Keeper 15

So, besides getting back from my camp and being exhausted, my wifi was out when I got home. Making this super late, but I'll try to update sooner – like, maybe tomorrow.

I know I am also behind responding to reviews, but the last general gist was happiness over Legolas's birth. Yay! I'm happy to! He brings in a new dynamic.

Also, I got a few review curious about the timeline. Two things:

1. I am new to the fandom and struggling through the trilogy (Hobbit it in the bag, thankfully), so things may be a little off-ish, but from what I've seen no one on here really pays it much mind anyways.

2. We are making some HUGE jumps in time. Like, the last two chapters alone hopped forward over a thousand years. So, yeah.

Enjoy!

-XXX-

My son changes everything. Suddenly, my life is fuller than ever, caring for the blue-eyed babe. Day and night is dedicated to him. I find that I do not mind.

His first year passes too quickly. Thranduil holds me on the eve of his first birthday as I cry over his crib, mourning the passage of time so senselessly. I cannot help it; it is every mother's burden. As my tears fall, the drowsy babe strains short, plump arms for me. I lift him from the crib, holding him between myself and Thranduil.

"Such a prince," I whisper. "You'll be as handsome as your father."

The king rubs his son's back, sighing. "I do hope our son doesn't have to endure every birthday with his mother sobbing in the background."

I hit him lightly. "Just the first few," I tell the boy. In my arms, he half-twists, reaching for his father.

"Oh, I see that he is picking favorites already!" I cry. "Legolas, you are determined to be your father's child."

Thranduil accepts the baby, who gives his father's silken locks a hearty tug. The king winces. I giggle.

At the age of ten, he's precisely what we predicted him to be – high energy, a miniature version of his father. Save for his eyes – they're more blue than grey – and his hair, which is just a few shades darker, nearer my honey-gold than Thranduil's ash. He's a precocious little fellow too, smart as a whip. Still, for all of his energy, Legolas is a quiet creature, much like his father, introverted. Still shy, he has a tendency to hide behind my skirts when faced with meeting new people. Not that we're often hosting visitors.

We don't have many visiting our realm. I don't know if it's fear of my husband or the woods, but we do not frequently host. Even diplomats from our fellow Elven kingdoms are rare. Thranduil doesn't seem to mind, but it troubles me greatly.

But that is not the only thing that troubles my mind. There is something afoot in our wood. A faint darkness creeps, hidden in the shadows. An illness. I can feel it as I walk through the southern wood – for now it is only there that the darkness sits. My bees flit near, their wings just a touch heavier. When they land, I stroke their velvet backs, listening to them hum. They're not happy. There are fewer flowers. Those that do grow are weak – they're not a full of pollen or color.

In every tree, every bed of moss, every creature, I feel an illness, latching on to every living being. And it's spreading.

Thranduil feels it, too. We cannot comprehend what brings it about, what could possibly be affecting every living being within that part of the wood. Patrols in that part of the wood are wary when they search the perimeter – and they come up with nothing.

"What must we do?" I ask my husband, when a report comes of a dying heard of deer.

"We can only wait for our enemy to reveal himself," Thranduil replies, uneasily. "Then, we shall find a way to flush him out."

I fear then, it may be too late.

It's enough to make me consider sailing west, as many others have. But then I cannot bear the thought of raising my son so far from his home, far from the woods where I grew up.

Legolas often accompanies me on my walks through the forest. I do not want him to grow to be a prince who does not know his own lands. He is as wary as his father around the bees, but in time, can approach them as I. The like his calm nature, I think, and often settle in his hair and on the creases of his clothes. When he is a boy, they have a tendency to land on his nose, teasing with ticklish legs. He crinkles his nose, giggling softly so as not to disturb them.

"They're tickling me, Mother," he would squeal, holding very still. I offer the insect a finger, on which it climbs.

"That's because they like you, Legolas. Be nice. The bees give us much."

