Keeper 21

Quite the delay, I know! First week of school. Between homework and moving and meetings I have been quite busy. But I made up for my tardiness with a HUGE chapter!

Enjoy.

-XXX-

The dark-haired cherub sprouts quickly. He soon is far more talkative – though, Estel will always be a serious young man. I do know if this is a result of his father's death or simply the boy's nature. Whichever it is, he still proves to be a charming child.

Gilraen is just as charming, in her own silent way. I suspect she was once a more gay person, more cheerful. Overtime she grows into a kind of quiet cheer, taking delight in the little things, offering small smiles and squeezes of the hand. She works to incorporate herself and Estel into our mixed family while still maintaining something of her son's heritage.

It is difficult; as Elrond explained to me the first night they arrived, Estel is not to know of his father or his claim to the thrones of Men. I cannot imagine the struggle Gliraen bears in tying to remain true to her heritage and husband while maintaining a shroud of mystery about it for her son. The boy, of course, does not see and rarely asks questions after his father. In the first few years he asked more frequently. Then he seemed to…forget. It hurts Gilraen, I know. But, to some extend, it is a relief. The questions were almost harder.

I, in turn, am forced to wonder if I have faded from my own son's mind just as easily. Legolas is approaching two thousand years, however, where as our Estel was only two. Still. The thought is hard enough to bear.

As Arwen occupied me, Estel provides the same happy distraction. His curiosity and wonder, so very human, is simply adorable and joy-inspiring. I often and happily take him from Gilraen for an afternoon or morning. We take walks by the river, counting fish and collecting flowers, making wishes on cattails. Estel can make up the most elaborate stories about the creatures we meet – the snake in the grass is talking to the dragonflies, the lonely fawn is looking for his mother, the squirrels are dancing through the trees, the wolves are singing with the wind.

"Why do the birds sing, Aunt Cala?" he asks one afternoon. Eleven years old he is solemn and precocious.

"Um, it is like they are talking to one another, my love, like we are right now," I say. "They're just prettier about it."

He crinkles his nose. "Not all of them. Ravens aren't so pretty when they caw."

"True," I chuckle. "But they are pretty in their own way."

"Why do they all sound different?"

"Oh, it's like people. People from different nations speak different languages – the birds are speaking in different languages."

His eyes went wide. "That's magic."

I hum, scooping him up. He's getting a little too big for such affection anymore, so I'm taking my hugs when I can. Legolas started whining about my motherly affection around this age.

"It's nature, Estel. Nothing more. Natural magic, I suppose."

The boy nods, taking this information in. He tilts his head at a passing bee, which slowly lands with a flutter on my exposed neck. His eyes follow it, and I watch the reflection in his bright eyes, a yellow gem sparkling in his pupils.

"Do bees talk?"

"Oh, they do. But they don't sing. They dance."

Estel makes a face. "I do not like dancing."

I tickle him. "Lucky you don't have to then, huh? You might buzz quite a bit, but you're no bee!

All attempts to shove away my hands are in vain. He giggles, nearly falling from my lap. Once he's settled again, I gently lift the bee from my skin, holding it aloft on my index finger.

"They're very intelligent. Most mistake them for mere insects – but they aren't simply stupid bits of buzzing. They talk though dancing, they build their own homes, they create communities and work together to survive." I pause. "Without bees we would have no fruits, vegetables, not many grains. They are the backbone of agriculture. This forest would not look nearly as lovely –" I stroke a tender yellow blossom. "—without these flowers."

He marvels. "They do all of that?"

"Yes. You wouldn't guess, would you? Come now, Estel, we need to go back. Your mother will probably want you for dinner." I stand slowly.

Estel follows suit. He puts his hand in mine easily as we start up the path. "Thank you, Aunt Cala," he murmurs. "Can we go out tomorrow? Will you take me fishing?"

"Perhaps," I allow. "If you're good and your mother will let me. But I won't be cleaning the fish!"

