Maybe with a lot of goodwill, Elrond could accept it that beings known to him for literally an eternity came racing into his valley at a fierce gallop, gave their horse to one of his sons without a hello as if he was a stable hand, and then vanished towards his palace cellar without even coming to see Elrond first. But after a few hours of stay at the latest, he actually expected enough decency from a maia to name at least the reason why he was sieging his library. When Mithrandir was still not showing his face after almost a day but, on the contrary, chased away every visitor who tried to approach him with questions, requests, or even just something to eat, Elrond's patience was at an end.
Actually, since his sons were managing the library, Elrond didn't really like entering these halls himself. The question of how all of these works should find their way into the west at some point without complete chaos ensuing had him regularly startle back from pulling up his stakes too quickly when planning his journey in detail. Just like the question if Elladan and Elrohir were indeed already mature enough to replace him as leaders of this valley ever until it would finally be emptied of the last residents dwelling on Middle-earth. Given how quickly the two of them had managed to turn the library into a messy ruin, the minute Erestor was gone for a few months, he had to doubt it.
The shelves on the walls, once organized in detail, and the smaller ones diagonally displaced throughout the huge hall were partly empty. Books were stacked up everywhere on the floor. What had once been classified by all kinds of criteria in here could now probably only be told apart with much patience. Given that sight, Elrond wasn't surprised at all that Mithrandir didn't make any progress with whatever he was doing here.
Or maybe that was also due to hardly any of the huge chandeliers on the ceiling being lit and the hall being fogged by spicy pipe smoke on top of that. "I hope you're aware that smoking destroys the parchment you're so lovingly tearing almost to pieces there with every flip of the page there." He approached the table where the maia seemed to study a whole pile of works at the same time.
He had to take a step back when Mithrandir hurried past him to get to another shelf. "Besides, the smoke has nowhere to go here since there are no windows."
"Tell me, how old do I have to get before you won't manage to sneak up on me anymore?" Mithrandir paused only for a second to gift him with an absentminded smile before going back to nibbling on the stem of his pipe and tracing dusty book spines with his fingertips. "It was somewhere around here, I know it …"
"I know, an old dog learns hard but asking someone would help you. You're not the only one who knows this library well. If you weren't trying to do everything on your own once again …"
"This is about something that can never go public." Sighing heavily, Mithrandir dropped onto the armchair again and put his pipe aside for the moment to stroke his long white beard which left clear traces of dirt there.
"Ever since weapons have been invented, terrible wars have been fought both on this world and in Valinor; you don't need me to tell you that. Blades can be stopped though; even against a catapult, building a thick wall will help. It's the invisible dangers that often decide a battle."
Shaking his head, Elrond eyed the books on the shelf that Mithrandir had just scanned. "I know wizards like to talk in riddles but I've been dwelling in these realms for too long to still feel the appeal of solving them. You're looking for the means to dull an enemy's senses or to kill them? I will have to disappoint you, old friend. In the shelves available to the public, you won't find anything about poison or other warcraft not describing our ancestor's heroic deeds with their swords."
"Right now, unfortunately, it's not only some herbal mixtures posing threats that the eye doesn't realize at first sight." Mithrandir leaned forward a little and looked him questioningly in the face. "This elf who's suddenly serving the enemy. Where does he come from originally?"
"The details of Erestor's roots are unknown to me," Elrond admitted hesitatingly. "Glorfindel has already carried him out of the burning Gondolin when he'd only just come of age. In spite of all the chaos that day, Glorfindel took some time to dig him out of the same rubble that killed his parents and his brother. The two of them were always very close, and that was enough reason to trust him."
"And in your judgment I trust. That's why I'm here." Mithrandir leaned back again.
"A child of Gondolin always has their reasons for everything they're doing and would never betray easily, that's right. Still, the enemies of Gondor of all people have been equipped for quite a while now with means that are reserved for Firstborn only, and there are not a lot of ways they could have gained them. I'm not as skilled in this art as you are, but one thing I do know: While every man with calm hands can easily create a concoction that can numb or kill, like the one that has been meant for the King of Men and his wife not too long ago … There are also mixtures that have influence only on the mind. Given how dangerous such formulas are, only a few of them have ever been put into writing for exactly that reason. I only know one book of this kind. One that has been given to you after the war at the end of the last Age, so that it would be kept safe in these halls. Maybe there are more of these disastrous records in the halls of Lórien or Eryn Lasgalen, but my path took me here first."
