Keeper 28

Well, here it is…the next-to-last chapter! Crazy to think we're so close to the end.

This is a fairly long chapter, hopefully well worth the wait.

-XXX-

The knock is light, familiar. Half asleep, the king murmurs towards the general direction of the door. He hears the hinges creak slightly, and shifts his head away from the threshold, towards the tall arched windows. He is not in the mood to see anyone today – not Fortesbrawn, not his manservants or maids, not Beriana, who has taken to sitting with him on occasion. Today the king feels too leaden to lift himself from the mattress. He does not wish for company. Not in with a mood this black.

He'd had another dream after the first one – a dream of dragonfire, this time. The battlefield was different, and he'd not been facing men but a firedrake of the North. How badly had Thranduil wanted to run, but his body would not permit him to turn away. Even when the flames licked his limbs and seared his skin. He could not go back.

Across the room, the door opens. Thranduil can feel the air shift subtly. Curling into the covers further, he begins taking deep, even breaths, hoping the intruder will simply decide he is asleep and leave.

"Insolent of them to come in uninvited, in any case. Why should I not feign slumber?" He holds back a sigh.

Footsteps echo throughout the chamber, nearing the bed. The king is tempted to crack an eye. Who is this impertinent person? What gives them the right come in, uninvited, into his private apartments? Not only that, but his bedchamber?

His eyes flutter when something moves in front of the windows, altering the light. Thranduil scowls, eyes flashing open. Sleep has blurred his vision – he can scarcely make out the silhouette figure approaching the bed. He must blink several times before the shape is even distinct. But even then, he can only catch a hint of who – or what – is nearing him. The king stills as the figures slows, pausing to kneel at his bedside.

He cannot breath. Her scent, her eyes, the soft sounds she makes, everything suddenly is clear. "Cala."

Slowly, Thranduil attempts to rise from the mattress. A gentle hand stops him, pressingly his shoulder firmly.

"You mustn't," she implores. "You're tired."

"Cala," he gaps. Like a fish, mouth open and closing. Thranduil instantly feels foolish. He must appear so weak.

Her hand finds his, squeezing with a determined might. "I'm here," she says quietly, simply.

"Here – just was I've wanted for so long. Here – like you should have been before."

For a long time the king cannot speak, merely squeeze his beloved's hand. Tears creep out of the corners of his eyes, welling against his skin. She simply waits, sitting, smiling lightly. The sight of his face, it would seem, does not affect her in the least – despite its worsened state – as she cannot take her eyes from him.

"Why –" he finally begins.

Cala cannot let him finish. "I should have been here before. I should not have stayed away so long. I have been foolish, Thranduil."

"We both have."

"True," his wife agrees wryly. "But I have held on to my foolishness longer than necessary. You deserved better than that. We deserved better than that."

"I tried to tell you – I did not mean to call you back here, but I did want to let you know about the fire, and the battle –"

"Had I known I would have flown here with haste." She reaches up, brushing back a lock of silver-blond that had been plastered to his forehead. Her fingers linger. He leans into the coolness, letting his eyes slip shut. "But I did not. I'm sorry. Elrond –"

"Tis no matter," he sighs. Talking is starting to hurt. "You're here with me now."

Now Cala appeared near tears. "I ought to have been here before. Oh, Thranduil. I am sorry." She strokes his unmarred cheek, but his hand catches hers, tugging gently to pull her closer as he leans up, seeking her lips. Cala granted them, tears mingling with the bittersweet kiss. A few seconds more finds her lying beside him, head resting in the crook of his neck.

"You should be angry with me," she whispers. "You should demand I remove myself form your presence, leave the room, leave the entire forest, never return."

Thranduil shifts slightly, wincing. "I am angry with you," he reassures her. "Most definitely. But I believe I can temporarily overlook those feelings in favor of my more positive emotions. Do not leave. That is what I demand of you now."

She sighs. The rush of breath tickles the skin of his neck. He wants to hum for happiness, but the king knows it will hurt his smoke-sore throat. So he must content himself with a small smile pulling up the corner of the unburnt side of his face. Cala reaches up to stroke his cheek lightly, fingers skimming the surface, sending a welcome shiver down his spine.

Words are beyond them now, so the pair simply lay together in silence, breath mingling, drifting into an undeniable, long-awaited sense of peace.

-XXX-

It is only later, when he has the energy and will, that Thranduil resumes his frustration. Still, he feels rather pathetic attempting to rage at her while he is still bedridden. His currently weakened state has made him feel quite useless over the last few weeks, but never quite a bad as this. He can hardly prop himself up on pillows without aid, for Valar's stake!

But the king perseveres. He holds himself at a noble (though limited) stature, eyes flashing as he tries to begin.

Cala surprises him, however, by being reasonable.

"I was foolish," she agrees automatically at the accusation. "And at first, I think I was perhaps more justified. But the longer I was away, the harder it was to return."

"You know I would welcomed you back with open arms. Always."

"I didn't know that," she says quietly. "I mean, I should have known. But I didn't. Each year I felt more and more apart from you. There was a gap neither of us seemed willing to bridge. And that was intimidating."