-XXX-

The fact that Legolas made the effort of requesting an audience with him speaks volumes to Thranduil. Clearly his son has something rather important to discuss. So, he would treat him as any other noble who came to seek his word. Instead of a simple shirt and leggings, Thranduil wore full court regalia – overcoat, crown, everything. When his son entered, there was a gleam of determination in his eyes.

"Ada," he says seriously as he walks with his father. They've decided to walk along the twisting paths of the cavern. "I have been thinking much lately of marriage. I know that I am still young, but I am coming of an age where and elf must think of such a thing…"

"I agree," Thranduil says. "It is indeed time for you to consider who you might wish to take as a bride. Have you anyone specifically in mind, Legolas?"

Nervously, he squeezes his hands behind his back. "I have. It is someone, I think, that you shall approve of."

The king's brows rose. "Yes?"

"Tauriel," Legolas says softly. "I know she is practically as sister to me, but I wish for more. She is strong and kind and beautiful, and would make a good wife. I love –"

Thranduil cuts him off. "Have you spoken of this to her?"

"No," the prince admits. "I have not."

Folded in the sleeves of his robe, Thranduil's hands tighten. "Thank Valar for that." He wished no pain upon the a slight incline of his head, he closes his eyes. "Legolas. I have no objection against Tauriel as a person. But you cannot marry a common Silvan elf. Even if she is captain of the guard."

His son falters in his steps, pausing to stare. "Father. She a good person, despite being common. She is the daughter of our friends. And I love her. Is that not enough?"

"No, it is not," Thranduil answers blankly. "I am sorry, my son."

"Is it because she is Silvan?" Legolas asks fiercely. "Should it not be just that one of their own race rule?"

The king turns on him, eyes flashing. "It does not do to question the king, Legolas," he warns. "Though yes, her race is part of the problem." With that, he continues walking.

"That is not fair. My own mother, your wife, is part Silvan!" the prince accuses. "What is so different between them?"

At this, Thranduil stops mid-stride. Legolas cannot see what passes over his father's expression. If he had, he would have seen immense pain. For a brief instance, the king closes his eyes. A vision of Cala passes through his mind's eye. Dressed in white, her hair shining in starlight. Hands, stretched out to reach his.

He half-turns back to his son. "Nothing. Nothing is different." He meets Legolas's blue-grey eyes ("So much like hers," he mourns silently) solidly. "And that is why, Legolas. They are not so unlike."

Without another word, he leaves his son standing the middle of the corridor, stunned.

-XXX-

Elrond finds me on one of the terraces. I greet him with surprise, as I had not anticipated seeing him back so soon. And in his riding clothes, no less.

"Is everything alright?" I ask as I help him shrug out of his velvet coat. "No one is hurt, or anything?"

"All is in peace, Caladhiel," he assures me patiently. "We have visitors."

"Oh?" I had not remembered hearing anything about hosting this week. We'd only just rid ourselves of the delegation from the north.

"Yes. A surprise, to say the least." His thick brows rise. "Dwarves, and the Grey Wizard."

"Gandalf!" I cry. "I have not seen him in nearly an age. Not since –"

Before Legolas had been born, at the very least. I've heard tell of all of his grand adventures, of course – he is well-liked throughout the realm. But we'd not seen the grey old wizard since he warned us of the oncoming gloom that would transform our Greenwood into a Mirkwood.

"They come seeking hospitality. They only just managed to avoid a pack of orcs."

The thought of the ruthless creatures so near this haven is enough to cool my blood. I've never seen an orc. I pray I never have to.

"They will be joining us for dinner. I've given them an opportunity to clean themselves and rest for a time."

"An opportunity you ought to take as well," I scold. "Come, Elrond, it has been a long day for you."

We set off for the apartments. A warm breeze drifts through the open corridors, sending blossoms and the earliest autumn leaves skirting in.

"I enjoyed the chance to ride," he admits as we walk. "It has been some time…far better than listening to the drones of advisors."

I hide a smile. "True enough," I agree lightly. "But I am certain it shall feel like a long day after we dine with the dwarves. They are not known to be quiet dinnermates."

My warning leads him to grin. "True enough. I shall see you in an hour?"

"Of course, my lord."

