Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
XLIX: Dreaming of The Sylvan Throne
ElvenKing's Hall, Mirkwood, 3018 TA September 19th
In the midst of Mirkwood's hallowed halls, an aura of unwavering serenity pervaded, a stark contrast to the burgeoning chaos that threatened the lands beyond its borders. Here, under the shadowed canopy of ancient trees, the elven realm persisted in an ethereal peace, untouched yet by the clashing swords and darkening skies of the outside world. Amid the courtiers of Thranduil's court, a figure of captivating grace and enigmatic poise emerged as the center of whispered conversations and admiring glances.
Althea, daughter of Nienna, stood like a figure carved from moonlight, her silver hair cascading in waves that captured the dim luminescence of the hall. Her eyes, deep pools reflecting the wisdom of ages, surveyed the court with a detachment that only heightened her allure. She was draped in silks that seemed to weave starlight into their very threads, the intricate embroidery of her attire speaking of heritage as rich and complex as the history of the woodland realm itself.
Raised under the tutelage of Nienna, her mother and confidante, Althea had grown to understand the intricate dance of court politics and power. Nienna, a figure revered for her wisdom and insight, had long been a pillar in the court of Thranduil, serving as a bridge between the King and his subjects. It was this deep connection that had fostered a bond between their families since the infancy of Legolas, the prince of Mirkwood.
In the eyes of many, Althea was the perfect complement to Legolas – her keen mind and regal bearing were a fitting match for the prince's valor and noble heart. Yet, for all her outward perfection, Althea's heart harbored ambitions that transcended the mere joining of two noble houses. Her demeanor, though laced with aristocratic grace, often veiled a mind at work, scheming and plotting the weaving of her own destiny within the realm and beyond.
As the shadows of war grew ever darker, Althea saw opportunity amidst the turmoil. The prince was away, in Rivendell, on a mission of dire importance, leaving a void in the court that she could maneuver to her advantage. With her mother, Nienna, as her confidante and advisor, Althea began to weave a web of strategies, her plans ambitious and far-reaching.
In the privacy of their chambers, away from the prying ears of the court, Althea shared her thoughts with Nienna. "Naneth, naen aran aduial a-bain a vellin, anann le naegi sereg. Im ni chwedl, athrad a naer ethraid naen arbethad lin mae danion a thinn inon iannon." (Mother, with the prince away and darkness at our doorstep, the time is ripe to consolidate our influence. I have plans, ideas that could not only ensure our position in the court but also extend our reach beyond these woods.)
Nienna listened, her expression an unreadable mask, yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. "Althea, ion nîn, maethad estel estan, men maer le mîlui vannad a mae a-meltha le mellon. Cuio, enethril Mirkwood na antrin oeil, mae a bartha ethui idhrinn a caun a-bain leithio." (Althea, my child, ambition is a double-edged sword. It can elevate you to unimaginable heights and lead you into perilous depths. Remember, power in Mirkwood is a delicate balance that must not be upset lightly.)
Althea's gaze hardened, a glint of determination lighting up her eyes. "Leithia viin, Naneth. Men vii martha ennas toli, a laes i siriath na not avor Mirkwood. Enethril aduial i ammenithrim I Rivilin na I Aran arhaer I naer athrad, maethad ennid dôr, men naen gír thad a-chortha." (I understand the risks, Mother. But I also see a path to greater things, a chance to shape not just our fate but that of Mirkwood itself. With the prince preoccupied in Rivendell and the King focused on external threats, there is a vacuum of power, one that I intend to fill.)
Nienna regarded her daughter with a mix of pride and trepidation. Althea's ambition was a force unto itself, a raging torrent that could carve new paths or wreak untold havoc. "Galad, menel viin, ethraid na i faeleg a nestol firiath na leni athen minna o-tholeth. I chwedliath ni edweniath a thion o-taew." (Proceed with caution, Althea. The court is a nest of vipers, each waiting for the other to falter. Your plans must be executed with precision and subtlety.)
Althea nodded, a scheming smile playing on her lips. "Leithio, Naneth. Leithia viin aduial na i ven, gelia na i thelith a thalath. O thence, men vii anann le naegi sereg dartha, mae a Legolas thrived, maethad i faeleg nad eilithrim, leithia a leithio nartho i vorn le mae gîr adui."(Precisely, Mother. I plan to start with the courtiers, win their loyalty and trust. From there, we can extend our influence gradually, ensuring that when Legolas returns, he finds a court transformed, one where our voices hold sway.)