She goes on before he can speak again. "I left because I was angry and afraid. You didn't seem to value my opinion anymore, or trust me. Perhaps I invoked that by failing to step up to my responsibilities – I have never felt truly like a queen of the this realm, Thranduil, with so many of our elves seeing me as an outsider. Then came the trouble at Erebor and from Doth Guldur…when I finally sought my duties, I was pushed aside. Not only as your queen, but as your wife. We're supposed to be partners."

Her fingers strain out to brush his. His wife's eyes are wide and sad.

"Leaving was dramatic. I know. But I did not know what else to do. I run, Thranduil. That's how I solve issues. I avoid them. And when it seemed futile, that what I decided to do – leave."

"Which was foolhardy," he interjects.

Cala can give him a half-hearted smile. "But were we not both foolish?"

The king bows his head. "Perhaps I was pig-headed myself. I did nothing to fight for you for over two hundred years. I kept Legolas from you. I did not pursue you beyond the mountains. If you ran away, Cala, I gave up."

"We're both been thick," she whispers. "And by Valar, we know it. We knew it long before we met in Rivendell."

A new fire suddenly rises in him. "Why did you not come when I saw you in the summer?" His eyes abruptly harden. "We could have ended this there."

Sadness reclaims her. "I was scared. Things had changed…I have changed. Rivendell offered me a place to hide. A prison of freedom. I couldn't bring myself to leave so easily."

Thranduil presses his hands together. "Should I be corresponding with Elrond after this war is concluded?"

"This isn't his doing! It was ours." She softens. "Mine. It was mine." Cala looks to the windows, closing her eyes.

He does not quite know what to say to this – she is right. So, instead of speaking, the king lets silence resume.

-XXX-

Fortesbrawn checks in on them sometime in the late afternoon. He enters tentatively, brows rising to find them curled in bed together.

"Ah," he began dryly. "You're both still here. And clearly doing well."

Cala props herself up on an elbow, smoothing her breeches. "Well enough. What brings you here, Fortesbrawn?"

"Making sure neither of you has found it in yourself to end the other."

The king notes the tone his healer takes – Fortesbrawn is cooler when addressing the queen. Clearly, he too holds something of a grudge. Thranduil wonders if he ought to speak to the healer, but then settles on waiting until it truly becomes a problem – perhaps in a week or so. Can't have Cala thinking she's been forgiven so swiftly.

"I need to change the king's dressing," Fortesbrawn adds. "You will have to excuse me, m'lady."

She bows her head, sliding from the mattress to perch upon the bench before the window. Watching silently, her eyes follow the steady motions of the healer's hands as they unwind the fabric, gently prodding skin and muscle. Her face does not alter upon seeing his arrow-inflicted wound. But he can still see that she is affected. Her eyes have a certain glint to them.

The healer's expression is focused while he examines the injury. He's almost frowning.

"How much longer?" Thranduil asks quietly.

"Maybe a few more days. Possibly a week."

The king visibly deflates. "I am growing ill from sitting day in and day out."

"That too is what I fear." Now the healer is truly frowning. "I might have to bring an elf in to massage your limbs again. I can't imagine the state your legs are in at the moment."

"I can simply tell you – not well."

"We can fix that, though it may be some time before you can walk unaided again," Fortesbrawn says grimly.

"A king, reigned to a cane," Thranduil says unhappily. "During wartime, no less. I can't stay here any longer. My citizens need to see me. They need to know I am here to lead and support them in this time of trouble."

"And you can. With a cane."

"And with me."

Both pause to look back at Cala, who quietly added, "I will be there. Thranduil may not need a cane if he can use me for support."

The king and healer exchange long looks. Finally, Fortesbrawn rubs his hands together, stepping back from the bed to turn to his queen. "That may very well work."

She nods. "We will practice, one he's able to leave the bed."

He agrees, then turns back to Thranduil. The group speaks little as Fortesbrawn finishes re-dressing and cleaning the nearly-healed wound. When he finishes, Cala follows him out, intent on bringing Thranduil dinner.

-XXX-

We take steady, small, slow steps across the bridge. My husband's grip upon my arm tightens when we move into the daylight. My hand moves up to rest lightly upon his. While I smile at the elves we pass, Thranduil is his usual impassive self.

I wonder if they notice his sunken eyes. The way his skin is more translucent than usual. Do they see the grim set of his mouth? Or is that just me?

I am a balancer. So I smile, nod, greet our elves warmly. But I doubt it makes much difference.

Between the war, Thranduil's injury, and my long absence, no one is particularly energized to see us. If anything, the faces I pass are nervous, strained, and stressed. Several gazes that linger on me are mistrustful. Some look unabashedly frustrated. I don't see Beriana or Ulain.

Thranduil stumbles slightly when we come across an uneven spot of ground. Late autumn rains have made the path to the Green slightly irregular. His grip increases, and pain shoots up my arm. I straighten, trying to lend more support. We pause as Thranduil gathers himself again.

