Meditations on the Deaths of Kingdoms

by coincidentally

Stone and starlight, river and ruin—how easily kingdoms fall, their bones laid bare. In the dusk of the First Age, as Menegroth crumbles and Sirion drowns in blood, Tatharel of Doriath learns the bitter cost of betrayal, exile, and survival in a world turned to ash. At her side stands Thranduil, a young noble from the Forests of Neldoreth, the only constant in an Age of endings.

In another life, she and Thranduil were lovers.

When the Sun and Moon, the fruit and flower of Laurelin and Telperion, were still young, he had come to Menegroth, the City of One Thousand Caves. His father Oropher was a minor courtier of Doriath. And it was there, at the court of Elu Thingol where she met that bright-eyed youth who would enchant her through the next Ages.

It had been several years since Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Although Thingol swore to never draw his sword alongside sons of kinslaying Feanor, Doriath mourned the loss of Mablung and Beleg. As foulness spread, the forest grew dark, and the Sindar who once dwelled in the surrounding woods moved to Menegroth.

"You must be Lúthien."

She stopped, her green eyes piqued in curiosity.

Before her stood a young ellon, his hair the color of winter wheat, glowing like sunfire by the lamplight. His eyes, like piercing steel, met hers in open admiration. He had fine aristocratic features, although his garb was modest: only a simple tunic, a scabbard at his waist.

She laughed, her eyes glinting in the low light.

"You must be one of the elves who recently moved here. But," she added wryly, "thank you for the flattery."

Pink bloomed across his cheeks.

"Apologies," he said quickly, "I'm Thranduil, son of Oropher."

She curtsied in the formal Iathrim style.

"Tatharel, daughter of Sûlthir, and of the House of Elmo."

Ah.

By conventional reckoning of the court, she was far above him in station. Her father Sûlthir, born on the Great Journey for whom Cuivienen was a backwards glance, was High Councilor to Thingol, brother in all but blood. When their king was lost to them in Nan Elmoth, and Olwë's patience wore thin, it was Sûlthir who refused to abandon the search. And through her mother, sister to Nimloth, she was descended from Thingol's youngest brother.

Heat prickled at his collar. Here he was, fumbling like an uncouth country bumpkin, before one of Menegroth's most distinguished elleths. If the rumors held any truth, had she asked for the stars, Sûlthir would have entreated Elbereth herself!

He started to bow—

She stopped him.

"None of that." Her voice was teasing, but firm. "Since you're new here, I'll show you around the halls. Consider me your first friend in Menegroth."

She smiled at him and headed down the corridor, the golden light of the lanterns catching in her umber hair.

For a moment, he watched her go. There was an ease to her, a quiet assurance that made her seem as much a part of Menegroth as the stone beneath their feet.

By the Valar, she was beautiful.