I fed him fresh honey and tales, spinning both elven and stories of Men, which I'd learned from my mother. Thranduil would sometimes sit with us, half-listening as he sorted through paperwork. When I warn Legolas against lying with one particularly colorful tale about a rabbit who tells falsehoods to foxes, the king barely suppresses a snort. Wide-eyed, the boy listens. I share a smile with Thranduil.

I am never happier than when I am with them. When we're a family together. Which, for a couple decades does not change.

-XXX-

In the one thousand and fiftieth of the third age, Beriana gives birth to her second child. Ulain and Kalock wait worriedly outside. Legolas came with me, and he attempts to distract Kal – his partner in crime – from his nerves. It's a long labor, as Beriana hasn't done this in over a thousand. But, after ten hours, we have her; a beautiful baby girl.

"Tauriel," Beriana wearily announces when she's held the child in her arms.

The coppery hair fluffed upon the baby's skull is bright downy. I stroke it, leaning down to kiss the babe.

"She is a beauty."

Her father, now second-in-command of Thranduil's patrol guard, holds her with tearful eyes. Kalock, leaning over his father, greets his new sister with a murmur. Legolas hangs back in the corner with me, allowing the family to have a moment. In the years to come, he will be just as big of a brother to Tauriel as Kalock. A little wistful, I am pleased that he has something of a sibling.

-XXX-

Beriana has left the child in the charge of Legolas and Kalock for the afternoon. Though they are between the ages of on thousand and forty-eight and thirty-six respectively, they're still young enough that caring for a ten-year-old is still a little daunting. So they bring her to me – though, I do not mind. I adore my niece.

Tauriel, however, does not adore spending time sedately with me in the gardens. She appreciates nature, but running in it, playing among the leaves. Not pruning bushes and collecting medicinal herbs. As she scurries about the courtyard, I understand why the boys left her with me. The little girl is a ball of fire, streaking through the plants with her coppery hair flowing behind her like a flag. I can hardly keep up. This proves to be even more troublesome as the day wears on, for my stomach begins aching – likely from a bad egg at breakfast. I think little of it.

I catch her when she flies 'round a tree trunk. "Gracious!" I exhale. "You are a slippery as a snake, Tauriel Elmbranch! Come, my love, let us see if we can find Legolas and your brother."

At this, she brightens. "Legolas promised to show me how to use his bow!"

She is a tad young to be so armed, but I bite back my reservations, knowing that Ulain would likely disagree. Kalock is already seeking a position in the guard – though, both to my and Beriana's relief, Thranduil gently refused, telling the boy to wait a few more years. I can easily see Taurial wishing to follow a similar path; she is very much her father's daughter. Kalock has an artistic side to him that Beriana is trying to encourage, hoping he might take up glassworking with her side of the family.

We find the boys in the practice yards, sparing. Tauriel nimbly climbs up the gate of the ring, cheering Legolas on. My son pauses, smiling brightly at her. Kal uses the distraction to knock the prince's feet out from under him, leaving Legolas to fall on his rump with a heavy "thud." Both myself and Tauriel let out a peal of laughter. Legolas reddens as Kal extends a hand to help him to his feet.

"Good match," he says, before turning to swing his sibling from her perch. "Do you think you could do better, sister?" he asks, tickling her. "What's this, not championing your own kin?"

The girl squirms, giggling madly. "Legolas is prince!"

Kal rolls his eyes heavily. "I see where your loyalties lie." With that, he turns her upside down, as if he means to drop her, before propping her back up on his him. "Have you had fun with your Aunt Cala, tending to the flowers?"

"I want to play with you and Legolas!"

Kalock sends me a look. "Been a lot of trouble, has she?"

"More than you know," I answer, tucking my hand under Legolas's arm. "I think I'll turn her over to you now. She mentioned someone teaching her the bow."

Tauriel scrambles from her brother's arms to attach herself to Legolas's knee. "Oh please," she begs.

"I did promise, didn't I?" Legolas bends to be eyelevel with her. "You must heed everything I say. These are weapons."

