A/N
This is getting too long and I just cant get the structure to something that satisfys me, so I'll go with this and apologise for the self indulgence if it adds nothing to the story.
In the Halls of the Elvenking – first impressions
The palace of the Elvenking was indeed a stronghold, or perhaps it was more that it was a stronghold that was also a palace. Whichever way the visitor chose to see it there was no denying that there was more grandeur to it than Elrond had expected.
Judging by the way his travelling companions clustered together staring around them with wide, shocked eyes, that feeling was shared by all of his party. Elrond had noticed that there had been no word from any of them since the king had appeared, something that caused him gratitude and unease in equal measure. In truth he was caught unaware by the degree of their surprise, indeed by his own surprise, and he wondered fleetingly what they, or even he, had expected. Had they looked to meet some homespun robed woodsman who ruled his lands from a rabbit hole? Had they thought that the Sylvan elves took shelter from the evil in the great forest in some form of foxes den? Perhaps they had, if they had thought about it at all.
But what, then, had he expected? He wasn't sure but he did know that he was taken aback by the nature of this palace and that his surprise grew the further into it they went. He frowned slightly at the thought; had even he, descended though he was from the line of Dior, been swayed by the stories of the Woodland Realm, foolish though he had always known them to be? How could that have happened when he had fought beside the king and knew his Sylvan people's kinship to the people of his wife's father? Yet he had to admit, to his shame, that his current astonishment betrayed that some part of the common prejudice had indeed insinuated itself into his mind.
He felt a sinking in his stomach at the sudden insight realising that he would need to be more on his guard than he had anticipated if he was to avoid rupturing what little trust there was between Thranduil and himself.
Looking around him the sense of wonder deepened. Above them, where the slopes of the great hill were steep and impossible for an enemy to clamber, vents had been cut between the trees that collected light and fed it down to the lower levels where it was scattered by great crystal lenses mounted on plinths shaped like giant flower stalks, their petals made from precious and semi precious stones. Living vines wrapped many of these plinths, their tendrils adding to the sense of life and light brought by the scattered rays.
He halted for a moment as a brightly coloured moth flitted past his nose. Life teemed here, small plants spread through many a crack where stone met stone; and it seemed to him that the joints had been left imperfect so that they might do. Fireflies drifted in clouds above the soaring paths and dragon flies danced across the surface of the water beside and below them. The air itself seemed alive, wafting lazily around them like a soft summer breeze that brought with it a faint scent whose origins he could not guess. Gems glittered in the walls and on the arches that topped the graceful pillars lining the walkways, scattering the light of many torches and lamps and setting small stars to blaze against the polished stone beneath their feet. For a moment he wondered what the party of dwarfs led by Thorin Oakenshield had made of such workmanship, all of it created by elves
He moved forward again, swiftly catching up with his travelling companions, not a difficult thing when they still moved slowly and stared around them in silence. Elrond smiled as he caught Estel's wide eyed look, the youth stood mesmerized by the water fall that cascaded, as if living art, down the nearest wall and through the vault below them. He halted again beside his ward, letting his eyes wander, taking in the carving on the stone pillars and archways, strong yet delicate chasing that rendered them as close to roots and trees as stone could be. He suppressed the urge to reach out and touch them but the desire must have been written in his face for their closest guide cast him a curious look. He returned it with a faint smile and followed the other elf as he tuned and resumed his pursuit of the king.
Each turn, each sweep of the paths brought some new surprise, a tree coaxed into living in a narrow shaft of brilliant light, a carved wooden screen of intricate and beautiful detail, a wall polished to show the reflection of a votive lamp set below a statue of Elbereth. There was no denying the power and beauty of the place, and as they crossed another soaring walkway the thought came to him that the inspiration for this must have come from the king himself, for no Sylvan would think of building in stone or below ground, nor in such a manner. But Thranduil's Sylvan elves, rustic though they may once have been, had managed something extraordinary here, something that, while very different to Lindon, Menegroth or Gondolin was, in it way, every bit as remarkable. More so perhaps when taken beside the age within which it was built. Maybe these halls explained why the elves of the darkening forest were so content, for amid the wonder and beauty there was a sense of strength and safety that even he, a stranger, could feel.
They had known that Thranduil had delved his Halls from a cave complex, much as Mengroth had been in the First Age, but he had not expected that it would be so large or so beautiful. Menegroth it could never be, the days of such places, of such magnificence, had passed, but Thranduil's preoccupation with the matters of his Realm since he had moved north was much easier to understand having seen this palace. Elrond smiled ruefully; though this palace of the Elvenking might not be the equal of Mengroth he could not deny that it was the greatest Elven work in stone of the age. A work that was somehow living, of the forest and stars, and of the music, one that was not hidden behind mountain peaks or rings of power; a work that showed every sign of being of this age as well of past ages. A work that was in harmony with the wood it sprang from and the elves that lived here. Without the help of dwarfs, and Elrond knew there had been none, and with so few Sindar lords surviving, creating this must have been an all consuming effort.
