Keeper 25

Getting closer…!

A lot of reviewers have expressed anger towards Cala's cowardice. I'm just going to repeat what I told Cleelake:

I know her decision was stupid and rash, but that was kind of the point - she's an avoider. She's avoided their chemistry early in their friendship, they were distant after the miscarriage, she avoided him after their blow-up over Erebor...Cala's had a history of avoidance, which she carried to an extreme when she walked away from Mirkwood.

She's a somewhat likable character, but she's also a very flawed character, which is what I was going for. I'm sorry to frustrate my readers, but I'm try to portray how a real *flawed* couple would deal with this kind of issue. Because that how people are. I'm past the point as a writer to still be creating nothing but protagonists that are solely likeable, well-adjusted, etc. Think of Ron Weasley – he wasn't exactly on-point when he abandoned Harry and Hermione in DH. I think some of the most masterful characters are the ones you inherently dislike while still being likeable. I won't claim I've reached that, by any means, but that's the goal.

Anyways, while it doesn't upset me in the least when people get angry at the character – if anything, I love it – I'd just like to remind readers that authentic characters are rarely unflawed, completely liked.

-XXX-

Autumn melds into winter, then spring, then summer. My heart being wrenched from its holdings by Thranduil, the seasons' passing is something I take less delight in than usual. Between that and the darkening atmosphere of Arda. Mordor's darkness seems to be growing, infiltrating every unguarded crevasse of the realm. Elrond has aged with stress – a permanent crease now sits on his brow.

"He does not sleep," Arwen tells me quietly. "Not hardly at all."

"What troubles him?"

"The ring. Sauron. The dark forces in the south."

I nod, brow furrowing. Out of all of these things, the ring I am only barely familiar with. "Is there nothing I can do to help? He should not be carrying this burden alone."

"He isn't. The other kings are just as concerned as he is, my father just takes it to heart a little more." Arwen smiles, a note of sourness in her expression. "It sits heavily on him, particularly when he can sense what is on-coming.."

And I cannot blame his concern. Whispers that the Ringwraiths have been seen roaming the lands sit unwell with all of us. Osgiliath is under attack. Someone would have to be a fool to feel secure in times like these.

Summer brings heat, flowers, bees, and bad news. I am sitting in on a council meetings when word comes from a messenger of Greenwood. The young elf looks quite haggled, as though he has just slid from his mount – twigs and leaves are scattered in his long dark hair. He looks around the chamber with wide eyes that only increase in size once they rest upon me. I do not recognize him, but it is perfectly possibly that he might know me. In response, I nod. The young elf starts as though he wishes to come towards me, to speak, but he is stopped when Crylin, the elf chairing the council of advisors, bids for his attention.

"What does King Thranduil wish to share with this committee?" Crylin booms, peering over the marble tabletop at the envoy. "It must be something rather delicate if he selected a rider rather than falcon-mail."

"It is indeed, my lord." The boy bows his head. "We recently suffered an attack at the hands of Mordor."

All gasp. Chaos ensues as questions are hurled across the room. The messenger shirks back as he is bombarded. A blur of confusion commences until Elrond rumbles for silence.

"What," he says testily once the madness is at bay. "Exactly occurred? Mirkwood is one of the most secure fortresses in all of Arda. The forest alone is a maze."

"That it is, " the messenger replies with relief. "Which is how we managed a victory. Dol Guldur's army traveled up from the south under the cover of darkness. We were ambushed. Luckily, our causalities were low."

Elrond opens his mouth, but I cut across him without thought.

"The king and prince?" I ask, frantic. "How do they fare?" My question had initially been lost in the roar of confusion.

He turns to me. There is a softness in the young elf's gaze, a want of reassurance. "They are both alive. Legolas is well. The king –"

"Do they need aid? Supplies?" Elrond interrupts this time, intently staring at the messenger.

Startled, he looks back at Lord Elrond. "No, no, we are received backup from Lorien last week." He turns to me, mouth open, but Elrond speaks over him again.

"Did the king send me any personal correspondence?"

The messenger nods, brandishing a scroll from his saddlebag, rushing to deliver it to the high table. I can see other elves near him straining to read the light script. Eyes narrowed, Elrond skims the parchment. After several seconds, he lays down the paper.

"Hardir. Please show our guest to my study. I will be there shortly."

The manservant rushes to show the elf away. Lord Elrond rises.

"Pardon me," he says graciously. "But I am afraid we must draw this meeting to a close."