"Arwen would dearly hate to miss this," he murmurs as we part ways, me to my chambers, set just off of the royal apartments where he and his family reside. His daughter is with her grandmother still. He is right – she would find it all quite amusing.

"Estel will be amused, at the least," I say, thinking of the boy with shining blue eyes. They're with us nearly every evening meal. But Elrond shakes his head.

"They will not be joining us tonight, Cala. I would prefer to keep Gilraen and her boy away from they eyes of outsiders."

Wise as ever, Elrond is taking the proper precautions. I bow my head.

"You are right, of course."

"I shall see you in an hour, Caladhiel."

-XXX-

Dinner is precisely the exciting affair I'd anticipated. The dwarves are a rowdy bunch, singing bawdy tunes over the harpist and tossing about their salads in a playful disguist. Of course, I am watching this all from a distance, being seated with Elrond, Gandalf, and Thorin.

I met the Grey Wizard outside of the great hall, beaming merrily as he wades through the dwarves to meet me.

"Queen Caladhiel," he says, taking my hand in his own. "A pleasure. A surprise, as well, to see you so far from Greenwood's caverns."

I smile tightly. "I have long been absent from my wood, Gandalf, as have you."

"Oh?" Despite his rising brows, I can see this is not news to the wizard. "How unfortunate." He turns to the dwarf beside him, a stoic (to the point of grumpiness) fellow. "May I present Thorin Oakshield? King-Under-the-Mountain," he adds with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

I am struck, realize that the dwarf is familiar. His hair, once jet-black, is now streaked with silver. He regards me coolly.

"King Thranduil's mate?" he asks with the slightest of sneers.

The grandson of Thror understandably need have no love of me, but I feel the prick of his distain, regardless, and rear in response.

"His queen," I reply sharply. I will not be disregarded as a mere consort.

"What business do you have here?"

"I might ask the same of you, dwarf. Unlike you, I've not been cast from my realm." I let my lips curl. "I left freely."

Elrond's brows, rising in alarm, remind me that we are both guests to his house. I school my tone and my features. The dwarf stares after me once my barb is cast.

"I, too, am taking advantage of Lord Elrond's kindness." I excuse myself haughtily, moving for the hall. "

As we dine, I allow myself a chance to examine the crew Thorin has brought into Elrond's realm. It is a motely group of ragamuffin dwarves, young and old, and a halfing to boot! The hobbit sits timidly among his fellows, clutching what appears to be a dagger. When I catch his eye, I smile reassuringly. He stares, mouth slightly agape.

After several moments, my gaze slides on, listening to Elrond question the dwarf, who is not very forthcoming. The talk moves onto swords, and I recognize the two Gandalf and Thorin hand over as elven make. The halfing's, too, must have been from the same stash. I would have to examine it later, perhaps, when not so crowded. He evidently wished to bring it forward.

I receive my chance later in the evening when taking my usual twilight stroll. In between the shadows of the columns that line Rivendell's breezy walkways, I find the tiny hobbit.

"Good-evening, master hobbit," I say politely as I near.

He straightens instantly. "My lady," he gasps. "Forgive me, I do not mean to intrude –"

"Nonsense," I assure him gently. "You are allowed to enjoy such a fine evening, just as anyone else. Besides, I am sure you revel in the silence – traveling with dwarves cannot be a conductive atmosphere for quiet, I would think."

At this, the hobbit relaxes, smiling up at me. "I suppose you would be right, your majesty."

"Join me."

We walk for a time. I listen to the hobbit's tale of their journey so far. His tale is an exciting one, which is reflected in the tone of his voice. He seems to forget who, exactly, he is talking to, and loses his reserve after a time. When we are both relaxed, we sit for a time in the moonlight. I tell the hobbit a little of my life – primarily, what I had seen at Erebor. He listens, entraptured, as I describe the chaos. I cannot tell what he is thinking; if he thinks us to be monsters, leaving the dwarves to their fiery fate, or if he has a greater sympathy for our choices.

I tell him particularly of the dragon, which I have not seen but heard much of. "They are clever creatures, Master Baggins," I warn. "Creatures of wit and temper. Do not underestimate their intelligence. Many are thrown, focused on the size and might of dragon. They are just as tricky as they are strong."

