Greenwood the Great was not the only Woodland Realm of the Elves, nor even the first. It was not even the greatest. This is the story before the story, the tale of those whose long-sons and daughters would shape Middle-earth for good or ill.
Chapter summary: The morning after Oropher’s vigil at his son’s bedside, the lords of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men meet to discuss Thranduil’s fate.
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It was the twelfth day.
Aran Oropher didn’t recall falling asleep, but he must have because he remembered the sky outside being an inky black and not the purple-grey of dawn that it was when he opened his eyes. Nestorion was no longer there either. Alone with his son for another precious few minutes as the war camps awoke, he spoke quietly to him. It made him feel better to speak to his child and imagine that somehow Thranduil could hear him. “Lots of people will be talking about you today,” he murmured, stroking Thranduil’s golden hair. “Everyone has been thinking of you and asking after you, but today we are to have a meeting all about you. You pretend not to mind but you hate being the centre of attention, don’t you. Still, I think you would find this funny. All the lords and commanders coming together just to talk about you? You would laugh. Ah, my Thranduil, I miss your laugh. I hope...”
And he had to stop then, because he didn’t know what he hoped. His heart was torn. “I hope we make the right decision for you,” he whispered finally. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Thranduil’s brow, his hand tenderly cupping the young prince’s head.
It pained Oropher to turn his back on his son, but so he did, returning with a heavy heart to the royal tent where the air inside was redolent with citrus. Grateful to whichever of his attendants had thought to arrange a bath for him, he paused by his desk. What he saw made him roll his eyes. All of his work was done, at least everything that he had set out to do the night before and some that he hadn’t as well. He wondered what time Vehiron had gone to bed, or if he had at all. Probably not. He pushed it from his mind for now, and made his way slowly through the pavilion. It was tall enough for even the tallest elf to stand straight, with silk hangings dividing the tent into rooms and intricately carved wooden screens to block out noise.
There was the lounge area with comfortable seats, a table for dining, and a chest containing books, games and other treasures from home. Beyond that was a makeshift study where Oropher did his work and received visitors who wished to speak with him privately. At the back of the tent were the sleeping quarters. They had originally been divided into two, with a bedroom on either side, but last year the hangings had been taken down to make them into one large space. Lately a prisoner of war and captive of the Dark Lord, Thranduil had suffered from violent night terrors worse even than those that had plagued Oropher after the Fall of Doriath. Thranduil had needed to be near his father when they came, and Oropher had needed him near. The night terrors hadn’t stopped after that, and perhaps they never would, but they had at least lessened. That was something.
As Oropher reached the bath set behind a screen on the other side of the bedroom, he paused and stared through the swirling steam. Four days ago he had asked Nestorion if Thranduil could still dream. Nestorion hadn’t answered right away, letting out a slow and deep breath as he considered his answer. Finally, he had explained that not enough was yet known about a comatose state to be able to say with any certainty whether or not a patient could dream. That hadn’t been any comfort to Oropher, because he didn’t like the thought of his child being shrouded in darkness, but as ever he had valued Nestorion’s honesty. Now, he suddenly found himself hoping that Thranduil couldn’t dream. If he was unable to dream, there would be no nightmares that he couldn’t wake from. The King couldn’t help but dwell on those thoughts as he undressed and began to scrub away the dust of Mordor.
Fresh clothes had already been laid out for him, but he didn’t look at them and his hands worked methodically. It was only after, when he stood before the mirror in the bedroom and stared at his reflection, that he noticed the colours. His leggings and light cambric shirt were the hues of a storm-washed afternoon sky, and the just above knee-length tunic he wore over them was a richer shade of sapphire blue. His sigil, the great oak tree beneath a winged moon, was embroidered across the chest in delicate silver thread. They were his clothes, but they were Thranduil’s colours. His son loved blues and silvers, and they were one of the many things that Oropher automatically thought of when he thought of Thranduil.
“Are you satisfied with the clothing, aran-nín?”
Oropher didn’t move, but his eyes shifted slightly. He watched in the mirror as his wife’s cousin Lord Halmir Dagorionhil stepped into the room with various accoutrements in his arms. “The choice was well made. Thranduil would approve.”