She nods. "I shall."

We set off for the targets. Tauriel skips merrily beside my son. I am left to walk beside Kalock.

"I think Legolas has an admirer."

Kal is quick to agree. "He's the subject of almost every other sentence. She's quite infatuated, I assure you." He grins. "What say your son, Aunt Cala?"

"He's barely taken true notice. If he has, he likely thinks it is as every younger sibling would behave." A little wistful, I look ahead at them.

"Have you thought of having another?" Kal glances at me, head tilted. "I am sure his majesty would be pleased to have another heir, and you've always loved a full house. You could have dozens of babes, fill the palace!"

I smile, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Aye, I'd love to have a few more little ones, now that Legolas is so grown. And who knows – we may yet. For now, however, I'm contented to watch your sister grow."

At the range, I stand off to the side as the boys instruct Tauriel in the mechanisms of a solid bow. Again, my stomach troubles me. The heat of the day does little to help, and I soon desire to sit. Turning, I begin making my way to the benches near the edge of the range. With each step, the pain increases, sharp, tearing, until I am forced to stop, swaying slightly on spot. Without warning, I feel myself falling. I plummet down, passing out as I go, hitting the grass squarely on my side.

-XXX-

He had been in the midst of a meeting with his advisors when Kalock burst in, unannounced. Enraged, Thranduil rose, preparing to give the boy a good verbal lashing when he blurted out, "My lord! Her majesty, Calahdriel, she's ill. She collapsed on the practice ranges. Please, you must come quickly –"

"Cala?"

Without a word, the king had swept from the room. Kal scrambled to follow, speaking as they strode to the infirmary.

"We were helping Tauriel learn how to shoot when she passed out. Just collapsed, right there, without a sound, on the side of the range. We carried her to Fortesbrawn. Legolas is with her now. Fortesbrawn couldn't say –"

They pass through the doors of the infirmary swiftly. Thranduil's eyes immediately seek his wife, but she is nowhere to be found. Legolas, however, sits on a chair outside of one of the surgical rooms. Thranduil goes to him. The boy rises automatically.

"How is she?"

"I don't know," replies the young elf helplessly. "Fortesbrawn took her in there and he won't let me in. He won't say a word, either."

The king pales. Without saying a syllable, he opens the door, passes through, and closes it again with an audible snap. Fortesbrawn looks up sharply from where he stood next to the bed. Upon identifying the intruder, he relaxed – slightly. Cala is sitting up, tears trickling silently down her face. Thranduil approaches the bed, reaching for her. Much to his surprise, she shrinks away.

Take aback, his hands fall to his sides, brow creasing. "What makes you shy from me?"

Looking between the two, he asks, "What's going on? Is she alright?"

The healers exchanged a glance. Then, slowly, Fortesbrawn took a breath. "She's very tired, my lord. Lost a lot of blood. She'll need to stay here for the night and take it easy over the next week. Stay indoors. No laborious work."

His brows rose. "Yes, but why? Why did she loose the blood?" He can see no cut or wound upon her body.

It was Calahdriel who answers. "Thranduil," she answered softly. "I had a miscarriage."

Suddenly, everything froze. He cannot breath. He can merely stare at his Calahdriel, taking in her words as he gazes helplessly into her ocean-colored eyes. He cannot fathom what has been said. "Miscarriage?"

Surely not. Was she pregnant? He couldn't recall the last time she had bled. But how could they have known….? They would've known. It must be a mistake. "It must."

But her face – checks, red from tears, eyes too glassy and too wide for his liking, lip bitten and unbitten – tells him otherwise. They had lost the baby before they even knew of it.

Or before he knew of it. Had his Cala kept this from him? Was it something she had hidden?

"No!" he scolds himself. "Do not think of such treachery. She is not one of your squabbling noble, she is your wife, your Cala. She would never."

Wordlessly, the king sinks to the nearest chair. After several moments, he asks in a voice that he does not recognize, something deep and stark and blank, like an ice-covered lake, "How did this happen?"