As they spoke, the wheels of intrigue began to turn, setting in motion a chain of events that would ripple through the halls of Mirkwood and beyond. Althea, with her mother's counsel and her own unyielding ambition, was poised to embark on a quest for power, one that could change the very fabric of the woodland realm.
As Althea and Nienna continued their conversation, the vast, ornate chamber in which they sat seemed to shrink around them, bearing witness to the unfolding of their plans. The walls, adorned with intricate carvings depicting the ancient history of Mirkwood, seemed to pulse with the life of the forest itself. Sunlight filtered softly through the high windows, casting dappled shadows that danced across the floor, mirroring the complexity of the plot being woven within their midst.
"Naneth, vii chwedl ennas tîrad na i naenion leithia a-thelith i faeleg," (Mother, our first step must be to strengthen our alliances within the court,) Althea began, her voice a melodic whisper that carried the weight of her ambition. "Vii chwedl ennas leithio na leithia le naenion le anann naebe i ionin, naebe i hervenni. A-duithon nan i aran athrad, maethad i naenion maer nad pelia ennas taew athrad. Vii chwedl ennas leithio i daew eithon naenain." (We must ensure that those of influence see us as allies, as confidantes. In the prince's absence, there will be those who seek to fill the void he leaves behind. We must be the ones they turn to.)
Nienna nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting the depth of her experience. "Leitho viin, ion nîn. Men galad, dartha ethui nartho viin, men vii nad lend athraer an aear. Vii chwedl ennas edweniath viin thion le naegi mîli a nacol viin ammeleth." (You speak truly, my daughter. But be wary, for each ally we gain, we may also earn a new adversary. We must choose our friends wisely and keep our intentions hidden.)
Althea's mind raced with possibilities. "Leithia viin na i naenion viin. Men vii nartho, mae a viin eithon athritho leithia viin. I sael ni ennas leithio viin arhuin leithio viin, mae a thollia viin thalath a thangad na-edlaethiath i ven galui viin." (I have observed the courtiers closely. There are those who, with the right encouragement, could prove to be valuable assets. The key will be to approach them subtly, to offer them support and counsel without revealing our true goals.)
As they spoke, their strategy began to take shape. They would start by hosting small, intimate gatherings, under the guise of seeking solace and companionship in these troubled times. These gatherings would provide the perfect setting to gauge the loyalties and ambitions of the courtiers, to plant seeds of influence and gather valuable information.
"Cuio, Althea, na i ven o-thilion, mae a chwest ai viin tîwe," (Remember, Althea, that in the game of power, information is our greatest weapon,) Nienna advised. "We must listen more than we speak, observe more than we act. The secrets we uncover will be the key to our success."
Althea's eyes sparkled with the thrill of the challenge. "Natho viin naur na i faeleg, Naneth, dûven adaen, alagos, men athad. Vii chwedl men viin maethad en i amlû a herven viin." (I shall be a shadow within the court, Mother, moving unseen, unheard, yet ever-present. I will use my skills in diplomacy and intrigue to turn the tide in our favor.)
As their plan solidified, Althea felt a surge of excitement. This was her moment to rise, to prove her worth beyond her beauty and lineage. She would navigate the treacherous waters of court politics with grace and cunning, bending the will of the court to her own.
The days that followed saw Althea enacting their plan with meticulous precision. She reached out to key figures within the court, offering words of comfort and support, subtly weaving her web of influence. Her natural charm and intelligence made her a figure of fascination, drawing many into her orbit.
Nienna watched her daughter's progress with a mixture of pride and concern. She knew all too well the dangers of the path Althea had chosen, the delicate balance that must be maintained. But she also knew that if anyone could navigate these treacherous waters and emerge triumphant, it was her daughter.
As the shadow of war loomed ever closer, Althea's machinations within the court of Mirkwood continued unabated. With each passing day, her influence grew, her plans moving ever closer to fruition. But in the great game of power and politics, nothing is certain, and the future remained a tapestry yet to be woven
Later in the grand chamber, her words laced with the wisdom of ages. "An sereg eithel naegi maer, men leithia viin ammeleth. Leithia viin a-dala dûven."(The tides of darkness grow stronger, and with it, opportunities arise. Use this time wisely.)
