Keeper Chapter 23
Hopefully I can keep on top of this over the next few weeks. I've only got 4 more chapters to write, so fingers crossed. This semester is going to be hellish.
-XXX-
The army trudges through the mist, despair and defeat saturating the air. Thranduil held Erphalagos back, watching his men pass. They are weary, their armor coated in layers of dust, mud, and blood, the grime so oppressive only a thin sheen of the metal shines through. They do not exactly look like a winning side.
"There are no winners in the aftermath of a battle," Thranduil thinks bitterly. He is remember the war that brought an end to the Second Age. The battle that left his body scarred. The reminder burns every inch him – or, it would, if he could feel anything on his left side.
The side that was currently exposed.
Thranduil winces as the wind brushes his hair. His raw flesh does not feel the cold. Only the shift of air can be felt. It's like a passionless kiss.
His hood is pulled up, hiding his high, noble brow and the sharp contours of his cheek and jawbones. Only his eyes and the silver "v" of his circlet can be distinctly seen by those who pass. And they do see – all of his soldiers look to him, some steadily meeting his gaze, most diplomatically looking just past his shoulder.
They are coming home missing a distinct fraction of their fellows. "Tauriel included." The thought pains him, but not as much as the jolt in his gut at the reminder that Legolas had just been inches from sharing the elleth's fate. The sight of Tauriel, cold and pale and stiff, glassy eyes staring blankly up at the iron-colored sky. She lays now in one of the relief wagons pulling up the back of the convoy.
He cannot bear to think of her right now. Cannot bear to imagine what he will tell Ulain and Beriana – who will surely among the first in the party of elves gathered on the green, near the gates, to welcome them home. They always were. What would they do when they when realized she wasn't among those marching? As unit after unit trudged past, without her familiar scarlet hair and sparkling eyes greeting them, would they realize? Would they fear and doubt?
And when the wagons approached? For a moment, would they think perhaps it wasn't so bad – an injury, perhaps?
He will have to speak with them himself. It will not do to allow someone else, a stranger, to tell them. They are Cala's friends. His friend's. Family friends. They children grew up together. Beriana had done everything in her power to push Cala towards him in the earliest days of their courtship. Ulain has been nothing but a loyal member in his service as a guardsman. This family, above many families of his realm, means something to him.
What will he say?
"Cala would know," the king tells himself bitterly. "If anyone would have the right words to say, it would be Caladhiel."
But Cala is not here. She does not ride with him, she will not greet on the green with the other elves.
He his shaken from his thoughts when a rider, who has been guiding his mount in a steady stride along the side of the foot soldiers, pauses. Legolas.
The prince holds his gaze just for a moment – a long, solid moment – before moving on. He has a job to do. Morale must be boosted. It will not do for his men to see his despair. But Thranduil can see it. Its blatantly, hollow in the young elf's eyes.
How it pains him to see his child suffering. Distant. So far he cannot reach him.
He tried, just after the battle. Tried to speak to his son. The conversation did not get beyond a handful of words.
It was on the field. He had been searching, frantically, for Legolas, who he had not seen since the height of the battle. Relief overtook him when the boy was found in one of the many rocky crevasses. Huddled in the corner, his back was to his father and the commanders that followed the king.
"Legolas," Thranduil had called softly. No response. Again. "Legolas. My son."
At this he had shifted, revealing himself and the figure he held to his breast. In the few seconds it took the king to process who, exactly, the elf held against him, Legolas's face melted.
"She didn't know," was all he said. "She did not know, Father."
And Thranduil had not known how to respond. He did not know what to say to make it better.
But Cala might've.
-XXX-
Thranduil rules my mind. I've heard too much of the battle in Dale and Erebor. The rumors and whispers take a few weeks to reach Rivendell, but they arrive nonetheless. He – and my Legolas – remained relatively uninjured. There had been the usual number of bumps, bruises, twisted ankles. The worst was a cut upon Thranduil's bad side, a well-timed slash upon his hip. Whispers of a broken illusion and a white eye haunt me. His magic had faltered under the stress. After the wood-elves returned to Greenwood, my husband had not left his royal apartments for over two weeks.
