark of bitter laughter. He, defender of his realm for millennia without assistance from a ring or allies, had slaughtered countless orc, Uruk-hai, warg, goblins, spiders, and various minor demons. Now he was called to slaughter once more, but this time his foe was neither evil nor even a challenge. She was powerless, here in his Forest—without magic, without strength, without even the merest chance of overcoming him.
There is no honour in this, the tiny voice whispered in a corner of Thranduil's mind. No honour, no justice, no sense. Staring down at his hands, he thought of his son. He had always envied his son's ability to see past exteriors and surfaces to the heart of a matter. It was how he had managed to forge his great friendship with that Dwarf—it was doubtful that such a miraculous thing would have happened, had another Elf been sent with the Fellowship in Legolas' stead.
Thranduil stared at his hands, almost able to see the blood on them. Her blood. The blood of an innocent, who wanted the Source not for herself, not to use its power to enhance her own, but to save someone. She was a lively creature, passionate, and he could not bear to know that that passion was gone, that that life was depleted, and for such futility.
He knew, then, that he could not do it. He could not kill her, nor by his lack of protection allow one of the fell beings of this wood to end her life. He sighed. Not a murderer, then, but a jailer I shall be.
She stared up at him when he leapt from the tree above to appear before her, and he could hear the tiny catch to her breath at his proximity. The male part of him, lain dormant so long, gave an exultant little 'hah' to know that he had not yet lost all ability to affect another in that way. It was quickly squashed as unworthy of both himself and her, however.
"It is not only your wand-magic that will not work here, if I do not allow it," he told her softly. "Your Apparition will not work."
"Then how am I going to get home?" she asked, rather breathlessly, he thought.
He could not help but smile, then, at her confusion. It was inconceivable to him that anyone could be so... naive. "You are not."
She tensed, as if to flee, and his smile gentled. "You have no hope of escaping me," he told her. "I am faster than you could ever hope to be."
Her shoulders slumped in defeat; in spite of himself, he felt a little guilt slice through him. But then she straightened those shoulders and lifted her firm little chin some more. "Do it, then."
He frowned. "Do what?" Did she think he would kill her? Clearly, she did, because her gaze went past him to the hilt of the knife sheathed on his back. He was a little insulted, forgetting that just minutes ago, he'd been contemplating doing just that. "I am not going to kill you, child."
"Then what?" Her eyes, wide and startled and alarmed and curious all at the same time, bored up into his. It had been a very long time since he had been the recipient of such a piercing, determined gaze, and he found it both intriguing and disconcerting.
"You are to remain here, in the Forest. I cannot permit you to leave, not with the knowledge you now possess."
"But..." Her words trailed away, leaving her gaping in amazement. "But where will I live? In a tree? And if I don't go home, everyone will think the worst." To his dismay, her eyes filled with tears. "After what's happened to Ron, it would destroy Harry. And the Weasleys... oh, please," she said, reaching out to lay her hand on his arm in pleading. "Please, you can't do this."
Her hand was warm through the fabric of his tunic. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him, and Thranduil's mouth went uncomfortably dry. "I am sorry," he said, disengaging her hand from his arm. "But you are resistant to the forgetting spell. I cannot permit you to leave with the knowledge you possess, and I cannot kill you. There is no other way."
Hermione Granger stared at him a long moment, then snapped her gaping mouth shut with an audible click. "What are you going to do with me, then?" she demanded. "Dump me in some pit? Leave me for the wolves? What?"
What an... abrasive personality she had. Thranduil resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and thought hard. He saw, then, the flaw in his decision: if he did not release her, and she could not be trusted to keep herself alive in the Forbidden Forest—which she could not—then there was but one option.
She would have to come live with him, in his home.
Ai, Valar.
This time, he actually did pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and exhaling sharply. Well, there was nothing for it. He had made his decision, now he must live with it. "Follow me," he said. "If you do not, I will carry you."
Rather than be dismayed by what he'd thought would be a threat, he saw with consternation that she seemed rather... interested in the concept, her eyes lighting up as she glanced at his arms. He remembered, belatedly, that she believed herself in love with him, and therefore would find little fault in his carrying her for an extended period of time.
Willow bark tea. He turned and began to make his way toward his home, determined to drink a gallon of the pain-relieving brew as soon as possible, for his head was beginning to pound. It wasn't long, however, before she was calling to him.
"You have to slow down," she called from a dozen paces behind him. "I can't go as fast as you, my legs are shorter than yours."
Thranduil turned and found himself, quite unaccountably, staring at the aforementioned legs. They were not especially long, as she was a short creature, but they were in proportion to the rest of her and thanks to the snug trousers she wore he could see that they as well as her hips were curved nicely.
He should offer to carry her. It was clear she was hoping for that very same thing, and yet Thranduil could not make his lips form the words. A feeling that he could have sworn was panic welled up in him at the thought of taking this stranger into his home, at allowing her into his life as no one had done for tens of thousands of years.