“I know I have done well when my sartorial arrangements pass the exacting standards of the Crown Prince,” Halmir murmured, setting down a pair of dark grey leather boots and a set of silver vambraces engraved with a pattern of leaves and vines. He met Oropher’s gaze in the mirror, his sky blue eyes twinkling, and began wrapping a white and silver silk sash belt around the King’s waist. “When they pass Elder Luthavar’s, I know I have done exceedingly well.”
For the first time that day, Oropher managed a smile. “Eru forbid Lutha disapproves of a fashion choice. Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about it. His eyes would just…you know.”
“Do that thing,” Halmir agreed.
That made Oropher’s smile turn into a little chuckle as Halmir knotted the belt at his side. Everyone knew when his cousin Luthavar saw something that offended his fashion sense, for he could never quite control the incredulous flicker and flare of his dark eyes. Sitting down to pull on his boots and fit the silver vambraces around his forearms, Oropher reflected that it was likely an automatic reflex that Lutha was unaware of rather than something he did on purpose. Lady Aiwen, the youngest daughter of Halmir and twin sister to Fileg, had once publicly scolded Lutha for being rude and judgemental after one such look made a lady of the court burst into tears. Lutha had looked genuinely appalled by the accusation, but then he had snapped at Aiwen that he was only ever rude and judgemental in his head, but for what it was worth, anyone who paired fuchsia and lime – in a dress with frills, no less – ought to be tried for outraging public decency. The two hadn’t spoken for a month after that.
“Speaking of elflings,” Oropher said, sitting at the dressing table and starting to prepare the braids at the left side of his head while Halmir started on the right, “I am afraid I haven’t had a chance to visit Fileg these last few days. How is his injury?”
“Ah. His injury.” Halmir fell silent with a frown as he deftly wove beads and gems into the first of Oropher’s braids. There was the pattern of the royal house of Doriath – pearls, black opals, silver beads and moonstones, which Lord Vehiron and Thranduil wore as well – interspersed with some that were personally meaningful to the King. He wore lapis lazuli in memory of his parents, blue larimar for his wife, and star sapphire for his son. “Fileg’s injury is not greatly concerning,” Halmir said finally. “It is just a broken ankle. He will be fine soon enough.”
Oropher had been afraid that the younger ellon would say something like that. “Do you remember when Thranduil broke the little finger of his right hand? That was the year before last. He had spent the evening in Elendil’s camp, accepting the most foolhardy and reckless challenges from the young men until finally he landed awkwardly during some stunt and injured himself. I was so cross with him. As soon as he returned from being bandaged up, I embraced my fatherly duty and began to scold him.”
“Did he not tell you that it was dishonourable to use violence against a maimed war veteran, so you had to wait to punish him?” Halmir asked.
“Yes, the insolent bratling,” Oropher laughed, tying off his braid and starting the next one.
“And you summoned Healer Nestorion,” Halmir recalled.
“I did, and he was quite willing to inform my son that warmth to the muscles would stimulate blood flow and speed up his healing. Thranduil isn’t often lost for words, but he had no rebuttal to that. My point, Halmir, is that despite my exasperation and the punishment I gave him for showing off and behaving recklessly, I still felt awful for him,” Oropher said. “Every time he knocked his finger or stifled a cry because he’d tried to pick something up without thinking, my heart ached for him – even though it was just a broken finger. So don’t tell me that Fileg’s injury is not concerning. I appreciate your thinking of me, but just because my son is…the way that he is, right now, that doesn’t mean you should feel guilty for worrying about your son. Now please, mellon-nín – how is Fileg?”
Halmir exhaled in relief as he picked up a handful of gems from a pot on the dressing table. Of course the injury was nothing. Fileg was his son, and that meant it was everything. “Healer Nielinyë went to check on him yesterday evening. Now that the swelling has gone down, it seems that the break is a simple one and it should heal quickly enough if he takes it slowly. In himself, Fileg is…well, struggling.”
“How so?”
