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Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom

by faust

7

The Mother

Thranduil knows something is not right: Galion's frantic call that brought him hurrying to see his son and wife, and then, upon his arrival at the infirmary, the healer's and Eryniel's quiet assurance that all will be well…it does not fit, it does not quite fit. He is no fool, he knows that there is something withheld from him; he does not know what, not yet, but he will ascertain it. Eryniel, of course, will only bestow upon him a perfectly innocent green gaze when questioned, mortally wounded at the very idea that he considers her to be anything but utterly honest. She will twist his words, and hers, until he loses his temper—and he does not want to lose his temper, not whilst she looks so frail and tired. It would not gain him much, anyway: Eryniel would only voice her disappointment in him, and then retreat to her chambers and refuse to see him until he "comes to his senses".

So he will have to wait for Legolas to awaken. Even though his son has displayed a lamentable streak of…independence recently, he still balances his rebellious impulses with respectful conduct and an impeccable performance of his duties. Indeed, he has started to question Thranduil's decrees—but thus far, he has not openly contradicted his father and king. Yes, he went and followed Tauriel without securing his father's consent first…a foolish idea, born out of misplaced fondness for someone completely unsuitable…but it was done to prevent the Captain acting against orders, to make sure the king's commands were observed—not to challenge them.

Legolas will answer Thranduil's questions to his best ability. He will not try and fob him off with half-truths and palliations. Unlike his mother, the Prince of Greenwood is not immune to King Thranduil's icy glare. Yet. (And unlike his mother, Legolas has yet to discover the art of winning an argument against his father by sheer stubborn insistence on his point and complete disregard of the king's superiority in everything, which will come in useful when Thranduil will be questioning his son about disregarding his explicit orders.)

A soft cough comes from Eryniel, little more than a clearing of her throat, but it pulls Thranduil back from what he is going to do to what he is doing. He pours his wife a glass of honeyed water from a carafe on Legolas's bedside table, watches her take a few tiny sips.

"Are you better now?" he asks as he puts the glass back.

She smiles. "I am well."

It is a blatant lie—but she knows that as well as he does, and he raises his unbelieving eyebrow only because it is part of the ritual. He feels her hand again—still cold; how can she have cold hands in the heated shelter of the healing halls?—and then pulls the thin woollen blanket from the divan's backrest and drapes it over his queen.

"Do not fret," she admonishes him—as he expects her to, for it also belongs to their routine—and wriggles her hands free from the warming cover.

Her smile is but a shadow of the usual golden brightness, but her green gaze warms Thranduil's heart anyway, as it always had and always will, even though he almost shivers from the short touch of her cool fingers on his cheek. He reaches up as her hand falls down, and their fingers brush so lightly it is barely a whisper. But they remain like that, fingers ghosting around each other in feathery touches, tender pledges, sweet devotion. The fragrance of spring flowers refreshes the air, of honey and sunlight on bare skin; Thranduil hears his song and hers, mingling, dancing, rejoicing; and time ceases to pass—immortality merges with eternity. And his heart…his heart…melts…

They emerge from it when they are called back to the present by the only thing that could possibly reach through to them, the one thing that has never failed to alert them: the cry of their child. It is but a faint moan, merely an audible exhalation, and yet it commands—and receives—both their attentions directed immediately towards what is most important to them.

Thranduil studies Legolas's face; he seems to detect a semblance of colour on the pale cheeks. Legolas's lips twitch, his brow furrows, a grimace of pain washes over his features, then he relaxes.

Eryniel cups Legolas's cheek with one hand and coos, "Shhh" until he rests peacefully again.

She fiddles with the bed linen, smoothes out non-existent wrinkles, adjusts perfectly arranged blankets, inspects the expertly applied bandages. "Henig," she murmurs as she strokes Legolas's hair out of his face, "penneth-nín." She traces his brow, his cheeks with her fingertips, then rests her hand on his collarbone, closes her eyes and stills completely.