Althea, her silver hair cascading like a waterfall of moonlight, nodded in agreement. Her eyes, deep pools of ancient knowledge, reflected her mother's teachings. "I arad ene Aran Legolas a-cuion viin ammeleth," (The absence of Prince Legolas presents an opportunity,) she mused, her voice a melody of ambition and calculation. "En a-chortha na i aro Legolas e-cuion i viin. Vii chwedl ennas leithio na viin daewen men gír thad." (With him away in Rivendell, his influence here wanes. I must ensure that my presence is felt more strongly.")
Nienna observed her daughter, pride and caution warring within her. "Ammeleth, le, men din edweniath. Leithad Mirkwood i faeleg na enethril edraith a-chwestiath. Meleth danion dan aduithon ni roddo viin ammethon." (Influence, yes, but do not overreach. Mirkwood's court is a delicate web of alliances and enmities. One wrong move could unravel your efforts.)
Althea's gaze turned towards the lush forests visible from the towering windows. "Men llaim ni nad athraer a-phell en i aro Legolas. Natho viin hîr na i cerig ennas leithio viin, hîr en harnedeg viin na i Aran." (My aim is not merely to fill the void left by Legolas. I seek to weave my own threads into the fabric of this court, to become indispensable to the King.)
Nienna, aware of her daughter's ambition, added, "Na naeg eneth nin na i aran? Men laes i phelad chwedl?" (And what of your feelings for the Prince? Is this purely a strategic move?)
A flicker of emotion crossed Althea's usually impassive face. "Ni naeg... maen ammeleth. Men leithio i thor meninna na i ammellyn na athraer polith ennas." (My feelings... are complex. But I understand the difference between personal desires and political necessities.)
Their conversation continued each word a step in a dance of strategy and foresight. Althea's mind worked tirelessly, plotting her next moves in the intricate chess game of court politics, while outside the walls of Mirkwood, the shadow of war loomed ever closer.
In the deep heart of Mirkwood, within the opulent halls of the Elvenking, Thranduil sat ensconced in his high throne, carved from ancient wood and adorned with motifs of forest and fauna. The throne room, a harmonious blend of natural beauty and elvish artistry, was dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Thranduil's gaze was distant, lost in thoughts that spanned centuries. Beside him stood Mithrellas, a trusted advisor whose wisdom had guided him through tumultuous times. The king's countenance, usually a mask of regal composure, betrayed a father's longing.
"Mithrellas, le nallon sí, dúath lîn betha." (Mithrellas, I confess now, your words bring darkness to my heart.) Thranduil's voice was tinged with sorrow.
Mithrellas, with her ageless grace, responded, "Hîr nín, Legolas thilia ú-'er. Síla le." (My lord, Legolas shines un-fadingly. You shine through him.) Her words, meant to comfort, held the weight of truth.
Thranduil leaned back, the lines on his face softening. He acknowledged her kindness, then sighed heavily. "Amin hiraetha. Legolas... ú-'er, ú-dhanna. Amin feuya ten' lle." (I grieve. Legolas... he is un-fading, he does not fall. My shadow lies upon you.)
Mithrellas placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Ú-chebin estel anim. Legolas tira ten' Ambar-metta." (I have not lost hope in me. Legolas watches over the fate of the world.)
Thranduil's gaze drifted to the intricate carvings on his throne. "Sí, a' Mirkwood annui. Dúath ú-'er." (Yes, and Mirkwood endures. The darkness does not fade.)
Their conversation shifted to the matters of the court. Thranduil spoke of the subtle shifts in dynamics, of Althea's increasing influence, and of the looming threat of war. "Dular n'umaquen. Mirkwood feuya naa lost." (Dular is relentless. Mirkwood's shadow is growing.)
As they conversed, the king's resolve hardened. Mirkwood, under his reign, had faced countless dangers. This time would be no different. With or without Legolas at his side, he would protect his realm, guide his people, and face the encroaching darkness with the unwavering strength of the elven kind.
Following a brief encounter with Mithrellas, the Elvenking requested Althea's presence for a formal meeting. He wanted to ensure he had taken note of Althea's recent activities. Thranduil, poised on his throne, beckoned Althea to approach. The ethereal maiden, her silver hair reflecting the dim light of the hall, moved gracefully towards the Elvenking. Her eyes, though calm, betrayed her ambition.