“Oh, he is angry with himself for causing the injury. And he’s not wrong, it was self-inflicted, but I can hardly blame him for being upset about Thranduil. Veassen told him to kick a pillow next time instead of a rock, but I don’t think Fileg is ready to hear jokes yet,” Halmir replied. “He is quiet and he grieves for Thranduil. He wants desperately to visit him, but the ground is too rough for him at least until he is able to walk with crutches. Healer Galad is going to bring them tomorrow.”
“I hope he will be in better spirits soon,” Oropher said gently.
Halmir smiled at the other ellon in the mirror. “As do I.”
They finished the braids more or less at the same time, and the outfit was completed with a silver circlet upon the King’s brow. He thanked Halmir, who responded by quietly wishing him luck. It was time to go, and there was no putting it off. Part of him just wanted it to be over with even as the thought of what was to come filled him with dread. Waiting for him outside the royal pavilion was his brother, along with their best friend and Oropher’s most trusted Chief Advisor, Lord Herdir. He clasped the arms of both ellyn in greeting as he stepped out to meet them. “Well,” he sighed. “I suppose we must go.”
“Yes,” Herdir said sympathetically. “The others are gathering. How are you feeling?”
“I…I have no idea,” Oropher admitted, realising that he truly didn’t.
“That’s fine.” Herdir gave his friend a small but reassuring smile. “You don’t have to.”
“We are with you, muindor,” Vehiron added.
They had always been with him. They had seen him through the very best of times and the very worst of times, sharing in his pain as easily as they shared in his laughter. Oropher shared blood with only one of them, but Vehiron and Herdir were both his brothers and best friends. It had been important to him that Thranduil experience that same level of loyalty and friendship, for a life lived without friends was a lonely one. Oropher knew he wouldn’t have got far without his. He gave the two of them a strained smile, and he drew one final deep breath before taking his first step in the direction of the camps of Ereinion Gil-galad and Elendil, where a command tent in blue and silver with green and gold trim lay on the border between the two.
When he arrived there, most of the seats within were occupied. The High King of the Noldor was at the great round table with Captain Glorfindel in his golden armour, and Lord Elrond, to his left. On his right was the King of Arnor and Gondor, with Elendil’s proud son Prince Isildur and eldest grandson Elendur to his right. Sitting next to Elendur was the new King of Lórien, young Aran Amroth. That still startled Oropher sometimes. He missed his beloved cousin Amdír terribly, though he thought Amdír’s son would do well enough at ruling with the right guidance. Much of that guidance would come from Amroth’s great-uncle Lord Celeborn, who sat to his right. Then, there were three empty seats. Herdir took the one next to Celeborn, with Oropher in the middle and Vehiron on his other side next to General Rochendil and Captain Curulas of the Greenwood army. Finally, completing the circle between Curulas and Elrond was Master Healer Nestorion.
“We have come together today to decide the fate of Prince Thranduil,” Ereinion said quietly, when everyone was settled. “If all are ready, we shall begin.”
OCs: Vehiron, Rhoven, Linwë, Veassen and Nestorion
Warnings: Mention of discipline
Summary: Hope is what sustains life, but in the middle of war the King of Greenwood doesn’t know how much longer he can hold onto hope.
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It was difficult to concentrate when one was being watched. The eyes that lingered on Aran Oropher were a single shade of green darker than his, but they were identical in shape. Almond-shaped, like their father’s had been. The King of Greenwood still remembered a tiny version of himself, solemnly telling his father in the days leading up to the birth of his younger brother that he was sorry he didn’t look much like him and he hoped the new baby would. Lord Celepharn had laughed, which even now Oropher remembered clearly because it had startled him so. He recalled feeling offended that his father, of whom he had thought so much, would laugh. As far as he had been concerned, it was only right for an heir to be like his father in all ways.
