Chapter 12: Beneath the Skin
Thranduil's shoulder throbbed incessantly but it was only a minor irritation. The pain was nothing. He had known so much more. Túven drew what he could of the poison and without thinking announced that it would cause the wound to scar. Thranduil wanted to laugh, but no sound came. His uncle, realizing what he had said, immediately begged apology for his thoughtlessness. Thranduil waved the apology away with his scarred left hand, for he could not move his right the way it was bandaged.
The poison had hours to invade Thranduil's body on his journey back to Limrond so that by the time Iordor helped him to his room his strength had all but abandoned him. He allowed the illusion to collapse the moment Iordor shut the door. After doing what they could for his injuries, Iordor and his uncle bid him to rest and departed.
Alone at last, Thranduil sat himself in his favorite chair beside the fire and stared into the flames, willing his eyes not to seek out the mirror. It stood beside the dresser, calling to him, demanding that he look. His thoughts screamed to focus on the fire but his eyes eventually betrayed him. The mirror stood at such an angle that he could see only the scarred side of his body. The ruined flesh ran along the left side of his face, down his chest and arm to his hand. It looked no different now from when the burns first healed over.
Thranduil made one more attempt to shield the scars from sight but failed utterly. He was too tired, too weak, and he found it strange, for the mask he wore each day had become second nature over time, so much so that it would have taken effort to bring it down but a few hours ago. Only a handful of times in the last three millennia had he looked upon his true face, and each time it had not been his will to do so. The most recent was the night he was crowned king, when he was finally forced to face his father's death and all that came with it. The pain became momentarily too great to bear and the illusion slipped. It only fell for a few seconds before he regained control. It would take longer this time. He suspected it would be days before he was strong enough to hide again.
Thranduil could not draw his eyes away from his own reflection. In the flickering light of the fire he appeared monstrous and his mind drifted to dark places as he sat staring at himself. His shoulder throbbed. He thought of the scar that would live there and was annoyed that his good side was now also blemished.
His good side.
It shielded Caladhel from the arrow. He wondered what that meant, if it meant anything at all. Did he even have a good side? He had thought so once, but now he was not so sure. There were things he had been sure of. He had been sure of Caladhel, certain she hid some dark intention behind her courtesy and her smile. Her pretty face was just a mask. It had to be. He had been so sure.
Thranduil continued to stare into the mirror as his thoughts recalled every moment from the time Haldor announced Caladhel's arrival until he ordered Iordor to ride with her to safety. He studied every moment, every gesture, every word, every expression on her face. Over and over again for hours he accounted them until he had pulled the memories apart, until there was nothing left.
Beleth arrived with Thranduil's breakfast and found him still seated in his chair staring into the mirror. She laid the tray on the table beside him and caressed his hair.
"You must rest," she said.
"I am resting," he replied.
Beleth sought his eyes in the mirror for he would not look away even when he spoke. "You are staring," she corrected him, "and thinking. That is not resting." She stroked his hair to soothe him. "Your strength will return in a few days and all will be well."
"No," he replied. "I don't think so."
Beleth frowned. "Why do you say that?"
Thranduil exhaled deeply. His left hand rose and caught Beleth's as she ran her fingers over his hair. Her small hand fit inside his and he gave it a gentle squeeze. He remembered when his own hand fit inside his aunt's. It had been so long ago and for such a brief amount of time, but he recalled it vividly, the way her hand enclosed his and how often the gesture had comforted him.
His eyes sought Beleth's in the mirror but only the dead one was reflected in the dim light. "I saw myself when I looked at her."
"What do you mean?"
Thranduil released Beleth's hand and raised his to within an inch of his face. He could not bring himself to touch what remained of his cheek. "When she first arrived to deliver Celeborn's letter I thought she wore a mask and that it hid something dangerous underneath. It was me I was seeing."
Thranduil watched understanding light his aunt's eyes. Sadness followed soon after.
"Thranduil."
He closed his eyes against the emotion he saw in hers. He knew his weakness stirred her pity and he hated feeling weak, but he was so tired… "Leave me, please."
"You need to eat," she said.
"I will."
Beleth did not want to leave her nephew alone in his current state, but she did as he asked. "I will return later."
Thranduil nodded to his aunt and he watched her slip out the door, leaving him once again alone with his thoughts and his reflection.
Beleth returned to Thranduil's chambers shortly before midday. She discovered that despite his earlier promise he had not eaten. His breakfast sat forgotten on the table beside him and when Daerel arrived with their midday meal Beleth traded the cold meal for a hot one. She cut the food into pieces before setting the tray beside him.