"Althea, le ista naa lle desiel." (Althea, you know you are desired.) Thranduil's voice carried a depth of understanding, tempered with a hint of caution. "Lle naa vanima, ar' lle naa taurë. Lle naa síla, a' ú-síla amba arato." (You are beautiful, and you are strong. But you shine in darkness and shadow.)
Althea's gaze met Thranduil's, unflinching. "Hîr nín, amin naa taurë. Men leithio ni nad padas na i sereg." (My lord, I am strong. But I am not familiar with any darkness.)
Thranduil's expression softened momentarily before resuming its kingly sternness. "Lle desiel sa, mal sa naa ú-quanta a' Legolas. Amin ethollen lle." (What you desire, it is not bound to Legolas. I have freed him.)
The Elvenking's words were clear, gently severing the unspoken aspirations Althea harbored for Legolas. "Legolas naa tanya nat." (Legolas is that fireI wish.)
Althea, her pride wounded but her composure intact, inclined her head slightly. She couldn't conceal the truth from Thranduil. He was far older than her, having witnessed more in his lifetime than she could ever imagine. Nevertheless, he had to acknowledge her proficiency when it came to political maneuvering and adhering to protocol
Thranduil leaned forward, his tone turning earnest. "Lle naa quanta e' n'alaquenta." ( You are full in the playing.)
"Mal, hîr nín, .." (But, my lord, ...) she tried to explain but was interrupted by Thranduil. He had heard enough to understand what Althea had in mind.
Their conversation, veiled in the elegance of Sindarin, held layers of meaning. Thranduil recognized Althea's potential yet sought to guide her away from the shadowed paths of power. The king's counsel was clear: seek greatness but through honor and light.
As Althea departed, her silhouette fading into the shadows of the hall, Thranduil remained in his throne, contemplating the future. His thoughts lingered on Legolas, his son, now away in Rivendell, and the growing unrest in the realm. The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but Mirkwood would stand resilient as ever.
In the waning light of dusk, Thranduil tread softly through the verdant underbrush of Mirkwood to a solitary grave, a silent haven where he could commune with his past. Here, beneath the ancient boughs, lay his wife, the once radiant light of his life, now but a whisper in the wind.
As he knelt, the weight of centuries and the burdens of kingship seemed to bow with him. "Nae saian luume', Voronwer! (It has been too long, Loyal one!)" His voice, barely more than a murmur, broke the stillness of the evening air. "Amin dele ten', Legolas! (I am worried about Legolas!)" The soft confession floated away, carried by the gentle breeze.
Thranduil's gaze lingered on the grave, his thoughts adrift in memories. "Na cuio, na i gír viin na i leithio tûl." (Do not be bitter, with my conclusion to remain behind) he spoke to the silent stone, his voice tinged with a sorrow as deep as the roots of the forest.
"Legolas vethen viin, na i naeg vin leitho orch. Anniol viin, gell hûlith maen hain. No, i medui viin chwedl erin maen i uin a maen hûr. I môr a ni viin naitha maen. Genediad naeg viin, le naeg viin thiau a-gennen Elenyathra. Ni viin cuio na i aran na. Pan annan naen, viin revio na viin gennen. Amin mela lle!" (Legolas needed me, I could not forsake our son. The Grief was unbearable. Yet, after I managed to live so long with the darkness and the pain. I managed to pledge myself through everything. The sea is no longer calling me. Although I know I should sail and come meet you Elenyathra. I cannot relinquish our kingdom now. Neither our son. When the time is right, I will find myself to you. I love you!)
In the solitude of the grave, Thranduil's heart bore the scars of his tumultuous past. His father's death had thrust him into kingship, a mantle he had borne with a grace and strength that belied his inner turmoil. The fiery wrath of the dragon had seared more than his flesh; it had ignited a darkness within him that never fully receded.
His left side, forever marred by the dragon's breath, was a constant reminder of his mortality and vulnerability. Hidden beneath illusion spells woven by Lord Elrond and Mithrandir, his scars were his alone to bear.
Thranduil had walked through fire and torment, emerging not just as a king in title, but as a leader forged in the crucible of unimaginable suffering. Yet, to Legolas, his son, he remained a figure shrouded in mystery, a father who sought to shield him from the harsh realities of their world.
As night fell, Thranduil rose from the grave, his heart heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears. The Elvenking returned to his chambers, a solitary figure moving through the darkness, carrying the weight of a love lost, a kingdom burdened, and a future uncertain.
((Upcoming Chapter Fifty))
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