Little Oropher hadn’t announced that he was upset, for that wouldn’t have been proper, but Celepharn must have known it. He had told his son to follow him in that way he’d had – commanding, firm, not to be disobeyed, yet somehow not at all frightening even for a seven year old boy – and he’d led the elfling to the tall looking-glass in the master bedroom. Oropher had been well acquainted with that mirror, for he had often watched his beautiful mother twirling in front of it in one of her lovely gowns, but that moment had belonged to him and his father. Celepharn had knelt behind him and patiently pointed out all the features they shared; the shape of their eyes, the colour of their eyes when the light touched them just so, the curve of their ears, and fine strands of hair even though Oropher’s was dark like Neldiel’s and Celepharn’s was the silver gold of the royal house.
Three thousand years later, a similar conversation had taken place between Oropher and his own little son. It had never bothered him that Thranduil at first glance looked like Felith with their shared sunshine golden hair and eyes that gleamed like starlight off a still lake. He and Felith had lost four babies before Thranduil had been given to them. Son or daughter, dark or blonde, serious or full of mischief – they hadn’t cared, as long as their child survived. And so he had, but the apparent differences between him and Oropher had upset him enough that one day he had anxiously asked his father if it was quite all right that they didn’t look the same. Oropher had loved the happiness that had bloomed in his little boy’s eyes as he had shown him all the smaller, subtle ways they were alike. He wondered if Celepharn had felt the same way. He hoped so. He had finished that lesson with Thranduil by placing his hand over the elfling’s chest, and telling him that it didn’t matter what they looked like on the outside, for on the inside their hearts were one. Thranduil had smiled at him so brightly, so lovingly, it had made his heart soar. Now it just made his heart clench when he looked back at that moment.
Now, every memory of Thranduil hurt. Saying his name hurt. Holding his pillow close in the dark of night and inhaling his sweet, wild scent of berries and brambles, that hurt too. Just thinking of him hurt, so Oropher made himself stop. Even that hurt, feeling like a betrayal to force his thoughts away from his poor son, but the alternative would bring him to tears. Letting out a breath and tiredly pushing his hand through his hair, the King looked at his brother across the pavilion. The Lord Steward of Greenwood intently returned his gaze from the cushioned bench he was sitting on. “You want to say something,” Oropher acknowledged with a sigh. “You might as well get it over with.”
Lord Vehiron smiled, his warrior braids glittering with pearls, black opals, moonstones, and silver beads. “I thought you might be interested to know how many times you have swept your hand through your hair in the last twelve minutes.”
“Does it make a difference to you if I am not?” Oropher asked.
“Six times,” Vehiron promptly informed him. “That is excessive.”
“You came into my private space uninvited. Do not then complain about the way I behave in here,” Oropher said irritably.
“Not even Cousin Luthavar touches his hair that often,” Vehiron added.
“Good for Cousin Luthavar,” Oropher retorted, raising his hands defensively. He picked up his quill and tried to return his attention to the requisition order the healers had asked him to authorise for none other than Elder Luthavar himself. He had been making good progress on his work before his younger brother had come in, but now the words swam on the page. Anger threatened to overtake mere annoyance, but then he made himself stop and think. For the briefest of moments, Vehiron had made him forget. He hadn’t been a weary warrior or a desperate father or a tired King. He had just been an elf annoyed with his little brother, and right then that was simpler than any other role he had to play. He looked up, and met the younger ellon’s beryl green eyes. “Thank you.”
Vehiron just nodded, smiling slightly. He understood. “Go. See your son.”
“Muindor,” Oropher sighed, feeling exasperated all over again. “I would spend every hour of every day with Thranduil if I thought it would make a difference, but it hasn’t and it won’t. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because he…” The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in Oropher’s throat, paining him. “I will see my son when I have time,” he finished quietly, when he had steadied himself. “At the moment, I do not. I still have to be Aran Oropher.” Even when all I want to be is Ada.
“The world hasn’t stopped turning,” Vehiron agreed quietly. “But yours has.”
Oropher looked down and organised his paperwork into a neat pile, for no reason other than he needed the distraction to hold tears at bay. He had shed enough of those over the last eleven days and fourteen hours, alone or with those few elves he trusted implicitly. Vehiron was one of them, but Oropher was tired of tears. They couldn’t save his son and so they served no purpose. He looked up again only when the papers were perfectly linear and to do anything more to them would just be excessive. “I might delegate this to you,” he said offhandedly.