I should just kill her, he thought. It would be the easiest and safest course of action, for all concerned and in all ways. The school's headmaster would have words for him about it, but he knew of Thranduil's duty. He knew that nothing could endanger the Source, that the Source was of utmost importance above all else.
For a moment, Thranduil allowed himself to hate the Source. Without it, he'd be in Aman with his kin, his wife and son at his side. He'd not be relegated to this fragment of his former realm, alone but for the creatures that populated it.
No, he amended to himself, alone no longer. For now, Hermione Granger was with him. His heart gave a peculiar little leap in his chest, and he knew then why he could not kill her: he did not want to be alone any more. No longer, he thought, the words resonating in his mind. Alone no longer.
A faint pressure on his hand jolted him from his thoughts, and he realized that he had stood, still and silent, for a considerable amount of time. Hermione Granger had taken his hand, and now peered up at him with a face full of concern.
"Are you quite alright?" she asked. "You looked so... sad, just now."
He removed her hand and stepped back. This habit of hers for touching him would have to stop, and soon. "I am well," he informed her calmly. "My apologies." Then he turned and continued walking. After a moment, she not only followed, but caught him up.
"What's your name?" she inquired, huffing a little after her short sprint. "I'm—"
"Hermione Granger, yes. So you have mentioned." What name could he give her as his? For he could not yet trust her with his true name. "Alfirin," he said at last. "You may call me Alfirin."
"And you're an Elf?" Her frown revealed a tiny line between her brows. "Any relation to house-elves?" She eyed him skeptically. "I don't see how," she finished, seeming to answer her own question.
"We were known to others as Elves, yes," he replied. "But among ourselves, we are Edhel."
"There are more of you?" Hermione Granger asked, almost bouncing with curiousity, and craned her head around as if to find a score of Elves hiding behind each tree. It was almost full light now, and the sun was swiftly burning away the mist and dew.
"There are not," he answered flatly. "I am the Last. In this world, at least." He knew his voice was bitter; he did not care. Best that this woman learnt now what spurred his anger. " 'Twas I alone who remained, to guard the Source."
"Oh," she said softly. "I'm... sorry to hear it."
"It is no concern of yours," he told her firmly, intending to establish what was acceptable conversation, and what was not.
"If I'm to be your prisoner here, then it certainly is my concern!" she retorted. "Or am I to not know anything about you?"
"How much do most prisoners know of their captors?" Thranduil asked mildly. "When my kingdom was vast, and many were my subjects, I do not once recall revealing private issues to those occupants of my dungeons."
"Kingdom? Subjects?" She pounced on the words as a cat might upon so many mice. "You're royalty?"
The corner of his mouth curled derisively. "At one time, yes." He stopped and gestured around them. "Now, I am just one more inhabitant of a haunted wood."
"An inhabitant who's the last of his kind, and the king of all his people," she muttered, aiming a narrow glance at him as he started walking again and she had to hurry to keep up.
"King of all my people?" Thranduil mused on that a moment. Interesting concept, he thought. Elrond and Galadriel and Círdan would doubtless have much to say on the issue. "No, not all of them. Just those in my lands. My forest." The memory of his forest, his Eryn Lasgalen, as it was millennia earlier, pricked at him. Spiders and all, he felt a pang of longing for how it had been, then sighed. Living in the past had ever been the Edhel's primary shortcoming.
He felt another touch; this time, she was plucking at his sleeve. "You're looking sad again," she informed him. "If you're going to keep doing that, you could at least have the decency to tell me why. I'm dying of curiousity."
That made him smile. He tilted his head back to hide it, peering through the canopy of leaves overhead to the sky beyond. "A pity, that. It would seem you are doomed to being curious, for I shall not divulge this information."
She made a sound suspiciously like "harrumph" and they walked in silence for several minutes. Then some indefinable thread of tension stretched between them, and he knew she was going to press for him to release her once more.
"Please," she began. "You can't begin to know how important it is that I return. Harry... he's lost so many people. His parents, Sirius... Ron... if he loses me too, I— I don't know what he'll do." She paused. "And my parents. I'm their only child, and they've been so good, allowing me to study witchcraft. I'm sure many Muggle parents wouldn't have done. If I don't come home, they'll be so worried."
She turned and grabbed his sleeve once more, effectively halting him. "Please, you have to let me go back. I won't tell anyone. Obliviate me again! Do what you need to! But I have to return!"
She was touching him again. Thranduil simply turned and began walking away.
"I'm not coming!" she shouted after him. "I'm going to get out of here! I have to go back!"
"You are free to try," he said calmly, his voice carrying clearly back to her even though he steadfastly faced forward. "But when you change your mind—" he ignored her outraged huff at his use of 'when' "—you have only to continue walking in this direction, and you will come to my home. I will await you there."
"You'll be waiting a long time!" she exclaimed, and he heard leaves rustling as she dropped her rucksack to the ground and plunked down beside it. Shaking his head in bemusement, he walked on.