"Eat," she commanded.
Thranduil looked at the plate set before him. He felt no hunger. Even the aroma of his favorite meal lovingly prepared did nothing to stir his appetite. "I am not hungry."
Beleth laid her hand on his head and tapped gently. "It does not matter if you are hungry. You know you have to eat. You are wearied enough from the poison and will not help yourself by starving."
Thranduil wished Beleth would stop bothering him, but he could not even will himself to feel annoyed. He was too tired to argue. His habit of disagreeing with his aunt, however, was a difficult one to break. He could not stop himself from offering resistance, albeit halfheartedly.
"Why must you be such a pest?"
Beleth leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "Because I love you."
Thranduil sighed and his attention returned to the tray. His eyes passed over the cut mouthfuls of meat and vegetables and alighted on a small casserole containing baked apples.
"May I start with dessert?"
Beleth smiled at the memory of that same plea spoken by Thranduil as a child. Her answer had always been no, but under the present circumstances, she was willing to alter her refrain. She picked up the fork and slapped it into his left hand.
"If the King will eat, he can begin wherever he desires."
Thranduil did not eat as much as Beleth would have liked, but he had a few mouthfuls of everything before he pushed the plate aside. She removed it and afterwards tended the fire in the hearth. Beleth wanted to light the lamps. She did not think the darkness helped her nephew's mood, but when she made the suggestion, Thranduil refused to allow it.
Beleth went to his dresser and returned to his side a moment later with a brush in her hand. Túven and Iordor had taken great care of their king's injuries, but they had no concern for the state of his hair. As she had done before for Caladhel, Beleth began to slowly work out the knots. She thought he might protest, for she had not brushed his hair since he was a child, but Thranduil said nothing. He closed his eyes and his breathing fell into a slow and steady rhythm. For a time she thought he slept, so when he spoke it surprised her.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Beleth did not respond with words, she merely ran the fingers of her free hand lovingly through his hair and across his scalp before continuing her work with the brush. She worked in silence for a long while, offering her nephew what little comfort she could by her presence and her gentle touch.
Beleth's work was interrupted by a knock on the door. She set the brush down on the table beside Thranduil before answering it. She expected to find her husband on the other side, and so was surprised at whose face greeted her when she opened the door.
"Caladhel."
"Beleth." Caladhel read both surprise and unease in the Lady's expression and worried that she had made a mistake in coming.
"How did you…?" Beleth began, but Caladhel answered her question before she could complete the thought aloud.
"You know how much trouble I can get into if I set my mind to it."
A smile tugged at the corners of Beleth's mouth. "I do, indeed."
Caladhel peered into the dark room beyond the door. "Is he here?"
"Yes, he is," Beleth replied, "but he will not see you now."
Caladhel's hope of setting things right with the King of Greenwood dimmed measurably. "I only wish to thank him, and to apologize."
"Perhaps in a few days," Beleth said, but from the depths of the room a voice said otherwise.
"Let her in."
The King's unexpected intrusion into their conversation startled Caladhel and Beleth both.
Beleth turned and spoke over her shoulder into the darkness. "Thranduil. You don't have to…"
"Let her in," he repeated, "and go."
Caladhel watched the concern in Beleth's eyes deepen. The lines of her face drew into a frown but she stepped aside to allow Caladhel entry. Beleth reached out a hand and gave her arm a squeeze. Caladhel was unable to read the meaning behind the gesture and was given no time to ask for the Lady swiftly departed, shutting the door and leaving her in the dimly lit room with Thranduil.
Caladhel's eyes adjusted quickly. Even so, it was too dark to make out much of the room's details. The only light came from the fire in the hearth to the right of her. She could see the silhouette of the King seated in the chair before it and stepped closer. His right shoulder was bandaged and the arm appeared bound to his chest to prevent movement. The left side of his face was hidden from her sight for he stared into the fire and did not look her way as she approached. He neither greeted nor attacked her, and so Caladhel found herself unsure of how to begin. A traditional 'good day' seemed entirely inappropriate. In the end, the decision of what to say was taken from her hands when Thranduil spoke first.
"You are skilled with a bow."
During her short journey to Thranduil's quarters Caladhel had tried to prepare for all the myriad ways their conversation might begin. None of her imaginings included a compliment from him. She was unsure how to respond, for she felt more off balance now than she had during their first encounter in the throne room.
"Thank you," she replied, extending the conventional courtesy, "though I am more fond of the sword."
"But you are more skilled with a bow."
