Disclaimer: Refer to Chapter 1
A/N: Sorry for the disgustingly long delay, a touch of writer's block and moving to a new state are to blame. But, I'm feeling more inspired now, so I promise to do better! Thanks for your patience!
Chapter 16: Loyalties
Thranduil stood alone in his throne room, staring out the balcony doors, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. A storm was gathering over the treetops, great masses of blue-gray clouds spilling over each other, spinning in a swirling dance of raw power. As the first bolt of lightning crackled on the horizon, a voice rose up behind him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Thranduil bit back a sigh, looking down at the floor in shame. After a long moment, he turned, facing his son in the eerie yellow light that taints the earth before a storm. It made Legolas look older, his cheekbones sharp and his eyes sharper still. Thranduil had never been good at admitting he was wrong, and the words seemed drawn from him as reluctantly as removing a sliver.
"I-I am sorry Legolas. No one was to know. We thought it safer that way."
"So, the entire Council knew we were sitting on a deposit of mithril and you did not trust me enough to tell me? Your own son?" Legolas shook his head in amazement.
"We should have told you. I was wrong to keep it from you."
"Yes. Yes you were. Didn't you know it would only be a matter of time? Didn't you realize that someone, someday would come for it? You can't keep something like that a secret for very long. Especially from dwarves. I just don't understand how Moraelin could not have sensed it years ago."
"Oh, she knew it was here." Thranduil stated, turning back to watch the roiling clouds.
"What? You saw her face, she had no more idea than I did that there was mithril here."
"She knew. Do you remember when you were children, and she always wanted to play in that cellar furthest back from the kitchens? Whenever either of you were missing, Eregos or I would find you both there."
Legolas looked perplexed, "I-I do remember. She always insisted we play there, she said it was her favorite place in the palace. . . her favorite place in all of Mirkwood."
Thranduil nodded, feeling the damp breeze sweep across his face, "The vein ran directly above your heads in that room. Moraelin may not have known what she was feeling, but she was drawn to it. . .drawn like a moth to a lantern." He turned again to Legolas, his eyes weary, "You're right, it was only a matter of time, but what was I to do? This is our home now, this fortress is the center of this city. I will not give it up or share it any more than Gondor would give up the White Tower."
Legolas looked unconvinced. "All right, let us say that the new peace accord is successful, the prisoner exchange goes off flawlessly and we put this all behind us. Do you really think they'll just forget about the mithril? And, if these dwarves do hold true to our agreement, and do not come here again, what's to say in a few hundred years, their offspring won't be back, and we truly will go to war? What's to prevent that from happening?"
"What do you suggest? That we let them mine?" Thranduil asked.
"Yes." Legolas said firmly, without hesitation.
Much of Thranduil's earlier fervor had diminished, and he groped for the right words, for some way to make his son understand. "Legolas, maybe I have shielded you too much, but you must understand that these are merciless lands. One must get a foothold in a place and hold on, and make it known that a place is their own. It was this way for your grandfather, for me, and so it shall be for you. If you do not protect your borders, if you do not put the interests and safety of your own people first, then others will trample you, you will be seen as weak."
Legolas was shaking his head, his face tight with frustration, "It does not have to be that way, not anymore. Just because you and grandfather ruled your kingdoms with an iron fist does not mean that is the only way. It is a different world now."
"Because Sauron is defeated? There will always be another Sauron, there will always be someone to threaten us. It never ends."
"I'm sorry, Father, but I just don't see it that way."
Thranduil sighed deeply, "Then there is nothing I can say to convince you." A tense silence filled the room, both elves contemplating for a long moment the differences that had separated them from Legolas's earliest childhood, and the fierce loyalty to each other that kept them together. The slight rumbling of thunder punctuated their dark thoughts, until finally, Thranduil cleared his throat.
"You had best not set out tonight. The weather looks bleak. Besides, I think you could use some rest."