Grumbling echoes throughout the hall, but the elves begin to gather their pens, maps, and notebooks. I sweep to my feet, hurrying after Elrond. I manage to stop him in the corridor. He pauses when I call, glancing back. Something in him darkens. I nearly recoil.

"What did the letter say?"

He will not meet my eyes. "King Thranduil was just giving me an update of the Eastern front."

"Oh," I say softly. Pausing, I look down. "Does he say anything of himself? Or Legolas?"

"Only that they are well."

A long stretch of silence passes between us.

"Cala…do not fear. Your realm is safe." The "for now" unspoken. When I look up, Elrond's expression has soften marginally. "Go, I am sure my daughter wishes for your company. She has been quite emotional, as of late. No doubt our impending journey to the Undying Lands weighs upon her."

He is attempting to distract me. I allow myself to take it. With a small smile, I step back.

"I shall tend to her. Thank you, my lord."

Elrond nods, not letting his gaze slide from me even as I stride away.

-XXX-

He's still bedridden when the letter arises. Fortesbrawn delivers it, drawn, eyes shaded.

"What is this?" the king rasps. His throat has been hurting him as badly as it had when it was first met with dragonfire thousands of years ago.

"A letter," the healer answers, hesitating before he adds, "From Rivendell."

Thranduil's uninjured hand shoots out, snatching the parchment from his head healer's fingers before Fortesbrawn can go on. He eases up the already broken seal, unfolding the paper, eyes alighting to see Cala's familiar hand. Eager, he inhales her words, feeling something like a smile spread across his face for the first time in weeks.

But it is short-lived. He soon realizes the illusions under which she wrote.

"My love, I have heard of the misfortunes that have fallen upon our wood," she wrote. "My first thought was, of course, to the safety of my people and loved ones. It gave me no small measure of relief to know that you and Legolas ended the foray safe. I do not know what I might have done had either of you fallen -"

He lowers the letter slowly, looking up at Fortesbrawn. "She does not know," he whispers. "How can she not -?"

The healer shakes his head. "I don't know. But I would suspect Lord Elrond does."

Thranduil darkens. Brooding, he turns away, facing the wall where as mirror once sat. It had been a wedding gift from Beriana's family, made in their own shop. He'd avoided it after Cala left, but had covered it up altogether several weeks ago. Now, he look past the cloth, imagining his own face. The mere thought it enough to make him wince.

Fortesbrawn misreads the registered pain as coming from his more recent wound.

"Turn," the healer says sternly. "Let me change your dressing. It's been too long. You've been tormenting my aids again."

"They incessantly prattle."

"And you do noting to scare them," Fortesbrawn murmurs as he pushes up the king's nightshirt, starting to unwind the fabric that binds the king's waist. "Harping, brooding, ill-tempered –"

"King," Thranduil reminds him.

At this they both manage a weak smile.

"How is it healing?" he asks quietly after several minutes of Fortesbrawn examining his wound.

The healer's face is grim. "The infection is fading, but the hole is being finicky. It doesn't want to close."

"It was deep."

"Still." Fortesbrawn sighs. "I suspect your prior condition is contributing to the difficulty. Have you attempt an illusion in the last few days?"

In response, Thranduil closes his eyes, summoning what little power he can muster to bring up his unblemished face. It shimmers briefly into view before fading altogether. He sinks back onto the pillows, breathless, shaking. A furious Fortesbrawn looms overhead.

"You fool!" he hisses. "You should not be straining yourself so!"

Thranduil waves an unsteady hand. "No matter. The more I push myself, the sooner –"

"That's idiotic," Fortesbrawn snaps. "Now lay here as I draw up an energizing draught."

Sighing, the king nods. "Please."

Despite winning the battle, Thranduil was heavy with despair. Three thousand elves had fallen, and after he'd been carried away, the trees had been set ablaze. From his chamber windows he could not see the damage, though he knew it to be severe. A map had been brought to him once the forest had been surveyed. Hundreds of trees were lost. It seemed only the mountains and rivers had stopped the wrath. He couldn't imagine how the wildlife was affected.

He'd not realized right away what the arrow had done when it struck him. The pierced flesh was enough to weak him, neglecting him to a horse, then back to the central command of the battle. But when the poison began to seep into his veins, rushing through his body like some kind of lightening –- sharp, fast, lethal. In less than thirty minutes he'd lost control. His illusion dropped and pain claimed his body, overtaking his focus. Legolas and his commanders took over overseeing the battle, while Fortesbrawn's aids pulled him up onto a horse, then dragged him into the fortress. The healer had predicted that he would not last the night, but Thranduil had proved them all wrong and survived the night, then the week. His illusion wouldn't resume however, which was only worsened by the infection that raged his body.