Caladhel did not know how Thranduil could have come to such a conclusion regarding her abilities having only seen her once with a bow. "How would you know? You never saw me wield either before yesterday."
"I know because if your skill with a blade was greater, you would have waited until you acquired one before you fled."
Caladhel was struck by the utter simplicity of Thranduil's reasoning and it disturbed her that he seemed to know her better than she knew herself. The truth was she had not thought once on how to acquire a sword while planning her escape, she had only sought to procure a bow. There was only one elf Caladhel could blame for that semiconscious decision.
"My father believed the sword to be the most terrible device our people ever created. He did not consider its practice an appropriate pastime for his daughter."
"So you took up archery instead?"
Caladhel shrugged. "A compromise, of sorts," she replied, recalling the argument she and her father had now more than two millennia past. "To spite him, I practiced more often than he liked. I even competed in a few tournaments. He hated it."
"You were a difficult child," he said.
"No more than you, I imagine," Caladhel shot back. There was no malice in the King's tone when he spoke the former, but his statement made Caladhel defensive. Her father had thought her difficult, but for one reason alone. "Had I been born male there would have been no difficulty."
There was a brief pause before Thranduil said, "You would have made a fine son."
The King said this without any hint of mockery and once again Caladhel was unsure how to respond. It was the second compliment he had given her since she walked through the door and it made her uneasy. Their prior interactions were marked by tension and during each one Caladhel felt as if she were one wrong word or step away from danger. In contrast, the ellon she spoke with now sounded weary, defeated, and she wondered briefly if Thranduil's injuries were greater than Haldor let on.
Thranduil was, of course, not the first person to point out what some considered Caladhel's masculine quality. It upset her greatly when she was young, but Galadriel had been a comfort to her niece by pointing out that she, too, was viewed in a similar light. "It is a fate I share with my aunt," Caladhel said at last, "or so she has told me."
At the mention of Galadriel, Caladhel thought she caught a flash of pain in Thranduil's eye. She could not be sure, for she could barely see him in the dim light with the flames casting shadows all around him.
"You told Beleth you came to apologize," he said, changing the subject entirely.
"I did," Caladhel replied. She took a deep breath, and spoke the words she rehearsed in her head before she arrived at his door. "My actions were selfish and born out of my desire to defy you. Many have suffered injury because I could not leash my pride. Your guards did not deserve to pay for my mistake, and neither did you." Caladhel's apology was heartfelt, but not all too easy to offer an ellon who she believed would answer with indignation.
"Or perhaps this is exactly what I deserve."
That was not the response Caladhel had prepared for and she might well have agreed with him a day ago, but not today. She had no qualms about blaming Thranduil for his actions these last few weeks, but if Caladhel would lay his actions at his feet, then she had to take responsibility for hers.
"No…" she began, but was quickly interrupted.
"Do you know what I think?" Thranduil asked, but he did not wait for Caladhel to answer before he continued. "I think I was wrong. I wanted to see darkness beneath the surface of your face, hiding behind your smile. But it was I all along. I am the darkness."
Caladhel shook her head in confusion. "I do not understand."
Caladhel took one more step toward the King and watched him shift uncomfortably in his seat. He continued to stare into the fire and she wondered what held his attention there. She had grown accustomed to his aggressive posturing. The fact that he failed to so much as glance her way was as troubling as his words. Thranduil reclined his head against the chair and closed his eyes. A grimace of pain twisted the lines of his face. He sat in silence for a while, so long that Caladhel thought he had forgotten her.
"They do not trust me, your Ringbearers," he said at last. "They fear I will fall. They feared it during the war with Sauron and now even more that I wear my father's crown. That is why they withheld a ring from my father and offered it to Círdan instead, though Oropher was High King of the Sindar in Middle-earth."
Caladhel did not know what to think of the King's strange declaration. She was not privy to her aunt's thoughts on Thranduil, or to Lord Elrond's, though she had not heard either one speak ill of him. And yet, the surety with which Thranduil spoke these accusations caused Caladhel to wonder what he might know that she did not.
"Why would they not trust you?"
He sighed deeply before turning his gaze upon her for the first time. The firelight lit the far side of his face, kept hidden from her sight before now. It revealed more than Caladhel imagined.
"Because the Shadow corrupts everything it touches."
It took Caladhel no more than a second to master her shock and horror, but she was certain the emotions lingered long enough on her face for the King to see. She approached the chair and moved to stand before the fire so Thranduil did not have to turn to see her. His eyes followed her as she moved across the room. No, only one eye. His left eye was a pale white and she doubted he saw anything with it.