Legolas grinned in spite of himself. "A good night's sleep would be nice."
"Come on then, let's get you a warm meal and some clean clothes. You're a prince, and yet you look like an underfed orc." He clapped his son on the back, then steered the younger elf into the hallway.
Legolas laughed lightly at the comparison and his smile grew. For all their disagreements about leadership styles, potential princesses, or war strategies, Legolas still loved his father dearly. The only thing that had ever truly come between them was Moraelin. Legolas's eyes tightened, and in his heart, he knew it would be so again. Now that she was back, there would be strife. It had already begun, with the fight in the Council chamber. And, he feared that would not be the last.
For at least a full minute, Moraelin stared at the shining double doors, unable to lift her hand and knock. That simple motion seemed suddenly so taxing, so impossible. With a slight wince, Moraelin knocked lightly. After a moment, Myallore's voice bade her to enter.
Moraelin stepped quietly into the royal chambers. Little had changed here. The room was still decorated in pale greens and powder blues, soothing colors, like a nursery. A loom sat in one corner, a wall-hanging half finished within its frame. Huge arched windows covered one wall, and potted plants filled most of the sills.
Moraelin fidgeted a little, a nervous smile on her lips. It dropped away quickly as she saw Myallore sitting woodenly in a chair, not seeming particularly interested in her guest. She was at her work table, carefully measuring and mixing healing herbs.
"My-my Lady. It's me."
Still Myallore did not look up, her hands busily capping and uncapping urns and jars. Moraelin took another hesitant step toward her. A further stutter infected her voice as she tried again, "Myallore, I-I am so glad to see you again. It's-it's been—"
Myallore dropped the jar in her hands loudly to the tabletop. Moraelin started at the sound. Myallore stared ahead, and in a carefully controlled tone, said, "Why, in all these years, did you never think to contact us?"
Moraelin felt tears of hurt pool at the corners of her eyes.
The queen turned, accusation and pain burning from her eyes, "You might have sent word to us, left a message in one of the other realms, something! Do you know how I worried for you? Do you know what it was like for me not knowing whether you were alive or dead?"
"I'm sorry," Moraelin whispered, "I just thought...it would be easier for you to forget me if I just disappeared."
"Forget you?" Myallore gasped, her face twisting, "Forget you?" Her eyes softened and she rose, "I never forgot you Moraelin. Never."
Myallore now looked fully at Moraelin, and her lips parted, concern marring her face. She crossed the room with silent steps and lifted her hand to the purple bruise across Moraelin's cheek, the gash across her mouth. "Oh, child," she murmured in sympathy. Myallore's face clouded, almost trance-like, and she brushed her fingers over the old break on Moraelin's jawbone. Her frown deepened and she gently gripped Moraelin's upper arm at the exact place it had been broken by the orc club. Myallore then took her hands, turning them over and studying the scars.
Moraelin's amazement shone in her eyes. "How? Those injuries are years old. How could you know?"
Myallore's calm smile had returned, "I am a healer. It is my trade to see such things. Besides, I have known you since the moment you were born. Do you think such hurts would not be obvious to me?"
Moraelin smiled shakily, "I am sorry I never sent word."
"No, no, I am sorry. I should not have said those things to you. I was upset, but that is no excuse. I'm so happy that you are here."
Myallore pulled the shorter girl into her arms. Moraelin sighed in relief and pressed her face into Myallore's collarbone.
"I never thought I'd say this," Moraelin chuckled, "But I'm a little happy to be back."
Myallore's laugh sang through the air as she set the girl away from her. She blinked quickly, the glassy screen of her tears clearing reluctantly. "You've grown into a beautiful woman. I knew you would, but still, look at you."
A watery smile crossed Moraelin's lips. She was no beauty, but Myallore saw splendor even in the exceptionally plain. She always saw the good in all that was around her, quite in contrast to the bitter creature Moraelin had become. She turned away, shame bringing a blush to her cheeks that she hoped Myallore did not notice.
