Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom

by faust

5

The King

Tauriel is led to the throne room as soon as she reaches the stronghold. It is the first time in many centuries that she does not make the way on her own. She does not need guidance—but, of course, she understands the degradation, the loss of trust such behaviour implies.

Once she is in his presence, the first thing the king wants to know is if Tauriel bears news of Legolas. He is exasperated that she does not and he does not hide it. His concern, though, remains hidden. Tauriel is not sure whether Thranduil thinks it is a weakness to show affection, that it makes him vulnerable or less kingly or he just does not want his sharp mind be clouded by it. All she is sure about is that the king is concerned about the prince, the father about his son.

She has seen it before, this concern, perfectly concealed by cool control, by a blasé mask; but she has never let herself be deceived by it.

No, that is not true. The first time she saw it, she believed it. The first time she saw it, she trembled in fear, and in outrage, too; but she was young, almost an elfling still, and she had been under royal care only for a few months, so she just stared at the cold king and hid in the warm folds of the queen's skirt, uttering not a single ungrateful word.

The king took her in after her parents had died in an orc attack on a border patrol. Tauriel's mother had been killed during the ambush; her father, the captain of the guard, had brought the few survivors and the bodies of the slain back to the palace, and succumbed to his injuries shortly after. With his last breath he had entrusted his only daughter to the king.

Thranduil did not disappoint that trust. He gave her a home, clothed her and fed her, had her be taught and educated. When she showed interest in archery and sword fighting, he saw to it that her talents were nurtured. He did all that and more, and yet he always remained distant. Cold and haughty and unpredictable he seemed, his fearsome temper flaring up for the most unexpected reasons.

The queen provided warmth and concern, an open ear and soothing words when Tauriel had collided with her lord king yet again. Eryniel was kind and stern, motherly and queenly, a safe haven and…fragile. Ailing and often afflicted by crippling pains and aches and weaknesses, secluded then in her private chambers, where she would be sheltered by healers and by the king, shielded from the Shadow, from strangers, from noise and bother, and from young ellith who should know better than to disturb their lady.

And then there was Legolas. Legolas—tall and graceful and handsome, the shining prince of Eryn Galen, bright star and treasured only child of the king and queen, Tauriel's secret idol—treated her with the distracted fondness of an older sibling who had to concentrate on his own troubles. He had been appointed captain of the guard after Tauriel's father had died, and needed to fight constantly to prove himself a worthy successor, a competent leader and loyal comrade despite his youth, not someone given high position solely because of his royal blood. His skill with the bow and the twin knives was unquestioned, even back then, but his ability to lead and command warriors—equally level-headed and shrewd—was as yet unproven. He spent most of his time out on patrol or in the guards' quarters with his soldiers.

When in the palace and not occupied by the king, he was usually to be found in his mother's rooms—and often went to see Tauriel after that, awkwardly inquiring after her well-being and asking if perchance she needed anything. At first she did not dare ask for a single thing. She did not know what to make of his inquiry: her strapping hero was uncharacteristically fidgety while with her, his smile strained and his eyes almost haunted as if he wished he were anywhere but with the child. But soon she noticed that Legolas relaxed notably when she had a request, when she bade him to actually do something for her. When prompted he would read to her, craft little toys, or tell legends of the First Age or stories about his patrol's ventures into the dark forest. And he tried to reassure her when, after another encounter with an irritable king, she admitted being intimidated of her guardian. The king, he claimed, cared deeply for everyone under his protection; and even if he did not put it on display, he was as loving a father as any.

It was the one thing Tauriel could not believe the prince. She remembered her own father well, and how she never had doubted his devotion, his affection towards her. No, she did not believe King Thranduil capable of true love—until the day Legolas's patrol did not return to the palace at their appointed time.