“You might,” Vehiron agreed.
“Very well,” Oropher said, rising. “But do not work past midnight.”
“I will work until the work is done, muindor,” Vehiron replied.
“No, you will work until midnight and then you will stop and seek your rest, and I will deal with whatever is left in the morning,” Oropher said firmly. “It isn’t up for discussion, muindor-laes. I need you healthy.”
“Then let us compromise, and say that I will stop when I reach a natural break,” Vehiron suggested. “Else you won’t make sense of your work when you return to it.”
Oropher conceded the point with a sigh and a nod as he picked up his forest green cloak, but he made a mental note to have someone check on Vehiron after midnight. His brother was good at promising to take care of himself, but he wasn’t good at following through with it. Much like Oropher himself, and their father from whom they had inherited it, and Thranduil who was just the same. It was a family trait that the Queen of Greenwood had often despaired of along with stubbornness and recklessness. The King gave Vehiron’s shoulder a grateful squeeze on his way out of the royal pavilion, and the Captain of his guard fell into step behind him as he walked away, a steady yet reassuring presence at his back.
The ground crackled lightly beneath their feet as they walked. So close to Mordor it was often sweltering and uncomfortable even for the elves when the sun was at her highest, but at night it wasn’t unusual for the temperatures to plummet so much that layers of frost formed. Most of Oropher’s elves who weren’t committed to patrol or other duties were already sheltering in their tents. Some yet remained around the campfires, and he paused to briefly speak with them. His heart was elsewhere, but he was still their King. He still had a duty to them. None of them kept him for longer than a minute though. That late at night, it was obvious where he was going. None wished to deprive him.
His ears ringing with so many good wishes for his son, Oropher finally reached the healing tents. They were quiet but not truly silent. They never were, not even in the dead of night, and Oropher knew that because he had spent many an early hour there. If it wasn’t the footsteps of a healer making their rounds, it was a feverish warrior tossing and turning or a traumatised soldier waking from a nightmare with a shout of fear. It was impossible to escape the war even for a second. It was always there, an inescapable fact of thousands of lives.
The sight of the two ellyn standing guard outside the private bell tent where Thranduil lay sent both fondness and exasperation rushing through Oropher. Not three days before, a serious conversation had taken place between the three of them in which he had made it abundantly clear to Linwë Carandirion and Veassen Taldurion that he expected at least a few hours of their free time to be spent in bed. He didn’t expect it every day, for sometimes the requirements of war prohibited rest. He also didn’t expect them to sleep every time they sought their beds, for sometimes the nightmares of war made it impossible, and he knew that all too well. He had, however, expected some measure of obedience from them, especially the generally sensible and well-behaved Veassen, but it seemed they had both developed selective hearing. It was almost a relief to Oropher that his wife’s little cousin Fileg Halmirion had fractured his ankle the week before and, confined to bed, was one less young elf for him to worry about.
“I find myself surprised by your presence, my young warriors,” he remarked. Linwë stood a little straighter but steadily met his eyes, while Veassen dropped his chocolate brown gaze to the floor. The King thought that was less to do with him and more to do with Veassen’s grandfather standing just off to the side. He had heard the slight creak of leather armguards as Captain Rhoven folded his arms, and he knew that wasn’t usually a good sign. “I seem to recall discussing this with you both very recently.”
“You did, your Majesty, and we listened,” Linwë said. “But when we left from visiting Thranduil this evening, we offered to relieve his guards so they could get dinner.”
“That offer was well made,” Oropher acknowledged. “When are you expecting them to return from dinner?”
“They…they returned already, your Majesty,” Veassen said nervously, looking up.
“Ah. And where are they now?” Oropher asked calmly. “Having dessert?”
Nearby torches illuminated the rosy blush that coloured Veassen’s cheeks. “Perhaps they are, sir.”
“Enough of that, elfling,” Captain Rhoven snapped from behind Oropher.
“Lieutenant Carthalon and Lieutenant Angtheldir came back from dinner two hours ago, and we told them – or rather, I told them – to leave again,” Linwë said, taking pity on Veassen. “They didn’t want to, but I didn’t give them much of a choice, so you can’t blame them.”
