Thranduil carefully rapped on the door. Irien had invited him to dine with her and Thorontur that night. He first thought to decline, than thought better of it, considering his strained relationship with his old friend and general, Thorontur.
The door opened to a somewhat-flustered Irien. She wore a white apron, and was drying her hands on the cloth as she opened the door.
"My apologies, my Lord. I was… running late."
He waved it away, stepping over the threshold. The house brought back so many memories; it was like being young again. Young and carefree and happy, skipping into this house, plopping himself down onto the comfortable velvet couch that was still in the corner.
"I once fell here," Thranduil murmured, treading lightly on the meticulously polished wooden floor. "Ran too fast and slipped."
Irien raised her eyebrows. "I can imagine that," she said finally, laughing.
Thranduil laughed lightly.
"I ought to finish the bread," Irien said, stepping into the kitchen. Thranduil followed her, taking a seat at a tall counter.
Irien tossed a roll of dough to Thranduil, who caught it in a free hand. "Will you knead that? Thorontur will arrive soon."
Thranduil held the dough awkwardly, attempting to knead it. Irien turned around from her own work to check on his progress. It took considerable willpower to avoid laughter.
"You have never baked bread before?" she asked incredulously.
Silence. "Well, I have participated in cooking duty during training and orc raids," Thranduil offered.
Irien bit her lip to keep from doubling over in silent fits of hysterics. "Ah. So you know how to turn a raw piece of meat into a charred mess. But you still have not baked beard. Here," she said, chortling.
So began the culinary education of the new Elvenking. He was more prone to attacking the dough rather than kneading it, but his work sufficed. Soon, the bread was baking in the oven.
Irien cleansed her hands in the basin, as did Thranduil. Sharply turning around, he flicked his still-wet hands at Irien.
The expression on her face turned from amazement to delight. She swept the bit of flour that was left on the wooden board into Thranduil's face. He became a white ghost, powdered with white.
Presently, lobs of flour, water and anything else within reach were acting as flying projectiles. It was a form of guerrilla warfare, ambushing and ducking behind counters. Irien narrowly avoided being hit in the face by a portion of leftover dough. Her hair went flying as she ducked in front of the door. Thranduil aimed another lob at her.
But in that moment, the door opened, revealing a stern Thorontur just returning from drills with his corps. And that lob of dough landed in his face instead.
Thranduil cringed, waiting for a strict lecture on the dangers of throwing flour and water (and meat pounders, but we'll keep that a secret for now).
But it never came.
Thorontur laughed. His laugh was much like his sister's, joyful and airy. But perhaps it had a hint of sorrow and nostalgia and pain that was slightly less masked.
"I see you have been having a war of sorts," Thorontur commented as he slung his cloak on a peg. Thranduil glanced outside the window to avoid catching Thorontur's eyes, seeing the sun beginning to sink below the horizon, casting bloody rays across the trees. Whoops.
The mess of flour, water and dough was cleaned up and the three were soon seated at the formal dining room. The long mahogany table was painted ebony black, a tasteful red runner draped in the middle. Candles stood in the center, flickering and bobbing merrily. Irien had prepared soup, coupled with the bread that Thranduil had prepared.
He gently tore off a bit, popping it into his mouth. It wasn't bad. Not bad at all…
Irien was watching him. She took a deep, fake sigh. "I think the bread is just a bit too…. dry," she drawled. "Too…. attacked."
Thorontur laughed. "Too salty," he added.
Thranduil threw a torn piece at Thorontur, who promptly caught it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.
"Perhaps not," Irien concluded, smiling at the spectacle. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to something far in the distance, and stood. "I will return soon," she said, giving Thorontur a pointed look. She nodded to Thranduil, and took off.
"Where did she go?" Thranduil voiced aloud.
The rest of the meal passed in conversation between the two comrades. Thorontur seemed to forgive Thranduil for his cold dismissal to Irien that day in the forest. They spoke of the times before the war, times after the war. But never about the war. It was something no one was loath to forget. Every time it loomed up in his mind like a dark storm cloud, Thranduil always pushed it back to the recesses of his mind, forcing himself to pay attention to the present.
Thranduil stood to clear the table. Irien had still not returned, her bowl of soup still cooling. Thorontur followed his gaze. "She will be here soon," Thorontur said quietly.