The king was anxious to receive his captain's report. Orcs had been spied close to the elf path, and the patrol had been sent out to drive them back and secure the only safe way through the forest. Tauriel, hidden in the shadows as was her wont when Legolas was expected—for she would not miss the chance of seeing the one she considered her big brother and hearing his newest, undoubtedly exciting adventure—observed how at first the delay seemed to merely annoy the king. He drummed his fingers on the throne's armrests and stared into the empty room. Then he got impatient, frequently inquired if the outpost had spied anything, anyone, any movement, stood and paced the throne room. His strides were long, quick, and actually audible, and at the end of each length he turned with a dizzying swirl of his robe. The sound of the fabric's swish was like that of a storm in Tauriel's ears.

Finally the king barked out orders Tauriel didn't understand, and told his trusted butler Galion in detail which consequences his wayward son would have to face when he eventually returned.

"It will be well, my Lord," Galion answered to that, as unfitting as it seemed to Tauriel. "He will be well, I am sure of it."

The king did not seem to hear him. "I do not tolerate tardiness," he hissed.

"Sire…"

"Or disobedience." It sounded like a snake's snort or that of a dragon.

Tauriel ducked even lower in her hiding place. She almost wished Legolas would not return, at least not right then, for she did not want him have to face the king's wrath.

"My Lord, the prince surely will be here in no time. He will be fine."

The exchange went on, with the king's voice rising a notch with every word he uttered, and it only stopped when a guard, barely able to stand, with stains of red and black all over his tunic, entered the room and announced that, no, the prince was not fine. That he had been gravely injured, and was now—

There was a blur of motion and voices, and to this day Tauriel does not surely know how she ended up in the healing halls, clutching the queen's skirt and staring at her brother's still form in the infirmary bed.

The king's face was unreadable, indifferent, and he never spared his son a single look as he spoke to the healers, demanded a report from Legolas's second, issued commands, and ordered the queen to step back and now let the healers do their work. There was a little quarrel about that, with the queen being upset and imperious, and the king imperious, too, and annoyed about her "intransigence."

"I shall have you removed from here," he said at one point, the anger in his voice actually laced with a hint of worry; and the queen shot him a glare that could have melted glass, but she stopped arguing.

The atmosphere in the chamber remained tense until the healers declared their work done and the prince—who by then was swathed in bandages and drugged to the hilt with healing potions—no longer in immediate danger, and then departed from the room leaving behind only the royal family—and Tauriel.

Quiet fell. The queen settled down in a chair at her son's bedside, her fingers lightly drawing circles on his shoulder as she started to softly hum a melody that rang of green wood and fresh water, and the room filled with the smell of pine needles and sunshine. Tauriel resisted the urge to crawl on the bed, curl up next to Legolas and let herself be lulled into sleep by the enchanting tune but instead stayed enshrouded in the soft, warm velvet of the queen's ornate robe, hidden from the king's scrutiny.

Then, and only then, Thranduil's gaze went to the bed, to his child, and—to Tauriel's utmost astonishment—the tight composure of his features simply fell off. Gone was the coolness, gone was the indifference, gone was the…king. What remained was the father, and the husband. Concerned, worried even, stripped bare of his kingly façade, there stood the elf, the father of which Legolas had told her, the ada who loved and was loved in return.

Never would Tauriel forget the tremble in his voice when he sank down on to the bed, one hand resting on his son's brow, the other reaching blindly for his wife, as he rasped out, "Oh, iôn-nín, what did I do to you? Thanks be to the Valar, we were spared this time—but what did I do to you?"

It was the first time Tauriel forgot to be intimidated by her custodian. She does not forget now. She is intimidated. More than she would have thought possible.

A sharp "Well, have you nothing to say?" startles her back to attention. It is the king who is demanding her, not the custodian, and certainly not the father. No, it is the king, the very irritated king; and Tauriel pulls herself together.

She is not an elfling anymore. She is a grown elleth, a warrior, captain of the king's guard; and the queen's skirts are nowhere in reach anyhow. Perhaps Legolas is nestled in their folds right now... Tauriel almost snorts as the very idea is ridiculous—but she almost wishes it were true because that would mean Legolas has been found. It would, of course, also mean he must be grievously injured, for he would never, not even under the direst circumstances, tax his mother's waning strength, would never seek her help; would never allow her to tend to him if he were still capable of refusing it.