Caladhel knew only a handful of elves who bore physical scars. Their race was strong and most injuries healed and were forgotten with time. She knew of a few who were stabbed or shot with poisoned weapons. The poison caused small scars that remained visible to elven eyes for centuries, though the eyes of men would be unable to detect the imperfections. Most of those scars were easily hidden beneath the clothing their bearers wore. In all her years, Caladhel could recall only one ellon who suffered such a wound where others could see, a pale thin line that ran across his throat. She saw him once in Lindon as a child, but never learned his name.
Caladhel had never seen damage to the extent Thranduil suffered, for if those so injured did not die, they sailed. Standing before him now she could see the burns covered not only his face but ran down the left side of his body. Caladhel could not imagine the strength of will it took to survive such an injury and remain on this shore.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Morgoth and his dragons."
Caladhel's breath caught in her throat and her jaw opened slightly. Thirty-five hundred years? She had not expected his injuries to be so old. The damage looked too recent. "Why does it not heal?"
Thranduil's gaze moved to the hearth behind her, his attention fixed upon the flames. "Dragon-fire is a cursed flame that time cannot mend."
Cursed. A light dawned in Caladhel's mind with that simple word, connecting Thranduil's earlier accusation to the damage he revealed to her now. "And Lord Elrond and my aunt know of this?"
"Elrond was there," he replied. "He saw me blackened by the flames. Of the damage that remains, well, if they did not know before, they do now."
Caladhel could not say why, but his belief that she would tell others what he revealed pained her greatly. She knew he believed her to be her uncle's spy, but Celeborn had not sent her here to discover this secret, nor did she believe it was her uncle's business to know. As for her aunt and Elrond, if what Thranduil believed of them was true, then they already knew of the injuries he carried and she could tell them no more. Caladhel would not reveal his secret to any other. She was not heartless, nor was she ignorant of the debt she owed him for saving her life only hours ago.
Caladhel stepped closer to the chair until she stood a mere arm's length away. She wondered at the strength it took to maintain the illusion of wholeness and how long it would be before Thranduil recovered enough to try. He kept his gaze on the fire while she studied him. Scarred muscle and sinew were all that was left of his cheek. No skin remained.
"What does it feel like?" she asked.
"Like death," he replied.
Caladhel lifted her hand and reached out to touch his face. The movement awoke Thranduil from his torpor. His eyes abandoned the fire and his hand clamped down on Caladhel's wrist.
"Don't," he said, his voice a mixture of anger and fear.
The scorched flesh of his left hand felt strange against Caladhel's skin, but what was stranger still was the fear she saw in Thranduil's eye. "Why?" she asked. "Do you think your face frightens me?"
Caladhel knew better than most that Thranduil was a king to be feared. He could be arrogant and suspicious, stubborn and hot tempered. He had physical power and authority to command. He was like the Greenwood itself, wild and dangerous, but none of those qualities were a reflection of his face.
Caladhel frowned when he did not answer. "You can be an intimidating ellon when you choose to be, but the fear you stir in others has nothing to do with these scars."
The expression on Thranduil's face told Caladhel he disagreed. "Or maybe it has everything to do with them."
Caladhel said nothing. She merely pulled against his grip. He released her wrist, albeit reluctantly, and she stretched out her hand to him. Her fingers alighted on what remained of his cheek. Thranduil shut his eyes the moment her hand made contact and he gasped as if her touch burned. She traced the side of his face, marking the strange feel of bare muscle and sinew beneath her hand. Thranduil's breath trembled and a tear fell from his good eye and rolled slowly away down his cheek. The sight of his tears startled Caladhel. She had not meant to upset him or cause him any more pain. He had suffered enough because of her this day.
When she spoke, her voice was but a whisper. "Thank you - for saving me."
Caladhel withdrew her hand and it seemed to her that doing so caused him greater pain. She felt guilty for hurting him again. The arrow had been more than enough to draw them even. She would trouble him no more.
Caladhel did not wait for Thranduil to dismiss her, but having said what she came to, turned and fled.
A/N: I've always been supremely puzzled as to why Tolkien decided to give Círdan one of the elven rings when he lives on the coast as far as possible from Mordor while Oropher is right the hell there with Dol Guldur and Mordor surrounding him and he has to keep evil at bay with only swords and arrows. PJ's scarred Thranduil gave me the idea that his possible corrupted state combined with the general disharmony between the Noldor and the remaining Sindar Kings could explain why Oropher was passed over despite his high status and his people's proximity to danger. It may not be Tolkien's reason, but this explanation works for my movie-bookverse.