"Did Legolas come here? How is his wound?" Moraelin asked.
"He is well," Myallore said with a guarded look, "He tells me you have some talent with healing, just as Eregos did. He says you can heal with your touch."
Moraelin frowned slightly and looked down at her hands, turning them over and back several times as if expecting to see some change in them. They were as they had always been, rough, sunburned, with scars spider-webbing along the dark skin. She remained silent.
A warm smile lit Myallore's face, a fragile sort of hope in her voice, "I could teach you to use this gift if you wish. When Talendil is returned to us, I could—"
She trailed off, watching as Moraelin wandered to one of the windows, her gaze drawn to the bolts of white lightning joining earth to sky. Myallore flinched as the first crash of thunder seemed to shake the carven stone all around her, but Moraelin showed no reaction. She was a child of the storm, unleashed on the world seemingly from the fury of nature itself. Another bolt of lightning lit the room, and just like every storm, Myallore would swear she heard Kirali's scream in the thunder, heard the squeal of a baby echoing through the corridors. Moraelin just drew nearer to the window, as if believing the storm would not dare hurt her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her axe and sword slung over her back, and Myallore watched, transfixed, as the lightning glittered in the jeweled hilt of Eregos's sword.
"Why did they do it?" Moraelin asked, her voice seeming to come from very far away as she posed a question that had haunted her through all of her long life.
"What do you mean?" Myallore's tone was brittle, careful, for somehow she knew exactly what Moraelin meant.
With a snap of her neck, Moraelin turned, and her dark eyes were lit by the lightning, "Why did my parents have me?" Her vehemence faded, and in a change so abrupt it stunned Myallore, Moraelin's voice dropped to the pleading whisper of a child, "They knew the risks. They knew my mother might not survive. They knew I would never be accepted. Why did they do it? Why did they have a child?"
Myallore lifted her hand slowly, brushing her thumb over Moraelin's temple. A single tear now dropped from Myallore's chin to leave a perfectly round spot of moisture on her dress, "Moraelin. Moraelin, I think...I think their love was too much for just the two of them. They needed to share it with another, and that other was you. It was impossible, that they could love each other as they did, for what could they possibly have in common? And yet, it was a force greater than they could contain. But, now I see, there is something else. I think they had you for this day. They knew, somehow, that you were meant for great things. And, here you are, you have come to us to make peace. You were born for this."
Moraelin was shaking her head, and finally buried her face in her hands, "I can't," she said, choking on the words, "I try to be strong in front of Legolas, but I am so afraid. If I fail, they will kill my brother, there will be war, and it will be my fault. I was born only to bring destruction, that is all."
"You will not fail," Myallore insisted, drawing Moraelin's hands away from her face and looking into her brown eyes, "You know your own worth, even though these lands have been cruel to you, in your heart you know you are capable of anything. You get that from your father."
With a small smile, Moraelin nodded. "And you still always know just what to say. I swear you could sweet talk a turtle right out of his shell."
Myallore threw her head back and laughed, "You know, I think I probably could. Now, you must tell me where you have been all these years, the places you have seen, the people you have met. I want to know everything."
With an indulgent smile, Moraelin allowed herself to be led to a chair in the corner of the room. She took a deep breath, and told the queen everything.
Thranduil stood in the washroom of the royal quarters, hunched over a basin. He could hear Myallore humming in the other room as she readied for bed. He stared down at the gleaming white marble of the basin, shot through with dark gray veins. His focus shifted and he studied his own reflection in the still water, the angry lines around his eyes that even age had not softened, the lips pursed in perpetual displeasure. What had become of him, when had he forgotten how to smile? He had a fine son, a beautiful realm, and the most stunning and kind wife in all of Arda. His happiness seemed an inevitability. And yet, he was troubled.