She shakes her head as if getting rid of the image could prevent it from actually happening—and realises her mistake too late.

"You are sadly mistaken if you think silence will help you any." There is a silken smoothness in the king's voice, a benign softness blanketing his ire.

Tauriel straightens her back. "I did not mean…" She hears the tap of a kingly foot, and she knows better than to try her lord's patience any more. "I will speak. I came here to speak. To explain."

"To explain. Good." Thranduil leans back in the throne. He crosses his legs, places his arms loosely on the rests. It almost looks like lounging, but Tauriel knows his posture is mindfully composed. "Then, if you please," he continues, "do explain why you left the kingdom—against explicit orders."

"I did consider it the right course of action, my Lord."

"You considered it the right course of action to defy my orders?" An eyebrow rises, subtly, just a fraction. It is warning enough.

Tauriel courtly bows her head and makes sure to keep any defiance out of it as she answers, "The orcs were heading towards Laketown, my Lord. I assumed the orders were issued without knowledge of that threat."

Thranduil brings his hands together, touching only at the tips of his fingers. "You assumed."

Respect. Admittance of the lower rank. But no submission, no…creeping. That is how one approaches an angered Thranduil. Look straight in his eye. "I am captain of the guard. I am entitled to act as I think it required."

The king taps his foot again, and Tauriel counts the beats. One, two, three, four, five. He stops at six.

"So you acted as captain of the guard?" He purses his lips and leans forward. "Well then, Captain, report."

And Tauriel reports. The king keeps his features tightly scheduled while she speaks. He does not interrupt, he does not raise an eyebrow or tap his foot again.

Tauriel knows not how much Thranduil has heard already from the guard the queen has sent back, hence she tells the whole story: how she has decided to hunt the orcs, how Legolas has caught up with her and readily joined the pursuit, how they fought in Bard's house, how Legolas pursued the fleeing goblins, how she stayed back to heal Kili. She tells how she became aware that something might not be right when the queen suddenly entered the house, how she offered her help in the search for Legolas and how that was declined. How it was Kili who prompted her to go back and explain herself, how it was not the dwarves fault that—

Here Thranduil finally does interrupt. It is also the moment his unreadable face transforms into something that is very easily interpreted: he is outraged. His voice, though, is still soft. Dangerously so. "So you are telling me that you disregarded your king's express orders and neglected your duty as captain of the royal guard in order to tend to an injured dwarf?"

Tauriel cannot help but be faintly amused that Thranduil's summary of the events is so similar to his wife's. Perhaps after thousands of years of marriage people take up things from one another. It is, however, the only amusing thing in this situation. And she is not sure which is worse: the king's cold fury or the queen's disappointment.

"Speak, Tauriel." Ever-so-softly, and ever-so-sharp, ever-so-clipped—ever-so-terrifying. Clearly, the king's wrath is worse, far worse than the queen's disapproval. Perhaps the latter is more distressing, more painful to the heart; but to incur the king's wrath is perilous—it can break more than a heart's peace.

"I did not neglect my duty. My Lord."

Thranduil frowns. He tilts his head the way he does when he does not want to unleash his fury—yet. "I do wonder," he says, and he makes big round eyes—an expression that might look innocent on anyone else but not on the King of the Woodland, on whom it is mocking, cynical, threatening. "I do wonder if, at any point, I mayhap have been unclear as to what your duty actually entails." He leans back. "Do you know what your duty entails, Captain?"

"I do…Sire, of course I do know what my duty is."

"Then, pray tell, what is it that you deem your duty to this kingdom?"

"I was tasked to keep the lands clear of foul creatures. My duty is to protect the realm at any cost."

"And the realm consist of…?" More foot tapping; the beats now coming in rapid succession as the king studies Tauriel as if she were a fascinating new specimen. A previously unknown variety of spider, perhaps.

She is not sure what kind of answer her lord expects, but she is aware that his patience is almost spent. "The forest," she says as it is the first thing that springs to her mind. It is where they fight the spiders and it is what is dear to Thranduil's heart—because it is dear to his queen's heart. "And the stronghold. The King's Halls."