Oropher put one hand on Linwë’s shoulder and the other on Veassen’s, and he drew the young elves in closer to him. “I know,” he said quietly. “You miss him. You want to be near him. Believe me, I know. Your dedication to my son, your heart-brother, is something that I have always treasured but I need you to take care of yourselves as well. The two of you are doing too much, especially now that you are both looking after Fileg as well. If Thranduil wakes and finds you both exhausted…”
If. It was just a turn of phrase, but it stopped Oropher dead as he realised what he had said. Linwë was suddenly as stiff as a statue, his expression stony, and Veassen looked in dismay between the two of them. “With your permission, sire, I’ll escort our young warriors back to their pavilion myself,” Captain Rhoven interjected. He clapped a hand on Veassen’s shoulder, making his grandson squirm unhappily. “I’ll see to it that they get their rest. And that we don’t have any more of this nonsense.”
“Very good, Captain,” Oropher agreed distantly.
He didn’t watch Rhoven leave with the lieutenants, or pay attention to their receding footsteps or the quiet scolding his captain was delivering. His eyes were fixed on the canvas door to the tent. He had lost count of how many times he had stepped through it over the last couple of weeks, but it never got any easier. The fear of what he might find on the other side never changed. Taking a deep breath, the King of Greenwood put his hand out and swept the flap aside. He stepped into the tent only to immediately stop, caught off guard. The raised bed that his son had been in since that fateful day was still there, and Thranduil still occupied it, deathly pale as if Mandos was only just out of reach. A healer was present, as always, but tonight he wasn’t making observations or administering medicine or whatever else he and his fellows did to keep Oropher’s child alive. Tonight, the healer was asleep.
Oropher felt as though he had stepped into a private and intimate scene as he gazed at his son’s fingers entwined with the healer’s, but he didn’t begrudge Nestorion those close and quiet moments alone. Six yéni of standing in for Oropher when he couldn’t be Ada because he had to be King had earned Nestorion the right to them. He had loved Thranduil, taught him, disciplined him, laughed with him and wiped his tears, healed his hurts, and taken as much pride in him and his accomplishments as Oropher and Felith had. He belonged at Thranduil’s side. Feeling like an intruder, Oropher hesitantly took a step back. He wasn’t used to being the one to leave. Still, Thranduil would be there tomorrow. Unless he dies before then, said a nasty little voice somewhere in his head that made him catch his breath.
It made Nestorion wake, and he sat up slowly. “Forgive me, aran-nín,” he murmured, brushing strands of pale chestnut hair out of his eyes. “I did not know you were there.”
“No, I was at fault. It was not my intention to disturb you. I…” Oropher’s eyes went back to his son. He couldn’t deal with niceties and pleasantries when he had to know. “How is he?”
“I wish I could tell you something new,” Nestorion said quietly. He tucked Thranduil in more securely, and gently passed a hand across his patient’s pale brow. “There is no change.”
Oropher hadn’t considered it before, but now he reflected that it seemed cruel to make the Master Healer say out loud every day that there were no signs of Thranduil waking. It must pain Nestorion to say it as much as it pained him to hear it. “But he has still been breathing by himself?” the King asked.
“Yes, and that is more than we had expected,” Nestorion replied.
The poison on the edge of the blade that had sliced through a gap in Thranduil’s armour had succeeded. He had died in his father’s arms on the battlefield. Oropher had felt it. He’d felt that spark go out, the breaking of the bond that had tied them together as father and son for just short of a thousand years. For a minute that had felt like an immortal lifetime, there had been nothing. But Thranduil had come back. By the grace of the Valar, and his father’s love and rage, and the skills of the healers, he had defied the odds and returned to life – if life it could be called, when he lay there as if he had remained dead. It had to be better than nothing. That was what Oropher told himself. If he let Thranduil go, that was it. Over. Finished. But if Thranduil was breathing – and he was, and there hadn’t been any breathing complications for nearly a full week now – then that meant there was hope.
“I will leave the two of you alone,” Nestorion said softly, as he got to his feet.