"Why? Because you're seriously suspecting that Erestor has disclosed such harmful knowledge, for whatever reason? I hope you realize how heavy the accusations are that you are making here. So far, Erestor was able to explain each of his decisions of the last few months, no matter how dubious they might have been. He would never have gone this far. Even though a few of these poisons would be suited to make weak-minded men talk without having to use violence, that would never justify the rest of these pages falling into the wrong hands, and Erestor knows that. He may have chosen the wrong way to reach his goal several times, but he was always loyal to me and my cause, in every possible situation. He wouldn't dare to remove such a threatening relic from these halls."
In spite of all the conviction he had spoken these words with, Elrond reluctantly went to a small adjacent room and signaled the maia to follow him. "A look behind doors that are always locked will help to clear up doubts though." He got out a silver key from under his robe and opened the smallest cabinet, secured with the strongest lock, for the first time in centuries … only to close his eyes in pain and disappointment when he spotted a gap in the tightly stacked row of books.
So it was true. Until a few seconds ago, he had still been able to fool himself. Now he suddenly had to wonder if he'd ever really known this elf. No matter what methods and threats these people had used to apparently get Erestor to give them this work, he had made what was probably the most fatal decision of his life by doing it, and he might not even know it.
It had been long since Elrond had felt at least as old his body, by elvish standards, had started to look like a few decades ago.
Mithrandir braced himself heavily on the open door. "So your foster son and your daughter are indeed dealing with even more betrayal and blindness than we thought. Lord, I need the help of you and your sons, so I can go back to Gondor better prepared this time. In the meantime, bring me a carrier pigeon that can find its way to Cair Andros. It's about high time, the elves there learn that one of their kin has given the enemy something that could deal a death blow to the new peace at last. We can no longer go easy on Erestor's reputation."
"Estel and Arwen need to be warned as well before even more happens. Come." With his lips firmly pressed together, Elrond hurried out of the library, going upstairs.
Not only these two messages had to be sent as quickly as possible; he also had to gather some of his most capable healers who had once studied this book and who hopefully still remembered the manufacturing of certain antidotes.
There was not a second to lose.
"Get up, milady! The day has long begun! And what a beautiful day it is! Shall we go for a ride? We could collect berries. They're in full bloom! I'll tell the groom …"
The handmaiden interrupted herself in surprise when she had opened the bedroom shutters wide and found the bed rumpled and empty. "Milady?" She came to stand in front of the big armchair in the corner that her Lady was sitting in with her knees drawn to her chest, in a wrinkled old nightgown, and with messy hair. "Did you not sleep again?"
"I had a dream." Éowyn sounded as if she didn't even really know Viwin was there. As if she was talking to herself. "In this dream, all of our soldiers belonged to the Stewardaides. They surrounded Faramir …" Her voice broke, she quickly hid her face against her legs. "I wanted to run to him, but I couldn't move. I saw their arrows in the moonlight. They shot six times …"
"It was only a dream, milady." Viwin knelt down in front of her and stroked her stringy curls. "Come on, get dressed. We'll go for a ride. I'm sure you'll feel better then."
"I don't want to. It's too hot." Automatically, Éowyn reached for the tea that Viwin was handing her, the only thing that she really still liked having lately. "I want to see Faramir."
"But milady, he's not here," Viwin reminded her shyly. "He rode out, with the soldiers, don't you remember? They wanted to show him something."
"Oh, yes. Right." Éowyn looked down into her cup absent-mindedly and then hurled it away so suddenly, against the next wall, that her handmaiden startled back. "What's the point of all this?"
"I don't know what you mean." Viwin hurried to collect the shards, but the dark stains on the golden painted brickwork wouldn't go away so easily, she could already see that.
"I'm talking about me!" Éowyn got up angrily but fell back onto her chair almost immediately again, covering her face with her hands as she started to sob. "Just look at me! What have I become? No wonder Faramir doesn't pay attention to me. Everything's become unimportant, the trees, the birds, even the horses. People are laughing at me. They point their fingers at me. They hate Rohan and they hate me. I hate myself."
"But that's not true, milady." Viwin grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up, shoving her to the mirror in spite of her protest. "You are young and you are so unbelievably beautiful! Just take a look! Such a proud, brave face! People will still be talking about your deeds in the war decades from now."
"I'm a scarecrow." Shuddering, Éowyn turned away. "Food has lost every taste for me, and at night I lie awake with nightmares. How can I ask it of my husband that he even looks at me anymore?"
"It's only because of this whole stupid situation, believe me. How could your husband not want you? He only has to solve these problems with the elves, then he'll be there for you again, I'm sure. I really think it wrong that his hands are being tied so much. The King should support him far more."