"You are not to strain yourself even more," Thranduil warns. "If I so much as hear even a single note of your healing song—"

"I shall be removed from this room, I know." She sighs. "Do not part me from my child, aran-nín. I could not bear it."

"I will not if you do not exhaust yourself."

Her fingers are rubbing slow circles on Legolas's shoulder, on a patch of unbruised skin, seemingly the one lonely spot that is not covered in bandages. The movement has an almost hypnotic cadence, but the absence of sound and fragrance in the air tells Thranduil that she, indeed, is not pouring strength into their child.

She does not stop the tender caress as she lifts her head and catches her husband's gaze. "I have been exhausted for a very long time now," she says quietly. "I have grown tired of being exhausted. I have grown tired of the weakness."

Thranduil stares at her. He is very much aware of his glare's piercing quality, of its ability to penetrate others' wills and crumble their resolution. He is also aware of its accursed ineffectiveness on Eryniel—but she is weak and tired, and mayhap it will affect her only this once. So he fixes his eyes on her, tries to break into her mind, tries to will her not to continue, not to speak the words he has been dreading to hear for so long a time.

But she is not to be deterred. "I long for rest," she says. "When it comes, I will embrace the repose. I will not suffer, know that, my love."

"But I cannot endure…," is all he can utter as he feels his chest tighten around his heart.

"You can, and you will." She does not flinch from his stare, instead she meets his eyes with hers, melts sharp blue ice with soft forest-green light. "Our people need you. Now that the Shadow draws nearer they need you more than ever. And Legolas needs you, too, even if he might not think so."

"You are needed here as well. Did you not tell me you would not sail because you were needed in Arda?"

She smiles even as she shakes her head. "I have fulfilled my destiny."

He must have misheard it. It cannot be. Or she errs, yes, certainly she errs. "You cannot…" He stands, abruptly. Paces the small room. Swishes his robes. Halts and taps his foot. Paces, swishes the robe. Stops in front of Eryniel, bends and hovers over her, his face close to hers. "And," he hisses, and yes, he hisses, he is trying to intimidate her, to ridicule her, to prevail upon her to take it back. "And pray tell, how do you know that?"

"Do not." She may be weak and tired but her tone is sharp, and the push of her hand against his chest resolute. "I am not your underling. Mind your demeanour."

He blinks, sags down on the divan. He tries again, softer, without kingly presumption, "How can you know that?" Horrified, he hears something in his voice for which he has no word. Something that, coming from another, might be referred to as…desperation…fear… But he is Thranduil, King of the Woodland. He knows neither desperation nor fear.

"I know it just as I knew I must not sail: my task is done."

"But you knew not what your task was."

No, she knew it not. And yet she refused to sail West, to the Undying Lands, where there was healing to be obtained and where she could be waiting until one day they were united again. Instead she remained in Arda for some purpose she could not name but persisted was more important than her immortality. It would reveal itself eventually, she always said, and that she would know it when its time came.

It drove him to distraction, she drove him to distraction. Eryniel had never been gifted with foresight, and Thranduil was quick to dismiss her conviction of the verity of this one visionary knowledge as fancy. It was difficult enough to accept the inevitability of her fading, the healers' inability to find a cure or any means to stop the Shadow's grasp on his queen, the truth that his beloved would not remain at his side until they left for Aman together—but it was nigh on impossible to accept her calm surrender to her fate. And so he tried to make her change her mind, tried to make her see sense, fully aware of the futility of it and yet unable to stop himself. Inevitably, his solid arguments were blocked by her solid determination: he reasoned and she was stubborn—until it was too late for her to sail, until she was too weak even to withstand the long journey to the Grey Havens.

To imagine that he will have to dwell in Aman without his beloved is unbearable, but Eryniel has promised him that once she has reached the Halls she will beg Mandos to release her to the Undying Lands. And if she pleads her case with the Doomsman as well as she argues with her king, then Thranduil knows not all hope is lost.

But it still does not answer his question, still does not make her ready consent easier to bear.