He absorbs every word, and in turn, I enjoy his stuttering tale of how he became a member of this oddball party of dwarves.

When the darkness is truly cast, I rise to go. It is late.

"I must go now, Mr. Baggins, but I did enjoy talking with you. Do not hesitate to seek me out again before you leave Rivendell. And if not, I do hope you can come back to this haven again some day. I have no doubt Lord Elrond would be delighted to host you."

The hobbit inclines his head. "Thank you, Queen Caladhiel. I appreciate your regard. Most…uh, do not care to give me much of their attention. And I would not think, from a queen -"

My heart swells, and I smile. "I hope to see you again, Bilbo. Something tells me we shall, I think, meet again."

I offer him my hand, which he shakes. Then, with a final smile, I slip away to my chambers.

-XXX-

Dwarves inevitably remind him of Cala. Then again, almost everything reminds him of her, these days.

But these dwarves are insufferably worse. They are dwarves of Erebor, where they had fought so terribly it brought their marriage to a stand-still. So as Thranduil observes the dirty and sullen figure of Thorin Oakenshield approaching at a short-legged march across the winding bridges that lead to the dais, his lips curl in distaste. He schools himself, however, hiding behind an expression of impassivity. "Stone-face," as Cala would taunt. The thought of his estranged wife leads the king to tighten his grip upon the arm of his high throne. The stone creaks ominously.

"Some may imagine a noble quest is at hand." Here, Thranduil pauses, turning his head slowly to peer coolly at the dwarf. A quest to reclaim a homeland, and slay a dragon." He starts towards the small grubby creature, the stoic guardsmen looking on. "I myself suspect a more…prosaic motive. Attempted burglary. Or something of that lik."

The dwarf says nothing. Eyes narrowed, the king bends to face his captive. Though the dwarf remains silent, something – a flash, a gleam – flickers visibly in his eyes. Thranduil catches onto it, following until it at last dawns upon him. Astonishment colors the white-blonde king, who backs away swiftly.

"You've found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule. The King's Jewel. The Arkenstone." Thranduil can hardly believe it when the dwarf shifts his gaze, confirming the Elfking's suspicion. "It is precious to you beyond measure."

Thorin appears uncomfortable. Thranduil has hit a nerve. He's right on topic. Smiling broadly, the king pulls his hands behind his back. "I understand that." "Oh, how I understand…."

He sobers, eyes focusing sharply. "There are gems in the mountain that I, too, desire. White gems…of pure starlight."

Little is more precious or revered among elf-kind than the heavens above and their bright, cold lights. Should he posses these stones-of-stars…well, Thranduil shivers at the mere notion. "Other kings would bow to me. I would have the light of the night sky for my own, even here, in these caves."

"I offer you my help."

Thorin finally speaks, appearing keen now. A mirthless claims his lips. "I am listening."

"I will let you go, if you but return what is mine."

The dwarf seems to consider, turning and pacing. "A favor for a favor?"

"You have my word," Thranduil assure him. "One king to another."

"I would not trust Thranduil," the dwarf replies quietly, back to the king of the Greenwood. "The great king, to honor his word should the end of days be upon us!" His voice echoes throughout the caverns. "You, who lack all honor! I have seen how you treat your friends. We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help. But you turned your back. You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us! Imrid amrad ursul!"

"Die a death of fire."

The curse snaps something in Thranduil, who surges forward upon the dwarf, pale and full to the brim of a fury as white and hot as the stars he cherishes.

"Do not talk to me of dragon fire," he hisses in a harsh whisper. "I know its wrath and ruin." And with that the illusion melts away, reveling his ruined flesh and white eye with a heavy shudder. "I have faced the great serpents of the North."

When he recoils sharply the magic rolls back into place effortlessly. It has gotten easier, over the years. He wears the illusion as easily as one wears skin. The magic has practically become part of him. Ingrained.

Coldly, the king regards the short figure before him.

"I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon. But he would not listen." Thranduil turns, starting for the stairs to his throne, waving to summon the guardsmen. "You are just like him."