Fortesbrawn is the one who writes this time, explaining Thranduil's condition. He bitterly notes that I were I home, he could use my able hands. "None are so skilled at calming the king as you. I've no doubt his magic would be restored at a double-rate were you here." The healer, like many, is extremely displeased with my decision to leave. I am not a popular figure among my people anymore – not that I was in the first place.
I swiftly write to Legolas, though my fingers itch to direct a letter toward Thranduil, or better yet, put myself on a horse and reigns in my hand.
Beriana and Ulain receive letters too. Beriana responds slowly, in a shaky hand. They have memorialized Tauriel in a tree, a magnificent evergreen, near their home.
"I never knew pain like this," she writes. "I never knew a heart could hurt this much. Even when I feared for my Ulain, I thought that was the end of my world. But it's nothing like this. My only consolation is seeing her on the other side…."
My want to be with her is immense. There is only so much love and support that can be conveyed through parchment and ink.
Legolas is just as morose. I know that he was incredibly attached to Tauriel. They'd virtually grown up together, she had been the captain of his guard, his second-in-command. A letter never arrived without her name somewhere in the hastily-scrawled lines of text. He loved her – maybe not in a way he realized, but he did.
I hurt for my son and my husband. Nothing kills me more than being parted from them now. Yet I cannot return. Thranduil wouldn't see me. Legolas and Beriana have never said as much in their letters. But I have a sense of his reaction. He would be far from happy. Enraged, more like it.
The single note I received early in my stay at Rivendell was terse. He told me that he would have my winter things sent to Rivendell, as I'd left them behind, and that Legolas was fine. The cincher was the announcement that under no uncertain terms would Legolas be visiting Lord Elrond's valley – ever. If I wanted to see him, Thranduil coldly wrote, I would have to return to the Greenwood.
It felt forbidding. Thranduil knew that being parted from Legolas was one of the worst parts of leaving. I had crumpled the letter, tears burning my eyes.
Years later, I feel just as sick being so far from both of them in such a time. The only solace I have are letters between friends and my son. Thranduil is as silent as ever, an imposing force at the edge of my thoughts.
-XXX-
Eighteen years pass before Arwen returns to the Greenwood for good. We rejoice – the entire valley is excited to have the gentle maiden back. Elrond cannot stop smiling. I prepare a grand feast for her arrival. The floral arrangers bring cartloads of flowers into the great hall, and I spend several hours in the kitchens planning the spread.
We're all waiting at the gates when she arrives with her procession. To my surprise, there are more than a dozen of Lórien elves in company. She halts just before us, sliding from the saddle with her arms open, ready to receive us. Elrond grips her tightly, burying his face in her dark hair, inhaling. When they pull back, both have wet eyes.
Next come her brothers, then me. I hug the young elf fiercely.
"Oh, I have missed you, mell," I whisper. I stand back, smiling widely. "It has been so long! You look well."
"I am well." She sighs. We begin to move towards the stairs, heading inside, arm-in-arm. Elrond stands on her other side. "It was so wonderful to see Grandmother and Grandfather. Lórien is beautiful, too, though it is not home. I have missed Rivendell to be sure."
"And it has missed you. I know you are tired, but Cala has gone to the liberty of arranging for a feast tonight in your honor." Elrond inclines his head to me. "I suspect most of the community will be in the attendance."
"We've got a few hours still. You can go to rest, perhaps wash up. Your apartments have been cleaned and painted –"
"Do I smell of horse?" Arwen asks, amused. Her smile is teasing. "Be honest with me, Queen Caladhiel."
"Not in the least," I protest.
Elrond shakes his head. "You are fine, my dear. Come, let us get you settled in."
Two hours later, I find myself outside of Arwen's doors, fiddling with the cuff of one of my more formal gowns as I await her. The deep green velvet is pleasantly heavy in this cooler weather, though the ivory lace does not quite sit right. I let myself be occupied with this annoyance until she appears, airily passing through the threshold of her room as she brushes back the curtain of dark hair from her shoulders. Her gown is the color of starlight – not quite white, reflecting silver and gold in different strikes of light. It sets off the evenstar – a gift from her mother, left behind when Celebrian set off for the west..