Thranduil nodded, unconvinced. It was unlike Irien to abandon a guest. He slipped into the kitchen, setting down his utensils.
There was a soft murmur from the right wing. He could hear it faintly, difficult even for his elvish ears to detect. Thranduil moved as lithely and slowly as a dark panther, creeping towards the sound.
After several wrong turns and rooms containing clothing and armor, he stumbled upon an open door. A soft glow emanated from the inside. The murmurs were indeed voices.
Though the door was open, Thranduil knocked. The sound was surprisingly loud.
Irien appeared at the door. She bit her lip.
"May I come in?" Thranduil asked.
Irien nodded quickly, ducking her head and stepping aside to let him enter.
Thranduil took a step in. He almost gasped.
It was Linneth. Not the Linneth he knew those years ago, with bright auburn hair and twinkling eyes. Her hair was streaked in silver and white now, which was uncharacteristic for the immortal Eldar, and perhaps more unkempt than it was before.
Linneth turned around to Irien, who was arranging already perfectly placed dishes on a tray. "Lalwen?" she asked.
Thranduil lifted an eyebrow slightly. Lalwen?
"Yes, Linneth?"
"Thank you for bringing me supper. It was delicious.'
"My pleasure," Irien said. Thranduil met her eyes for one moment. They were hollow.
Linneth turned around. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she caught sight of Thranduil. "I know you!"
Irien almost dropped her tray.
"But I don't remember your name. What was it again, dear?" Linneth continued.
"Thranduil Oropherion," he managed to choke out.
"Ah! I haven't seen Oropher in a good long while. He talked my husband…. Serindir, that's his name, into bringing Lalwen here to care for me every day. And she has been doing an extraordinarily good job." Linneth said. "Where did you say you were from, dearie?" she continued, turning to Irien.
"The north," Irien said quietly.
"Ah! Northern Greenwood. Where is Oropher now, anyway?" Linneth returned to the original topic.
Thranduil's mouth went parchment dry. Irien stepped in. "He's been away, Linneth,"
"Well, when you see him, tell him to come see me. I know his princes' duties are tough."
Prince?! Thranduil inclined his head to Linneth. "I must take my leave, but I will return soon."
"Yes, yes," she said, waving him away. "Goodbye."
Thranduil was speechless, and Irien was silent. Until they came across Thorontur in the left wing corridor.
Thranduil opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to backpedal out of intruding, but Thorontur held up a hand to stop him.
"We knew you would discover the truth sooner or later," he said grudgingly. "Too inquisitive for your own good."
There was a silence, none really knowing exactly what to say. Thorontur cleared his throat. "I'll excuse myself. Good night. Thranduil, please, you are always welcome in our house." He bowed, touching a finger to his brow in reverence, then swept away.
Thranduil turned to Irien, intending to somehow say something that would sum up all that had happened, but she beat him to it.
"It has been like that for years. At first, we thought they were just slight memory slips. Then it got worse. She didn't recognize me or my brother. She barely knew who my father was. I just told her that I was a maid that got assigned to care for her. Then my father left as the ambassador. He never wanted to take care of problems in our family, and he didn't want to deal with the wife that scarcely remembered him. So he left. But I have to play the dutiful daughter every time he comes back because I hardly see him at all!"
Irien finished the tirade with a frustrated noise in her throat. "And he's coming back. But I shouldn't be speaking about him like this. He works so hard for us." A pause. "And my mother doesn't even remember me, and every time I look at her I see all those years when I would go to her crying, when she would sit with me until I cried myself out. But to her, I am Lalwen the servant girl from someplace she doesn't even remember. The healers say that she probably will never recover. Thorontur and I don't know what to do. "
She pursed her lips.
"Apologies," she whispered after a pause. "These burdens are mine, not yours."
"I am not Linneth, but….," Thranduil wrapped a tentative arm around her. "A king should not care for the burdens of his people?" he asked quietly. "The strongest may be weak at times."
Irien nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Slowly, she turned to face Thranduil, laying her head on his shoulder. She heard a strong heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump.
A lone tear found its way down her face.
"Everything will be alright," Thranduil murmured quietly.
Irien could only hope.