The tapping stops. The king is completely calm now. Too calm. A dormant volcano. He curls his lips, briefly. "The stronghold," he says then, and his arms open in a wide gesture that encompasses the whole palace. "The stronghold is made of rock. Sturdy. Rock does not need protection. Neither does the wood of the forest. It is the people inside who need protection."

Oh. That is what... "My Lord—"

"That is your duty, Tauriel, to protect your people, your kin. And your…prince."

"I did—"

"But instead of protecting him, you lured Legolas into a foolish chase—and then you abandoned him."

"Sire, I did not…I did not abandon Legolas. We fought, together. We cleared the house, then he followed the fleeing goblins. I thought…" And here it is again: she thought he would not attack the resorting orcs; not if he was on his own. Only…she should have known better. Should have known him better. And perhaps she had known better, but just ignored—

"You thought? What did you think, Tauriel? Are you certain you thought at all?" The king unfolds his legs and leans forward—like a wildcat ready to jump at its prey. "Do you know what loyalty means?"

This time she cannot help but cringe. She does not want to, but…but King Thranduil has just done what he can do best: he has found the weakness, both in Tauriel and in her reasoning. Loyalty. Oh, yes, she knows what loyalty means. Legolas proved his loyalty towards her when he followed her to make her turn and go back to the stronghold. He proved his loyalty towards her when he did not let her fight the orcs on her own—even though he thought she was doing it for the wrong reasons. He proved his loyalty towards her when he helped her defend the dwarves for whom he held no sympathy.

And then she left him to himself.

Petrified, Tauriel stares at the king. He is unmoving, but his eyes…. Impossibly, they look ready to burst into flames. As if there were fervid lava under the blue ice. She has to clench her hands into fists to stop them from trembling.

"I may have…misjudged—"

At that, the king erupts.

"Misjudged?" he spits out his lava in a roar that is audible throughout the palace as far as the furthermost alcove; it rushes through the King's Halls, echoes from the high vaults, reverberates from every gnarled pillar. Thranduil is fire and ice, boiling hot anger and freezing cold fury. He is on his feet—how, Tauriel does not know, she has not seen him leap up—and around his legs his regal robe billows, white gems embroidered on silvery grey fabric like ice crystals glistening in clouds of smoke. His gaze is a burning dagger, his voice cold thunder. "What did you misjudge? That Legolas would not pursue the goblins?" He laughs. There is no trace of humour in it. "You misjudged in that you thought he would not try and eliminate them, on his very own if he deemed it necessary? How could you possibly have misjudged that? Have you not fought side by side with him for centuries? Should you not have known him well enough not to misjudge that?"

Tauriel does not think she can bear the king's look any longer. She takes an involuntary step back, then another one, deliberately, bows her head, slumps her shoulders, makes of herself a small target. She looks down, at her now shaking hands, finds a green thread sticking out of her tunic's sleeve and desperately wishes to seize it, pluck at it, tear at it, occupy her hands and divert her racing thoughts with it—but she does not dare loosen what little is left of her stance. She has no answer for her king, no answer that would satisfy him—or herself. This is not something she wishes to discuss with the king—it is her prince whom she will have to beg for forgiveness. And so she stands, still, and listens, silently; making herself as unobtrusive as possible.

But the king apparently does not expect her to answer. "Or," he says softly, "did you simply not care?"

He cannot mean that. Surely, he does not think that of her. He cannot think…he cannot, can he?

Slowly the king descends the stairs leading down from the throne dais. He has his fury on tight reins now, lets it flare up only briefly with each step, each swell of his robe. It is deliberate, a performance; but even though Tauriel is aware of that she cannot avert its disturbing effect on her.

On reaching the stone floor, Thranduil stops. He folds his hands behind his back, leans forward and to the side, as if to compensate for the difference in their heights—but it only enhances his superior stature. "Or mayhap," he says, "you misjudged the severity of the fact that you were defying your king's orders as you followed the goblins across our borders?"