"Too long without cleaning the wound," the healer had scolded.

Everything had been made worse by the fire. The black smoke crept into his lungs, weakening him terribly. The heat, too, left him unsettled – for it reminded him too much of dragonfire.

When he survived the next fortnight, he sent a messenger to Rivendell. The letter was addressed to Elrond. He'd hoped that the half-elven lord would break the news of the attack and his injury gently to Cala. It seems he had failed to do so.

"How will she take it?" he wonders allow in a whisper.

Applying salve, Fortesbrawn glances up. "Far worse if you don't conserve your energy; you'll be dead," he says flatly.

"Do not be so dramatic," Thranduil chides. "You said only yesterday that I had crossed over the threshold of death back to life."

"But only barely."

Thranduil turns away, releasing a sharp intake of breath when Fortesbrawn's fingers skim a delicate area.

"Legolas will see her soon. He can tell her…."

-XXX-

"I need to go home."

This is announced to a preoccupied Elrond, who glances up from his desk, startled. I stride into the room without invitation, my robes sweeping grandly when I halt before the desk.

"This is what I have been advising along," he says lightly. "But now I am afraid I'll have to rescind my encouragement. It is too dangerous to send you so far across the realm. Those lands are crawling with orcs."

Stunned, I can only blink at him. After several seconds, I find my voice again. "I must go. They need me. My people, my kingdom needs me."

"All of Arda needs you, Cala," Elrond says seriously. "And I cannot let you go under a good conscious. You are family to us. I'll not have you out there."

Baring my teeth, I tighten my fists. "That is the exact language that sent me from the Greenwood in the first place, Elrond. I do not need to remind you how I did so, do I? Would you prefer I sneak out of here alone, or without an escort?"

He stares at me for nearly a full minute. "I will not respond to threats."

"And I won't be kept here."

Sighing, Elrond, moves out from behind his desk. "Another council will be convening here next week, your son among them. Why don't you wait until then? He can personally take you back."

"Legolas?" I hadn't known he'd be among the folk convening for this summit. My heart leaps. "My boy…."

"That will suffice," I say stiffly.

Elrond nods. "Very well. But I urge you, take the time to consider my words. This is not the Arda you knew two-hundred-and-fifty years ago."

Wordlessly, I exit the study.

-XXX-

He is still not used to riding without Tauriel by his side. It pains him when he turns to his right, a thought having occurred to him, ready to share, only to find the spot occupied by blank space.

The ride to Rivendell is long, especially in the company of such stoic company as the guard. He'd not realized the distance when he first came this was with his mother – then again, he was only three days in when his father's guard dragged him away. Six days is a long journey indeed. He has gained a newfound respect for his mother.

She'd written to him, after the envoy had reached Rivendell. It had been a long, loving letter, but it hadn't referred to his father beyond expressing a brief happiness at his survival of the attack upon their home. He later learned from the king that she was not fully informed of his condition.

Legolas had never experienced the feeling he endured upon seeing his father struggling for life in the medical wing. The high ceilinged healer's chambers allowed the king's cries of agony to echo throughout the night, his fleshless face contorting in pain. Helpless, the prince had been unable to do little more than grasp Thranduil's hand as he clung to life.

The scars of dragonfire were certainly a shock to see. Once things had calmed down Fortesbrawn had taken the time to explain them, telling Legolas of how his mother had tended to his father day and night upon the battlefields of Dagorlad. It was stunning information to the prince. Who would have guessed that beneath the regale, proud bearing of the king lie a painfully scarred, broken elf?

When Thranduil was once again himself, he hadn't been able to look his son in the eye for several days. It had taken quite a bit of pointed conversation to make the king realized his son was not disgusted. They reached an understanding.

Now he is on his way to Rivendell, what he's desired for well over two-hundred years. Only, it is not with the specific reason of seeing his mother, but to lend support to the movement against Sauron.

"Is it bad I still feel some kind of excitement?" the prince wonders, stroking his mount's neck thoughtlessly. "Terrible that despite the seriousness of the situation, I am so glad to see my mother?"

No, he decided. It is not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

-XXX-

I shifted the Battle of Mirkwood forward by a few months, closer to autumn, closer to the Council of Elrond. Was Thranduil actually injured in the battle? I've never seen any mention of it, but this is fanfiction. I'm being a little liberal with changes.

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