He dipped his hands into the water, if only to dash away his reflection. He splashed water on his face from his cupped hands, a few cold drops trailing down his neck to his bare chest. He knew that the darkness of Dol Guldur haunted him still, that he was a creature born for war. He had been fighting since he was barely strong enough to wield a blade, it was all he had known. When Dol Guldur lay in ruins, he had thought that he might finally know what peace was like. But, the moment he had let his guard down, Talendil had marched on the mines and brought them to the brink of war again. Would it ever end? Would there ever come a time when he felt he could step down, turn Mirkwood over to his heir? No, he would not leave his son a war-ravaged land to piece back together. Legolas deserved better than that.
"Legolas is all right? You looked at him?" Thranduil called.
Myallore stepped softly into the washroom, studying Thranduil from the doorway. He was slumped forward, his hands braced on either side of the sink and the thick muscles of his back flexed. The lantern light shone on the dark golden hair tossed carelessly over one shoulder.
"Yes. Moraelin did well. If it wasn't for her, he may have died."
"If it wasn't for Moraelin, he never would have been injured in the first place," Thranduil growled.
Myallore sighed. "Don't you think it's time you start showing Moraelin a little respect? She's here to help you."
Thranduil straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not turn to her, he just let the silence stretch out between them. She was right, Eru's sake, she was usually right. But, Thranduil was just so blasted angry, he needed to unleash it on someone. Moraelin, a dwarf, created the most likely target. The person he really desired to turn his ire on was Talendil, but the elf had conveniently gotten himself captured. That foolish, arrogant boy, how could he..."
Myallore gripped the sides of Thranduil's arms and turned him. He faced her, towering above the she-elf in the blue and orange shadows of the darkened room. She lifted her hands to his neck, rubbing her thumbs along the surprisingly soft skin of his throat. He could not resist a slight shudder that tickled up his spine.
"It makes me so happy to see her," Myallore whispered with a tiny smile. To her delight, Thranduil blinked quickly, his eyes saturated with sudden guilt. "You conniving woman. You know just what to say to make me feel terrible."
Myallore's grin grew to a beaming smile, lighting her delicate face like a flash of dawn over a glassy lake. "I have learned a few things in all these years with you."
Thranduil's hands came to rest lightly on her back, his eyes finally unclouded by anger or worry. "I have not seen you so happy in a very long time, my love. For that, I suppose I must give Moraelin credit."
He pulled Myallore into his arms, his face twisted almost in pain. It was like this for him sometimes. He loved Myallore so much that he couldn't breathe, his chest constricted like a metal band tightening around him. He drew in a shaking breath and rested his chin on the top of her head. He may have gained a reputation as a stern, unflinching ruler, but his one weakness was Myallore. Against all other powers of Middle Earth, he stood proud, never backing down. But, Myallore, with no more than a glance, a certain tilt of her head, could make him feel anything she wanted. Only Myallore had entered the deepest parts of his guarded heart and now held a power over him such as he had never allowed any other.
Not that he had intended to hand over control of his heart to the smiling maiden the first night he met her at the Spring Festival, all those years ago. She had sort of burrowed into his soul, much as she was burrowing deeper into his embrace now. He smiled affectionately and reached down to lift her easily into his arms. He carried her to their bed as she tucked her head against his chest in contentment and trust.
"You are a good elf, Thranduil," she murmured, her warm breath feathering along his collarbone.
He froze at the edge of the bed, and frowning, said, "I never knew I gave you reason to doubt that. Why do you tell me this?"
Myallore's luminous eyes lifted to his. "I know it is true. I always have. But, you do not. I see the doubt, the uncertainty in your eyes. You need to be told. Every day."
Thranduil gritted his teeth. That uncomfortable tightening had squeezed the breath from his chest again. After all this time, he marveled to know that she could still affect him so.
"Thank you," he whispered. He kissed her, his lips warm as they moved slowly over hers. He laid her on their bed then so that he might thank her properly.