"It is true, I did not know my task then," Eryniel says. "But I know it now, and that I have fulfilled it. And you know it, too."

He can see how her eyes search for comprehension in his, how her mouth curls into a soft smile as understanding slowly comes to him, how her gaze shifts with his to the bed that contains their most precious treasure. He feels her hand clasping his.

Oh Valar… He cannot even rage when the reason for his wife's sacrifice is this, their child, the only thing that would justify…and yet he can, can throw his fury at the deities that he cannot have them both, that one must be sacrificed for the other. He begins to understand, though, her graceful acceptance of what was asked of her. He would have given himself just as readily.

"Our son is meant for… for something of great importance. He must remain in Arda," he hears Eryniel whisper.

With major effort Thranduil refrains from groaning. "I presume it is too much to ask what it is that Legolas is supposed to do for Arda?" Of course, she will not know. It would just not be irritating enough if she did, would it?

Eryniel shakes her head. "I do not know it, meleth. I only know that it is his destiny to live and to…" She laughs quietly. "…to leave the realm, aran-nìn, to leave the Woodlands after all and do his task somewhere else."

"He will not leave the realm. Not again." Thranduil does not know how Eryniel can suggest otherwise. "I will not see him endangered once again. He will remain within the realm's borders as I have ordered."

"You cannot confine him forever."

"I will if I must. Him and everyone else."

"It is not wise to—"

"It is not wise to disregard my orders." He realises how uncivil it is to interrupt her so, how curt and sharp his words must sound, and that, surely, Eryniel is already composing a reprimand, but he has had enough of people trying to insinuate they know better than he how to rule his kingdom. "This…" He gestures towards Legolas. "This happened because Tauriel did not heed my orders."

"No, that is not—"

"If Tauriel had not decided that protecting the dwarves was better than protecting the realm, Legolas would not have followed her, would not have fought and pursued the yrch, would not have been injured so badly. You would not have searched for him, but stayed safely—"

"Meleth. Stop that reasoning. The yrch hurt your son. That was not Tauriel's doing. "

He blinks. "No, you are right. It is not. It is the naugrim's fault. If the naugrim had not brought the yrch—"

"Thranduil!"

Her voice is very loud for someone so weak, and for a moment Thranduil feels compelled to see if it has woken Legolas. But he is a wise king, and a smart husband, and he recognises the tone of her voice that commands his complete regard. He inclines his head. Just a fraction. He will make only a small concession: he listens.

"Do not walk that path. You know it will lead you astray," Eryniel says. "Had Legolas not followed Tauriel…. Had Tauriel not followed the dwarves…. Had the dwarves not escaped the dungeons…. Had you not incarcerated the dwarves…." She smiles sweetly. "See how easily I can have you at fault?"

Had the dwarves not trespassed, had they not refused to give their reasons…. But Thranduil has abandoned this path already. He knows his queen's advice is sound.

"The dwarves, Tauriel, you, I, each one, every decision has its part in this," she concludes. "But at heart, it is the Shadow that is to blame."

Bowing his head, he wordlessly concedes to her wisdom. The Shadow has started it all, the Shadow is what turns small inconveniences into catastrophes. The Shadow, the Necromancer, who is the enemy not only of the elves but of all the folks of Arda. Mayhap he should have….

But it is not wise to dwell in the past, nor is it is wise to ponder over things unchangeable. And Eryniel looks as if her outburst has cost her all remaining strength. Her body is sunken deep into the divan's cushion, her hands lie limply on the blanket, her eyes are glazing over—she will fall into reverie ere long.

Carefully, as if it was made of delicate crystal, he picks up her hand, raises it to his lips. His kiss is tender, the touch of a butterfly wing.

"Rest now," he whispers. "I shall watch over our penneth, and you."

And his queen complies.

Sindarin, just in case...

henig = my child
penneth-nín = my little one
aran-nìn = my king
naug/pl. naugrim = dwarves
meleth = love
orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin
penneth = young one