The healer begins speaking again, slowly and in a low voice, attempting to reassure the couple. "These things sometimes happen for no apparent reason. There was little either of you could have done, even if you had known. Sometimes, pregnancy do not work out, and it's common this early in the process."

Digesting the words, both elves nod, still not looking at anyone, eyes vacant.

"Cala is doing fine. She will be tired for another week or so, but back to herself soon enough. I'd like to keep her here for the next few hours, but I think you should spend tonight together….I will make a soothing tea for your pains, my dear. I am certain you ache. I'll gather a few extra bags for you to use for the next couple days. I'll return shortly…."

"How far along?" Thranduil asks hoarsely as Fortesbrawn begins to turn.

Fortesbrawn hesitates before answering, "Just over a month and a half, my lord."

The king buries his face in his hands.

Fortesbrawn looks between the two, deciding to leave them for the time being. He exits the room quietly, leaving the king and his queen alone. At first, Cala cannot look at her husband. She sits, arms wrapped around her middle, staring at the wall beside her, head bowed. Slowly, Thranduil moves to speak.

"How are you feeling?"

Her lower lip quivers. "I am dying, Thranduil."

Within seconds, he is on the bed beside her, holding his wife as she weeps. He began to cry too, and together they were reduced to a puddle of tears, wrapped around one another as two people drowning, desperately clinging on to one another for some semblance of life, hope. It is sometime before articulate words could pass between them. Cala, hiccupping, fits her head into the crook of his shoulder, whispering.

"I had no idea. I guess I missed my bleeding without a thought. Nothing had changed. It wasn't like with Legolas – " She stops, closing her eyes. "I was so stupid. If I had been paying attention -"

He stops her with one raised finger. "This is not your fault. You heard him. There was nothing we could do."

She gasps. "If I knew, maybe - oh, Thranduil I had a glass of wine last night! Before bed, do you remember?"

Grasping her wrists, he forces his wife to look at him. Voice low, he tells her, tears at the corners of his own eyes, "You cannot tell yourself such things, Calahdriel. You did nothing wrong. These things simply happen. Do not do this to yourself."

"I wanted a baby so badly," the young queen whispers. She presses her face into his sternum. "And you did too. Another child…."

His grip around her tightens. She is right – they had both wanted another child. Together they talked about it, decided it was something to aim for within the next decade, picked names and planned dates. It wasn't to be something that happened soon, but still. Losing the potential hurt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers against his chest, and Thranduil can do nothing except close his eyes.

-XXX-

Fortesbrawn seeks to meet with us the following day, shortly before I am to be discharged from his care. His expression is grim when he enters.

"I have conducted a more thorough examination of Caladhiel this morning," he beings quietly. "Just to make sure that everything is functioning properly. It is standard procedure."

Thranduil nods. He is solemn. Looking up at him, I can see the tightness in his jaw –- he's uncomfortable. Fortesbrawn has something important to tell us, that much is apparent. The thing is, it sounds like less-than-good news. I do not know how much more we can bear.

"Due to the nature of your incident, Cala –" He says "incident" delicately, as though not wishing to remind me of what occurred. I do not know how I might every forget.

-XXX-

For a long time, it hurts. Something immeasurable aches between us – a pain that is never failing each time we see a youngling. And something else too – a small fracture between myself and Thranduil. It is not so terrible, but sometimes, I can see something in his eyes that tells me it shall never heal. This is an eternal crack between us. I doubt it shall ever truly heal, though it might decrease in the width of its gap, in time.

-XXX-

Tauriel was an addition I quite like. While her love triangle in the movies is irritating, I enjoy the character. What are your thoughts?

Yeah, yeah, before I hear this whole "elves never get sick" spiel, can some explain to me how Tauriel knows healing magic in the Hobbit? I just don't buy that, though they're immortal, these organisms never suffer from illness.

Reviews would be grand!