"You look beautiful, mell," I say, taking her hands in mine. "Oh, everyone will be breathless to see you."
She blushes. "I daresay I am excited as them. I have missed home."
"We have missed you." I kiss her brow. "Come. They await us."
But we do not get as far as the great hall before we are stopped again. Gilraen and Estel are also on their way to the feast, and meet us as we cross the bridge. Gilraen smiles sedately, reintroducing herself to Arwen. Estel, who is normally quite broody, stares as though he's seen a spirit. She greets the young man with a soft smile. He cannot take his eyes off Arwen, even as we move along into the hall.
"I remember you as a boy," Arwen remarks gaily as we pass into the feast. "When you first arrives – my, you were quite charming with your big blue eyes and dark curls."
Embarrassed, Estel ducks his head, mumbling something about being charming still. I raise my brows, meeting Gilraen's bemused gaze.
"Oh Estel," she sighs. "Do look up at Lady Arwen when she speaks."
He's already looking at her. It is as though he cannot hope to stop. "My apologies, my lady," he murmurs.
Arwen, good-natured as ever, offers a hand. He takes it, swallowing hard.
"You have not offended me in the least, Estel," she assures him sincerely. "It is so good to see you…all grown up. I do hope you will share a dance with me tonight. Your mother says you shall be leaving in the next week?"
"Yes," he says. "To join the Rangers. I wish to…." He hesitates. "Protect those less able."
"Then you are very noble. Yes, come, dance with me before you go."
Estel readily agrees. With a few kind words, we part. I hear Gilraen say, "Why do you stare so, my son?"
"I have seen Lúthien," he gasps.
When I look to Arwen, I see her cheeks redden and that she is trying very hard to suppress a smile.
-XXX-
I think little of the encounter until three decades later, when we are in Lórien celebrating the equinox with Galadriel and Celeborn. Elrond has taken all of us, save for the twins, to Lothlórien, thinking that thirty years was too long apart from his wife's family. Lord Elrond is coolly regarded by his in-laws. Arwen and I were warmly welcomed however. Particularly by the one called Strider.
"Aragorn," Arwen cried when we came across the young man. They flew to each other, embracing. I stand back, blinking as the pair held one another like long-lost friends…or lovers.
"I though I was your Estel," the young man teases. His gaze has softened, less serious than usual, though it still possesses that stunned glaze, as though he can't quite believe that she is standing there before him.
"You have too many names," I say. The pair start, as though just now remembering I am present. I smirk. "Hello, Estel. How is life as a ranger?"
"It is an interesting one, Aunt Cala," he replies, parting from Arwen to sweep me into a hug. "Well-met."
"Well-met, Estel. What brings you to these woods?"
"I was in the area and heard that Lord Elrond and his family was to be here. I decided to take some time to see you."
"It is good to see you." Arwen's eyes sparkle. I move to take her arm into mine.
"Indeed. Will you be joining us for dinner?"
He is. We walk together slowly. I keep a steady hand on Arwen, though that does not keep her apart from the young man. I am entirely amused with their reactions towards one another, though when we sit down for dinner, Elrond clearly does not share my feelings. He glowers across the table, eyes narrowing with each touch the pair share. Beside him, I work to sooth his nerves.
"They've not seen each other for a long time," I whisper.
Still, the elder elf broods. I seek his hand beneath the tablecloth and squeeze, hard. I know how it feels to watch your child grow doe-eyed for someone – particularly someone with whom a relationship would not work out.
Later in our visit, I note that Arwen no longer wears the Evenstar. I casually mention it one evening as we read together. She touches the place on her neck where the brilliant pendant normally sits.
"Oh, I've simply not been wearing it," she murmurs, not looking at me. "Something are too precious to wear so often."
I do not believe her for a minute. Especially not when we next see Estel. From the depths of his scarf, my eye catches a flash, a sparkle. I do not get a good look, but I suspect he now wears Arwen's inheritance. I do not ask, nor do I mention my suspicion to her father.