He closed his eyes concentrating on the warm and wholesome nature of the gentle breezes that brushed his face; to call this a cave was akin to calling Bilbo's home a hole. Elrond had always wondered how Thranduil and his people could bear to live beneath the great hill, but seeing this he was no longer surprised at all. Imladris was beautiful and his house was a wonder of peace and gentle comfort but considered as works of mind and heart the two could not be compared.
Yet they had never wondered about it and in all the time of its creation none from Imladris had visited; nor had they before this day. Something that made his current plans more difficult given that the reasons for that separation did not lie at Thranduil's door. Not for the first time on this journey Elrond let his mind wander to the past.
It had not been in these Halls that he had seen Thranduil crowned after the Last Alliance, but much further south in Emyn Duir. The third age had barely begun then and Isildur still lived, that much he could recall, but the details of that visit seemed to elude him and he could not remember if Thranduil had already planned to move north, nor remember what that more southerly palace had looked like. Was it his own grief of the time that shadowed his memory? Gil-galad lost and many of his Lords too, the friends dead on the blasted slopes of Mordor and the countless comrades taking ship to find peace in the Undying Lands? There had been much pain amongst the joy of that time for the great Elven realms of his childhood were laid low or gone and he had his first sense that the time of elves might well be passing. He hoped that was why he could remember so little of that the event, not, as it might be construed, that the visit had been of no importance to him.
Not that the new Elvenking had showed any desire for their company or goodwill. Thranduil had been hard pushed then, grief for the loss of his father, the devastation of his people and the weight of the crown rendering him cool and distant. Elrond had realised long ago that the new king had been left with little other choice if he was to preserve the dignity of his people and his crown, for there had been precious little consideration given to his loss or to that of his Realm. He sighed at the thought, it grieved him to recall his own neglect in the matter, they had been comrades in adversity yet all he had wished for then was to be gone from the newly crowned king's company. Thranduil had set the precedent of reserve out of grief and necessity and he and the other Elven Lords of Imladris and Lothlorien had accepted it with gratitude and in doing so fixed the pattern of their relationship for the intervening centuries.
Looking back Elrond realised just how grateful for that distance he and the other remaining elf lords had been. Each of them had their own nightmares to endure at that time, their own grief to survive, and whilst they wished the new king well they had neither the will nor the interest to offer him help in any form. It was an uncomfortable truth that few of those who lived in the quiet and protected peace of Imladris wished to admit the price the people of Greenwood had paid for the battles before the gates of Mordor. Nor had they wanted to believe that those battles were being continued in the depths of Greenwood.
Elrond knew that he of all of them should have looked beyond that dignified composure, after all it was he who, as the High Kings Herald, had carried Gil-galad's regrets at Oropher's death the evening after the fatal charge and he had seen the son's anguish first hand. Yet it had been all too easy to put that memory aside even as he had stood and watched the fathers crown placed upon the son's head.
So they had been content to leave the Sindar king to his Sylvan lot, perhaps too many of them ready to share a joke at his expense for that made it easier to dismiss the stories of the creeping shadow as his imagination. What communication there had been between the two Realms, other than the king's occasional attendance at the White Council, had been restricted to letters and words passed by Mithrandir as he moved between east and west. Yet there had been no true severing of ties then and in the early years of his kingship Thranduil had written often the growing darkness and the difficulties they faced in holding it back given their diminished numbers. Had he asked for help? Elrond found that he could not truly recall, but eventually, perhaps despairing of any help being offered, Thranduil had moved north. Abandoning the mountains to the south he had come here and fixed his borders between the Old Forest Road and the slopes of the Lonely Mountain. When the Elvenking had ceased attending the Council even the letters had dwindled, though they had continued.
Now, watching that king striding ahead of them, the lord of the largest Elven realm remaining, he could own that a gesture of compassion, of understanding, then might have changed many things, for the relations between the two Realms had never truly recovered. Just as they should have listened with more attention, more patience, when he had told them that the shadow at Dol Guldor was the enemy returned. He was suddenly filled with regret for their actions of that time, for it now seemed like neglect. Suddenly his current intention, his hopes of help, seemed an unthinkable intrusion he had no right to request, and he was filled with a certainty that he would be refused and with a scorn he would more than deserve
With a jolt he pulled his mind from the past, what was done could not be changed and no words now would repair any damage that might have been done in the past. But Thranduil had been a king now for nearly three millennia, longer than most of those Elf kings who had gone before, if anyone would understand his concerns it would be the Elvenking. What was less certain was how sympathetic to them he would be. Elrond sighed it might be that if he was gain his objective he would need to share more of his worry than he had first thought to.