"The King has someone else to take care of." It escaped Éowyn's lips before she could control herself. Immediately she bit her lip, visibly ashamed about this thought that contained more than just a trace of envy. "I mean …"
"I know." Viwin soothingly caressed her cheek that was hot from crying. "I understand you very well. You need someone who treats you the way you deserve. Like a Princess …" A dreamy smile curled on her lips when she indulged in the same dreams her Lady had for a moment. "Like a Queen …"
Éowyn shook herself and stepped back as if she wanted to free herself from these blasphemous thoughts, but the look of unfulfilled yearning in her eyes remained. "I want to be alone now."
Viwin lowered her head most humbly and did as she was told.
"Is she doing worse again?" Outside the chambers, one of the soldiers was already waiting for her curiously, who was stationed inside the palace to make out dangers for the royals in their own ranks early enough. "Maybe someone should talk to the Steward." It didn't sound like a serious suggestion, more as if the wedded couple's precarious situation was amusing the soldier. Nothing was as entertaining as the private problems of people who had dedicated themselves to the public.
"Others will do that for us." Viwin let one of the shards slip through her fingers with a satisfied grin. "What do you think they will find if they go look at what the elves are up to this time?"
"One can only guess." The soldier put down the shield of his dark grey uniform on the floor noisily and braced himself on it comfortably. "I better watch out for our Lady if she's losing her nerves so quickly right now. Who knows how she'll cope with the newest drama?"
"Don't open the door, or she might hurl something at your head." With a cheeky wink towards the young man, Viwin sauntered to the kitchen to brew some more tea. After all, one should never neglect their duties.
"Do I need to follow you all the way to Eryn Lasgalen before you stop ignoring me, Your Majesty? Do you want your marchwardens to take me prisoner, is that it?" After Tarisilya had somehow found Thranduil's trace again for the third time, she just addressed him so loudly that he had no choice but to turn around to her.
"Not this time." She had an idea what he was about to tell her and she raised her hand. "Until you actually start treating me accordingly, I'd rather not address you as my father-in-law but as the Negotiator, I've come to you as."
"You shouldn't be out here alone, Ilya." Thranduil looked up at the sky impatiently, at the position of the sun. "Establishing new borders is not as easy as Men and the Galadhrim like to pretend it is. There's much to do, too much for dispensable debates. If you want to come with me, pack your things. But forgive me for not wanting to have to deal with the Lórien's notorious unwanted meddling on top of everything."
"You know exactly why I'm here!" Clinging to the last of her composure, Tarisilya dismounted and approached him.
"To have your child in the protection of the elven realms. Given how things are looking with these barbarians in Gondor right now, a wise decision. And just like the Galadhrim, I am here for the two of you. I thought I had already proven that." Consciously or not, with just a few gestures – his arms firmly crossed, leaning back heavily against a broad beech trunk, its shadow no longer allowing a clear look at his face –, Thranduil managed to create so much distance that even as a family member, you felt like an audience attendee with an annoying request.
Tarisilya understood better and better why it was sometimes so impossible to have a discussion with Legolas. "I am very grateful that you saved me from the Dunlendings. You know that. But that's not what this is about." The memory of that fear she'd only just gone through had Tarisilya's voice tremble and made her forget all these nice words that she had prepared for this conversation.
So much could have happened … And all of that for what? For a husband who didn't even give her an answer to her letters anymore, probably because she had finally cut him properly down to size for once at their last meeting. And for his equally stubborn father who had only had a snort to spare for the protective gesture of her hand on her belly.
"Then everything's alright, isn't it? You're safe from misguided Men now. Try to accept that as quickly as possible, then you'll sleep better. Someone who lives in the past, has no future, Ilya. You two are doing fine, where's the problem?" Thranduil took another moment, an especially long one, to check the time. The result wasn't much more satisfying than before.
"You know where to find me if you get too bored with the Galadhrim at some point."
He almost would have used the moment of her little weakness to retreat into the undergrowth, but Tarisilya got in his way just in time. "Stop! I'm none of the Men that you trick in negotiations regularly. Do you think I don't know why you dropped me off in East Lórien? Is it really so inconvenient to think about your family for a few minutes for a change?"
"You go too far." Feigned annoyance darkened Thranduil's eyes – Legolas' big ocean blue eyes that didn't turn to Tarisilya even a single time –, a mechanism that she knew only too well from her husband. Thranduil and his son were both warriors of defense from a distance. When directly attacked, they only knew how to answer by a flight forward. "I've been more than generous, given my son didn't even personally inform me about your condition. I'm taking care of you, that's all I'm being responsible for."