-XXX-
Sixty years from the Battle of Five Armies, Mr. Baggins again visits Rivendell, this time it seems, to stay. Elrond had extended his hospitality to the hobbit many years ago – he has an endearing habit of housing outcasts and strays such as myself. We welcome him jubilantly. Elrond grants him a small cottage at the edge of a spring, and the halfing is given full use of our library. He is often found wandering among the shelves, or sitting at a table overlooking the valley, his toes dangling several feet off of the floor, writing with great determination in a large leather-bound tome.
He is great company. I often feel like quite a burden upon Elrond, who seeks to keep me entertained, and with Arwen gone the task has fallen to him. Mr. Baggins (or Bilbo, as he insists) often seeks out my company, though rather shyly. We soon relax around one another, talking of everything and anything.
It is rather curious to know him now, being so much older, both physically and mentally. Having spent most of my lives around elves, I have not watched anyone age like this hobbit has – even my mother, who was in my life for only a short period of time. It is interesting, though it saddens me more than anything. Bilbo has come to spend the remainder of his days with the elves. His years are short in number.
Bilbo does not seem troubled by this. So I tend to let it drift from my mind. Better to enjoy his company.
-XXX-
The Nazgul have not been seen since 2942, though around 3017, they seem to have grown restless. Several sighting have reached out ears by winter. They're coming from the Southern wood of Greenwood. The ghostly kings are ominous beings, warning that there is something bigger on the horizon.
When the news comes, the air somehow seems colder. I can draw less oxygen from it.
"Why do they come forth now?" I ask Elrond. "What draws them here now?"
"I do not know," he answers quietly. As ever, his dark blue eyes are cast in the distance.
Something about his seriousness suggests otherwise, however. In meetings of advisors that I pass, I hear the word "ring" tossed around several times. But what trouble could a piece of jewelry cause?
-XXX-
Elrond comes to me in the autumn, face grave, holding a few papers of correspondence. Sitting in a cozy nook of the library, I glance up at him with a vague smiling, thinking it to only be his usual visit. But his lips are pursed. I catch a flash of the text on the letter. The thin, sweeping lines are familiar. With a jolt I place them. I say nothing, waiting for Elrond to speak.
"The elves of Arda have designed to hold council here in the coming winter," he begins. "To discuss the chaos that has claimed certain parts of this realm. The others are worried."
"They must be, if they are seeking a council," I remark quietly.
"I must warn you, Cala. Your husband shall be among them." Elrond peers at me cautiously.
I do not react, carefully composing my features. "I would think he would send a representative. A diplomat."
"As did I," he agrees, holding forth the letter. "But he was insistent."
Accepting the paper, I smooth out the creases, trace the graceful letters. The ink is blacker, as though the pen had been applied with more pressure, at the points where he informed Elrond of his definite arrival. I could almost feel Thranduil beside me as I read, his jaw tightening, his annoyance at having to turn to Elrond and the other elfin kings for aid. It could not be easy for him.
"It is good that everyone is coming together to fight this," I say, folding the letter, not looking at Elrond. "The troubles that plague these lands have gone unchecked far too long."
He agrees. "Will you be alright?"
Startled, I look up. "Why would I not be?"
"You've been estranged for Thranduil for a long time, Caladhiel. I doubt this will be easy for either of you."
I snort. "You're likely right. We shall make due."
"Do I need to send you to Lorien for the season? Arwen would happily accompany you."
"No, but thank you." I take up his hands, squeezing. "Thank you Elrond. For all that you do. I know I do not thank you nearly often enough."
He squeezes back. "It is no matter. We appreciate having you here. You've certainly become family to us."
Smiling, I release his hand. "And I certainly feel like it." Legolas suddenly springs to mind. "You've made this estrangement bearable. Is there any chance…" I hesitate. "That Legolas might be with the Mirkwood party?"
"I do not know," he admits.
"It would be too much to hope." I bite back the sadness that wells in my throat. "We will make the best of it," I say airily. "Do not worry about me."
-XXX-
Uh-oh. Somebody is going to have to start facing their feelings!
Thanks for all the support. Please keep it up! Reviews would be lovely!
I hope everyone else who has started classes has great start to the semester!