"Just as foolish, just as blind and greed-driven. I am saving your from a death of dragonfire by keeping you and your fellows here, you disgusting dwarf."

"Stay here if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf," he hisses as the dwarf is hauled away by his stubby arms. Sweeping onto his throne with a regal grace, he adds, calling after the dwarf. "I am patient; I can wait."

However, he knows the words to be hollow – these last one hundred and sixty years alone have felt like an eternity.

When he is left alone again, Thranduil looks to his right, when the smaller, more delicately tooled throne had once sat next to his. It has been gone for nearly a hundred years now, after he held on to it for so many decades. He still feels ill-at-ease without it beside him. Cala did not occupy it often when she had been around, but it served always as a reminder of the support she lent him almost unconditionally. "Almost."

Bitterly, the king removes himself for the high gardens, seeking comfort from the plants and the bees. They did not thrive as they had when her tender hand cared for them, but they were alive and comforting, nonetheless.

He hates this. Loathes pretending as though she were dead. It would, perhaps, he thinks, be more bearable if she were. Then he would not be living with the fact that his hervess voluntarily left him.

As soon as he has the thought he regrets it. No, he'd prefer to have Cala in this world than out of it. Even if she is not his.

-XXX-

"I know you're there. Why do you linger in the shadows?"

Tauriel steps forward, eyes dark and masked. "I was coming to report to you."

His lips curl in a light displeasure. He'd been awaiting the guard for sometime. She'd been avoiding him – possibly occupied with the dozen or so prisoners, but regardless, he had been keep waiting. "I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed not two moons past."

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my Lord, but more spiders keep coming up from the South." Her chin juts forward in defiance. Something sparks within the depths of her eyes. "They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could kill them at their source..."

"That fortress lies beyond our borders. Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures. That is your task." He lets the words resound, wanting the point to be finals.

"And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?"

He drifts away. "This again?" She is just like Cala, challenging him so. Aside from Legolas and a few braver advisors, he's not had many question his descision. Ever. It grates on his nerves to be so second-guessed. Normally he might entertain her question, but today he was having none of it. "Other lands are not my concern. The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here in this kingdom, we will endure."

The young elf stares at him with blazing eyes of youth. He can see the blatant fear – not necessarily of him, but of the words he so strongly declared. Thranduil gazes back calmly for several seconds before turning away. He cannot look at her when he brings up Legolas. "Cala would know what to do, what to say." But Cala held different feelings towards the girl. She treated her like a niece, a daughter. Thranduil felt a vague fondness, a certain appreciation for the daughter of his former captain.

"Legolas said you fought well today," he begins quietly. "He's grown very fond of you."

She swallows. "I assure you, my Lord, Legolas thinks of me as not more than a captain of the guard." Eyes are drawn away. She is very uncomfortable with the turn of this conversation. They both are. He feels a pang in his chest, but continues regardless.

"Perhaps he did once. Now I'm not so sure."

"Now I know."

"I do not think that you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly Silvan elf." Tauriel speaks in a soft voice. She does not wish to speak any further on this matter. He can tell. But he is king and he shall have his way. Even if her pretty green eyes – just a bright, just as alive as a cool, glassy lake's surface in summer – are downturn with stress and desperation.

She is fierce and brave and full of such heart and rage it almost makes him ache. She isn't Cala – too fierce and too brave and simply too wild in her own way, despite her loyal nature that has so bound her to this forest. They're different, in that manner. Cala left. Tauriel would never leave. For all her wildness, her heart remains in the Greenwood. She's got a keen sense of right, but it differs from Cala – she may question, but ultimately, her king's words were held above all as the ultimate word, the end-all-be-all.

"No...You are right, I would not." Thranduil pauses, allowing his words to sink in. "Still, he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

Tauriel looks away. "Yes. My lord."