"You can't be serious." Tarisilya started to feel dizzy, her cheeks lost more and more color. "Legolas needs you! He might be getting himself killed out there right now!"
"By now, that is sadly something like a family tradition in my house. My son is more than old enough to know what he's doing." Instead of reacting to the plea, Thranduil only showed an even more impenetrable expression. These harmonious features that had once had to be very similar to Legolas' had seen too many millennia of suffering, for a few words of a pretty she-elf to make them lose their withdrawnness. Since the wedding in Imladris, there were a few thin lines around the corners of his mouth more. It almost seemed as if this actually joyful event back then had done more damage than good. Nothing could be seen of that better relationship between father and son anymore.
"Though I'm not boasting it as much as Elrond does: My home is one of the few last places on Middle-earth to retreat to. Use that offer anytime, I mean it." While Tarisilya was still staring at Thranduil in complete bewilderment, he lived up to his reputation of being able to make himself completely invisible on his land within seconds. Where he'd just been standing right before her, just a second later, his pale skin color, even the gold blond hair under his hood had blurred with his camouflage and become one with the leaves of the trees.
And together with Thranduil's company, Tarisilya's hope for her husband went up in smoke.
There had been a time when nothing going on in his palace had been a secret to Thranduil, nothing at all. Not any of the numerous messengers daily coming and going, not one of the attempts of people breaking in that his guards were fighting off. And not the youngest offspring of his line once more trying to sneak past his chambers to get to his own unseen, for example after meeting with a she-elf of a hostile realm that he was being so much head over heels for that it was showing by the tip of his ears. In the past, the underground built rooms with their silence and their shrill echoes had never allowed the ears of an elf to find rest, especially not when you were used to defending your home from evil.
All of that had started changing when many of the servants and residents of this palace had been drawn west. The beings that were now scurrying through halls lit by stalactites, torches, and sometimes strange ghostly lights didn't mean to threaten the King anymore or – even worse – steal his time over an extremely disposable matter but were most of the time only hunting for food. The halls of the Woodland Elves were dying. Part of the woods did now belong to the Galadhrim and to Men. Those of Thranduil's people who were still loyal to the realm and who would maybe never sail but preferred the distant fate of fading could make up less by the day for the call of the sea getting constantly louder for the others.
It should have hurt him but if you had feared such a scenario for millennia and expected it to come true throughout two wars, there was only relief at some point when it finally happened. Holding a fortress like this, far from the daylight, you'd long started to feel yourself like one of those damn spiders out there anyway who'd already almost killed you once. In moments like this, Thranduil allowed himself at least fleetingly to reflect on some kind of plan, when and in what form he himself would ever find his way to a place where at least the vague hope existed, that he could replace this emptiness of defeat in his own heart with the comfort of seeing long-lost family members again.
When he came back from East Lórien after this nerve-racking day, he wished, not for the first time, that this beast on eight legs would just have bitten his head off back then. It wasn't devoid of a certain irony that, unlike the thing that was called life in Eryn Lasgalen right now, that would have been an honorable exit. And maybe, regardless of his reluctance to whatever might be going on there in the west, then he might already have been living with someone again by now who would have given all of this a new meaning.
Since there was nothing left in this world and in his own home deserving his undivided attention in any case, the King didn't care much anymore for noise reaching his ears when he made his way past his endlessly babbling advisors to his chambers. Once again wondering if he could ever get old enough for these people to understand that he wasn't available once the moon had risen. Which was why he only realized upon arrival in his bedroom that something was different. The wine was missing.
Frowning, he turned to his chief advisor. This elf had already served him when his son had still needed diapers, and he still didn't know that you didn't anger a King?
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," the elf sighed. "In the archery hall. He said immediately."
Thranduil sent the other advisors away with a dismissive nod and snapped his fingers towards the page waiting for his orders in the doorway. At least someone who still knew his place. "White and gold."
The young elf started to rummage in the cabinet with flying fingers immediately. He hadn't quite mastered the skill of his father yet who was one of those people that had departed for Valinor already, but in his two hundred years, he had seen his King often enough to know his preferences.
"Should we have sent the Lord away?" Thranduil's blank expression confused his advisor visibly. "I thought, now that you two …"
"Are you getting paid for thinking or for stocking the supplies in time?" The King had finally gotten rid of the last layer of these ordinary clothes he'd had to deal with for far too long because no one else had been capable of taking care of a few misguided men; with his arms stretched to the side, he allowed the servant to put the selected robe on him.
"In my palace, you don't walk in and out like in a tavern. But seeing as the damage is done – make sure we're not being disturbed. And send a message to the Rohirrim that they need to get their prisoners. Their stench is polluting the dungeons."