It was his idea that we venture out to the Green on Market Day. I was reluctant – we have only been walking around the royal apartments and gardens for the last week. He only just regained the ability to walk with support. I was not sure that he could tolerate a prolonged excursion out among the elves of our realm. But Thranduil insisted.

We make the round of the market, stopping at the occasional stand to speak with a vendor. Farmers offer us samples of their vegetables, weavers let us feel their wares, and a kind potter gives my husband a small, lovely little cup. More than one elf asks me if I still raise bees, if I would be selling honey again. It appears no one has take up the task in my stead – honey is either imported in or gathered from wild bees in the forest.

We come across my old friends at their usual stand. Colorful shards of glass catch the light, drawing the eyes of young ones easily. I approach with trepidation.

Beriana is polishing a cobalt-colored vase. I can see my reflection within it. I look hardly any older than the day she introduced me to Thranduil, before the summer festival. But I feel so much older.

"Hello," I say softly.

She nearly drops the vase. When she catches it, it is placed on the counter lightly. Her eyes do not meet mine.

"Beriana," Thranduil greets. I squeeze his hand. He's trying to help. To make this easier for me. "How do you fare?"

"Well, my lord," she replies. "And yourself? We have missed your presence dearly these past weeks."

"I am well." He bows his head. "Do you have a chair about? I should like to sit. I know you and Caladhriel have much to say to one another."

"Of course." She lets us into the stand, producing a chair for my husband. Once he is settled, I anxiously turn to Beriana. She has resumed polishing. When neither of us indicate a pressing need to speak, I go about examining the pedants that hang upon a rod near the front of the stall. There are colorful flowers, bright suns, shimmering stars, sparkling drops of rain, and cheery leaves. I reach out to cup one green glass maple leaf in my hands. "Legolas." There is a twinge in my heart.

"These are lovely, Beriana," I say as I allow the necklace to rest back with the others. "You're really expanded as an artisan."

She tilts her head but does not look up. "Thank you."

I try again. "I know these last years have been quite hard…I guessed as much, when your letters stopped coming. Legolas said..." I swallow. "That after Tauriel was lost things were difficult. I am so sorry, Beriana."

This time she does drop the vase. But the ground is soft, so she pulls it up with only a little mud upon it.

"Oh," she gasps and I realize tears are streaming down her face. Without a thought, I rush to embrace her. She attempts to pull away at first. But eventually she accepts my comfort.

"I know it has been years," she says after several minutes, sniffing. "But I miss her every day, Cala –"

"I know, I know. I cannot imagine," I sooth, rubbing her back.

"Oh, Cala –"

"Mother?"

It's Kalock. Wide-eye, he sets his basket upon the counter, stepping into the stall. Beside him, a child of knee height gazes up at us. Beriana hastily dries her eyes, bending to reach out to the child.

"Eulien," she calls. The little one hugs her. Kal guardedly nears.

"Aunt Cala?"

I take his hands. "Hello, Kal. Is this one yours?"

"I should rather think I am his," he says dryly. "But yes. I did not think we would see you today."

Smiling, I squeeze his hand. "It's a delight to see you. Introduce me to your son."

In the corner, Thranduil cracks his first – and hopefully not only – smile of the day.

-XXX-

They come across one another in the gardens one evening. It has been roughly three weeks since Cala returned. Despite her regular appearances in his office and bedside, she has not yet resumed sharing a bed with him. Not that he has invited her. They are cordial. But distant. It is as though they do not quite know what else to do with one another.

She's in the high gardens, where her bees used to be. Perched on a bench, Cala quietly reads to herself. He had not realized she was there. If he had, Thrandul thought to himself, he likely would have avoided the place entirely. But he is here now.

Approaching as lightly as he can with a cane, the king enters the center of the garden. He wishes that he could pass through the arches in his usual silence. But the rapping of his aid startles Cala from her reading. She looks up. Adjust her skirts. Pushes back a few stray locks from her forehead. And waits.

His side aches, as do his legs. He doesn't sit, however, but leans heavily upon his oakwood cane.

"Hello," she says.

Thranduil nods in response. She rearranges her skirts. An awkward silence ensues.

Cala abruptly speaks. Her fists have tightened into balls that rest in her lap.

"You can be mad at me, Thranduil. By all rights, you should be angry with me. But sometime – someday – you've got to forgive me. And I know it's not going to be today, or tomorrow, or anytime especially soon, just that it is someday." She takes a breath. "I just need to know that someday, you'll come 'round to let us be again."

He does not quite know what to say to that. It's a common trend, actually, Cala leaving him speechless. Something he should be used to by now.

"But perhaps words would not suffice at this particular moment…."

He unfurls a hand, setting it palm-up on the knee nearest hers. For a full minute, his wife stares at the limb. Then, with a tentative expression and feather-lightness, Cala laces her fingers with his. She's almost smiling.

-XXX-

We're nearing the end! So close!

I was not 100 percent please with how this came out, but I did not want to delay posting any longer. I may go back and change some things towards the beginning of the chapter.

Reviews would be so lovely!