-XXX-

Word comes to me on one autumn afternoon while I sit at the base of the willow tree in the gardens that my room overlooks. I am secluded by the draping branches, twisting a few strands of my hair as I read. Arwen joins me, not reading, but embroidering a length of blue silk for one of her brother's robes. She returned only for a week-long-visit, though it is ill-timed – both her brothers and Estel have left us, leaving only Elrond. From where we sit, we hear little beyond the trickle of water. But today, the frantic sound of hooves greets us. Looking up, I can see a messenger hastily pulling up on the reigns of his horse. Arwen follows my gaze, looking up.

"I wonder why they're there?" she comments. "They appear quiet upset."

She's right. The messenger paces anxiously as he waits for the footman to return with someone to represent the household. One of the maids appears, pointing to our willow. Immediately, the messenger sets off for us. When he is closer, I note the crest upon his tunic. "Greenwood?" He rides from my forest! I rise, straightening my skirts.

"Hello," I offer tentatively.

"My lady," he gasps. "Queen Caladhiel. I am sorry for interrupting -"

"It is no matter," I brush his apology off quickly. "What is the matter? You've clearly come in great haste, what troubles my woods?"

"My lady, there was great battle, of five armies upon the base of the Lonely Mountain," he begins. We had heard the goblins and wargs were on the move, along with dwarves of the Iron Hill, all marching for Erebor. I nod, encouraging him. "Thorin has fallen. Your husband returned victorious."

Something rises in my throat. I had not known Thranduil was in danger, but it was fearful even after the fact. Anger soon follows my indistinct relief. How could he risk our people for such greed?

"And our people?"

Behind me, Arwen shifts nervously. My quiet, yet commanding tone unsettles the messenger who hesitates to go on.

"There were causalities, my lady."

I close my eyes, blood cooling swiftly. "How many?"

More hesitate. "It was not the numbers I was instructed to bring, my lady," he says awkwardly. "But a name. Tauriel Birchbark-Elmbranch was a casualty to the battle. She choose to fight beside the dwarves of the Erebor and forsake her kin."

For a minute, I process the information. Then, when it truly hits, I cannot breath. Something falters within me. I find myself suddenly level with the messenger's stocking-clad knees, having sunken the ground. Arwen jumps, quickly coming to my aid, the messenger following suit, both of them crying out. I am lifted carefully to be set against the base of the tree. My head lolls uselessly against the bark. Arwen sits beside me, clutching my hand.

Images cross my mind of my beautiful, young Tauriel with her flashing copper hair trailing in the breeze, green eyes bright and mischievous as she dances through the trees with her fellows. Stringing a bow, pulling back with a keen eye. Sparring my son, giving him no mercy. Teasing her mother as she presents several fresh hares for the dinner table. Climbing in my lap, a young girl, offering me handfuls of acorns, then twining chubby toddler fingers into my dark golden locks. A babe with a quivering lower lip, laying on a blanket in the grass as her mother and I pick berries and gossip. Tauriel as a more sedated young woman, hair pin-straight, lips still tugged in that devilish grin while she spun with Legolas around the ballroom. The last time I saw her….

I blink up, the face of Arwen melting into view, her blue eyes flooded with concern. "Cala?" she asks softly.

"Legolas?" I croak. "Legolas, is he – does he –" "Live?" I can't finish the sentence. Breaking off, I look away sharply.

"Yes," the messenger is quick to assure me. "Your son fared well. He sent a letter with me. As did your friend, Arhiel, and your husband."

"Tell me," I say. "Was she – ?"

The messenger softens. "She fought besides the one she loved, they say," he says. "It was a good death. As good as a death could be. She went with little suffering."

It brings me little solace. I sigh, leaning back against the bark of the willow. For the rest of the day, I remain there, in and out of weeping. Eventually, Arwen manages to lead me into my room. I clutch unread letters to my chest, head turned into my pillow. Eventually, I fall into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams of young, copper-haired girls darting among the thick greenery of my home forest, a tall, pale white king looking solemnly on from the shadows, with eyes that were normally so bright as flat as river-wash stones.

-XXX-

I know this was long, but since it covered basically the events of The Hobbit, I decided to put it all in one chapter. Lots of Thranduil's POV, though, which we have been lacking.

The response to the last chapter was a little disappointing. If you can, please leave feedback! I live off of it!