With that, the advisor had actually been dismissed, but he made no move to leave; instead, he watched silently as the servant turned the wreck that the traveling had turned the King's hair into, into something presentable and braided a few strands with thin chains.
"It was our people who caught these Dunlendings, wasn't it? Why shall we leave their fate to the Rohirrim? They're responsible for the cruel death of six elves. They should be brought to justice here and now."
The other elf startled back a bit when Thranduil jumped up before the last jewel was even in place, approaching him with his back tense and his jaw thrust forward. "If your ears have suffered so badly from too much noise in the war that you can't understand my orders anymore, you should maybe live out your life in peace in the west like so many others."
"Yes, Your Majesty. I mean, no, Your Majesty …"
The elf was still busy stuttering nonsense when Thranduil left his chambers through the heavy, dark curtains at the entrance to get rid of the next unwanted nightly visitor.
"If you wanted to scare your servants, you could just have sent them on a spider hunt." Celeborn was waiting for Thranduil at one of the firing ranges, with an ancient bow in one hand and Thranduil's favorite wine carafe in the other. "You need a new target disc, by the way."
"Why train when there's nothing left to shoot?" Thranduil took the wine from him in annoyance and emptied the last of it with a big sip. "Isn't it amazing that elves with the worst hospitality make the biggest demands? Do you know how much it costs to craft this stuff? How do you always get in here anyway?"
"I'm one of the former Sindar of Doriath, just like you, remember?"
"Oh, so you do remember that." Apparently, having enough alcohol in your stomach drowned certain initial anger. Still pouting but at least not that irritated anymore, Thranduil sat down opposite him at a table with supplies. "Sometimes you make me think you erased that from your history after defecting to the enemy and marrying that finwëan Noldo witch."
Celeborn got up with a jerk. He hadn't come here to let himself or his family be insulted. "I thought we were past that."
"That was last year." Thranduil stayed seated and crossed his legs calmly, eyeing Celeborn closely for the first time. "Now we're right back to that point where you two interfere with the matters of realms that are none of your business, and thousands of years too late no less. The point where you question each of my decisions if your wife doesn't like them. Or did you really only come here for a mug of wine?"
"You're going to have to decide who it is you're angry with, Oropherion." Celeborn braced his fists heavily on the table. "With Galadriel for helping provide Legolas with the independence you always denied him? With me, because I didn't stop her – or because it's only now that I'm trying to? Or with Legolas because he's helpless in a situation that you didn't prepare him for?"
Only upon a very close look that was made so hard by the hall's weak candlelight, an honest stir in Thranduil's eyes was revealed. Celeborn had last seen this shadow when the two of them had mourned Legolas' mother. The pained expression was there only for a few seconds before the facade of stubborn disinterest came back that was almost legendary for many inhabitants of these woods since Sauron had entered Dol Guldur back then.
"It was your wife who placed this burden on Legolas. If you are all so certain that he can spark more than a forest fire in Gondor with a few naive followers, you go straighten that out yourselves. Apparently, every one of you knows my son better than me anyway."
"And whose fault is that?" Celeborn turned away in sadness. He should listen to his instinct when it next told him that he was going on a journey in vain.
"Keep on drinking, Oropherion. Life out there doesn't need you to go on. I won't risk something that my wife and I have been fighting for millennia for an overgrown child. Even if you stopped caring about anything else, warn Legolas at least that he's running blindly into Lórien's blade. My people already had to bring you your wife's dying body back then, wasn't that enough?"
"Get out!" For a moment, he was sure that he would have to dodge a blow any second, but Thranduil managed to stop himself from jumping up at the last moment. His voice had turned to bursting ice. His hand was on the dagger under his robe without a doubt that more than one spider in these lands had fallen victim to already. "So it is once more your wife and you courting bloodshed. You would be better advised, watching as idly as you did when Legolas was robbed of his mother."
Where he should have got angry about all of these poisonous passing remarks at that had the reconciliation between the King and Galadriel in Imladris not too long ago feel almost felt like a fever dream, Celeborn felt an unexpected last spark of hope gleam in him. One that would at least have him wait another few weeks before the Galadhrim would have to go to North Ithilien. As long as there was at least that much energy still left in this tired, pale imitation of a once-proud ruler, not everything was lost just yet.
"No, passivity is more your specialty. Don't be too fast in reviving your ridiculous hate for my people. Maybe remember first who it is, raising his sword for an attack here."
But the answer that accompanied Celeborn out into the night of Eryn Lasgalen was only silence.