He lengthened his stride hurrying his pace a little and indicating to his companions that they should do the same for the king's party was starting to move well ahead of them and he did not wish for the embarrassment of losing sight of their host.
But perhaps Thranduil knew for he halted and turned, waiting for them to come closer. He smiled softly as they advanced; he spoke directly to Elrond, ignoring his companions.\
"Is it as you expected my lord? I have heard that many in your house find it… strange… that elves are content to shelter beneath ground, however great their peril. I believe that many expressed a similar opinion of King Thingol's city. "
The hesitation on the word strange was intended Elrond realised and understood that Thranduil was giving him fair warning that he knew of the gossip and rumour about his people that was spread so gleefully by some. Reminding him of Mengroth and all that stood for too. He swallowed a sudden sense of foreboding and smiled.
"It shames me to say no, for I did not think it could be so large or so beautiful. Not when it was built at a time of such pain and with the shadow advancing."
Thranduil seemed to think on that for a moment, then he inclined his head a little and his expression seemed sad.
"There was much grief at that time, our losses were great and the shadow was growing stronger with every passing season; perhaps hearts and minds were so heavily weighted that the search for beauty was all that made it to bearable."
Elrond nodded his expression sombre.
"It is true that it was a time of great loss for all and for you personally. A hard time to have to take up a crown you would no doubt have wished to remain on your living father's head. I must confess myself astonished that you and your people managed so much when you were so hard pressed from many sides."
Thranduil's expression had closed at the mention of his father and Elrond wondered if he had erred in his expression of sympathy, late as it was, for the king's voice was honey over ice as he replied with the smallest inclination of his head.
"We had no choice, and though my people may not be as skilled as the Noldar in the cutting of gems or the writing of Lore or composing great song they are most inventive and industrious in all other matters. You should not believe all that Thorin, or any other of his kind, might say upon the matter."
There was little that could be offered as reply to that, at least not at this time, for there was the hint of steel in the soft voice and Elrond had no doubt that the remark was another warning of the king's knowledge of the slighting gossip about his Realm. He contented himself with a smile and a bow and said nothing more. Thranduil seemed to have expected no other response for he had already turned and continued his progress towards the reception rooms.
They followed the king over soaring walkways each one lit by red lamps that seemed to brighten as they passed and Elrond found himself wondering again at the skills of the wood elves that created this structure and held it against the darkness. More than this he wondered just who, and what, the king before him had become since they last met, for the magic that guarded those doors was no party trick, nor was the surge and ebbing of the torches as they passed. More than that the sense of light that surrounded the king went beyond the natural glow of an elf, even one with several thousand years of life to call upon.
He forced his mind back in time again, trying to recall if Gil-galad had carried the same aura but found that he could not be sure. As for his foster fathers, their light had been dim and shattered but he had long ago accepted that nothing of them was as it should have been. The oath they had sworn to their father, and their refusal to give it up no matter what black deeds it led them to, had twisted them, and he had known it even as they loved and protected him.
Glorfindel's aura was different, as one twice born he lived on both sides of the Sundering Sea at once and the clear brilliance of his light reflected that. But though Thranduil's aura was different to that of Glorfindel it was no less marked and both carried a sense of power about them too, something that was in some way separate to their light. Elrond dropped his hand to rub the finger where the ring usually sat, he knew his own light to be strong despite the strain of mortal blood within him, but how much of the sense of power others saw in him was related to the ring he wore he could not be sure. Perhaps here in this place, without that ring, he would discover the answer to that.
Yet Thranduil held no ring, so what was the source of that power he sensed? Was it simply the result of the centuries of ruling a people at war? Yet it could not be just that for from where came the power that that controlled the gates to the stronghold, or, now he came to think of it, that enchanted the river?
He looked at the figure he followed with narrowed eyes as if seeing it for the first time. He has lived too long to be taken in by an illusion, and now he wondered if that was what he was being shown. The tall and elegant figure of the Elvenking could easily be mistaken for one who had always known ease if you nothing more of him, the beautiful robes concealed the strength of the body they clothed, the fair face gave no hint of the quick and steely mind and the determination that lived behind it. Little of what was displayed betrayed what was truly there and Elrond did not think that was by chance.
What other secrets did Thranduil keep?