This is safe ground. This decision was right, Tauriel knows that, and she will defend it to her last breath. "My Lord, the orcs were threatening the people of Laketown. The men needed protection."

"I think I have told you not so many days ago that other lands are not my concern. Or yours."

"But Sire, if the orcs destroyed Laketown, would it not concern us? We do trade with the men, do we not?"

"Do you deem yourself wiser than your king?" he hisses. "Is that what you are trying to tell me?"

The safe ground has changed back into dangerous territory in a blink. "No, my Lord, no. I just…I thought…I knew you would not want me to turn my back on those in need."

Thranduil stares at her. His face is blank, his eyes cold, his lips slightly parted. His hands, though, are now at his side and balled into fists. When he finally speaks, his voice is ice-blue velvet. "So you are telling me you went to Laketown to protect those in need, Tauriel? Who were those in need? The men in town or the dwarves?"

"Both, of course. My Lord."

"Both, of course." He smiles. Even his smile is ice-blue. Cold. "And whom did you actually protect?"

"The…" The dwarves, she realises. The dwarves, only the dwarves. Legolas went and protected the town, she did only protect the— "…dwarves." It is but a whisper.

Thranduil's gaze pierces her deeply; he nods. He says nothing, he does not have to. He waits.

"But I had to, my Lord," she pleads. Pleads? She has never pled with her king, never felt the need to. But he also never has regarded her so contemptuously. "No one else would have. They were alone, too small a number and one of them deathly ill. They needed my help."

The king does not look as if it makes any difference to him.

"There were children," Tauriel suddenly remembers. "Surely you understand—"

And then Thranduil's face is right in front of hers, his breath hot on her cheek. "Enough," he says. "Quiet. Be still. Speak no more."

He straightens, lifts his hand to conduct the gesture that summons the guards—Tauriel's comrades—to lead her away.

She does not dare speak up. She has tried to explain herself to her lord, has tried to make him understand—not just her actions but the idea behind them. She might not have succeeded yet, but perhaps when the king's ire settles he might be inclined to hear her again. One success, surprisingly, she can count her own: Thranduil's anger is no longer directed at the dwarves. Of course, she has managed to draw it all upon herself—but, honestly, Tauriel does not think she could have prevented that even if she had tried.

She hears the king pronounce the charge, insubordination, and thinks herself lucky it is not treason; feels the guards' strong grip on her upper arms, the pull.

But then everything comes to a halt when there is a commotion in the corridor, and Galion, two guards close at his heels, comes almost running up the way to the throne room and, foregoing his usual dignity, cries even from afar, "My Lord, my Lord!"

The king freezes. Only his head turns as he acknowledges his trusted friend, "Galion."

The butler bows as he stops in front of the king. "My Lord, the queen has returned." He reaches a hand out, hesitates, then draws it back.

Thranduil inclines his head, only by a fraction, and his eyes widen slightly. Nothing more, just that. He is trying to read Galion's face, Tauriel realises, his pride forbidding him to ask what he so desperately wants to know.

And Galion seems incapable of continuing, as if willing to say what must be said only if given no other choice.

Tauriel knows it is not her place to intervene, but she does anyway. It is an act of kindness, of compassion, delivered to her king who perhaps does not even deserve it. And yet she owes him that. "Is Legolas with her?"

The king's face betrays no emotion as he awaits the answer. He allows not the tiniest twitch of his brow, not a single jerk of a muscle. His features appear as if carved out of ice, his body taut as a bent bow.

"He is," Galion nods.

There is a slight tremor in Thranduil's face, almost unnoticeable, and a minute easing in the rigidness of his shoulders. But then the king's cold mask shatters completely at the butler's next words.

"He is being attended to in the healing halls—as is the queen. It does not…The healer says you might want to see to them…without delay."

Thranduil spares a moment to motion the guards to conduct their prisoner away before he hastens towards the healing halls, towards his family—of which Tauriel obviously is not considered a part anymore.

Sindarin, just in case...

elleth/pl. ellith = female elf
Eryn Galen = Greenwood
iôn-nín = my son
ada = papa