“Don’t go,” Oropher replied. “Please. Stay with me. With him. You have every right.”
Nestorion paused for just a moment before resuming his seat at Thranduil’s bedside with a quiet nod of gratitude to Oropher. King and healer sat opposite each other, both holding a pale hand in theirs. “I remember the first time I ever met him,” Nestorion murmured, breaking the silence. “It was twelve days before your coronation. You came to the palace with Thranduil and the Queen. Your brother was there, and his son, and Lord Herdir and Ivoniel. Elder Faelind and Elder Aermanis were showing you around and introducing you to your new staff. Elder Serellon and Elder Thavron were there to point out interesting facts about the structure of the palace, and Elder Luthavar…why was he there, again?”
“To this day I don’t know,” Oropher admitted, with a small and reluctant smile. “He took great joy in showing us all the hidden doors and passageways, and planting all sorts of mischievous thoughts into Thranduil’s mind. Poor Faelind was trying his best not to show us how vexed he was, when all he really wanted was to haul Luthavar across his knee.”
“A sentiment felt by all of us to varying degrees of regularity.” Nestorion’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but he stopped short of laughing. It was hard to laugh when Thranduil lay like a marble statue between them. “Anyway…you didn’t make it to the healing wing until the afternoon. Thranduil stood between you and the Queen, with his hand in hers. He was so little. Not even waist-height. And he’d met so many new people and heard so many new names, and he had behaved so well all day, that he was too tired to even look at me. I was afraid that you would scold him for it but you didn’t. You just put your hand on his head. That was all it took. He stood straighter, as if he had drawn strength from you, and he met my eyes and gave me the sweetest smile. I knelt before him, and promised him that he could always come to me for help when he needed it.”
“And you have been keeping him alive for me ever since,” Oropher said quietly.
Nestorion nodded, his gaze going to Thranduil’s snow-white face. “Yes,” he agreed after a pause. “But you know, he took my words quite literally. He didn’t need healing the first few times he came to me for help.”
“He didn’t?” Oropher repeated, his voice heavy with longing to hear more of the son he could never know enough about.
“The first time he came to me it was because he had got lost trying to find his way to your study,” Nestorion recalled. “The second time, he wanted someone to help him finish a jigsaw puzzle. And the third time, he asked me to hide him because he was in trouble with Bereth Felith for inadvertently frightening one of her ladies with a mouse he wasn’t supposed to have. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was a healer and not an all-round helper in all things. It was only on our fourth meeting, when he came to me with a splinter in his finger, that I had cause to actually heal him.”
“Times were much easier then,” Oropher said, stroking his son’s cheek with the back of his finger. “He was easier to protect. I wish splinters and trouble were all he had to fear, and that I could still strengthen him with the touch of my hand.”
The two ellyn met each other’s eyes across the body of the poisoned prince. Oropher had done everything in his power to bring his son back from the brink, but seeing the gleam of hope in Nestorion’s leaf green gaze and the unspoken plea to try again…it gave him hope, too. Slowly and carefully, just like the earliest days when he had been afraid of damaging his tiny infant son, he moved his hand to Thranduil’s head. Golden strands shifted like silk beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and poured his strength into his child, willing him to take it, waiting for a sign. It didn’t even have to be a big one. A little one would do. A squeeze of weakened fingers, a deeper breath, the flutter of lashes, a touch of life in white cheeks, something, anything, he didn’t care what. There was nothing. Just a fool’s hope, Oropher thought hollowly, taking Thranduil’s hand again as he sat back for another night-time vigil.
Summary: Lord Celepharn faces the consequences of his defiance, and pays the price for his happiness.
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“My lord.”
The documents spread out on the desk had so held Lord Celepharn’s attention that he had not even heard the knock on his study door. How far away his play with Neldiel and their sons seemed, though it had been but the day before. He sighed internally, and looked up from the petitions delegated to him by Elu Thingol. The silver haired elleth who had walked into his private room without thought of waiting to be granted admittance dipped her head in obeisance as his emerald eyes met her slate grey. “Marillien,” he acknowledged. He had no rebuke for her. Marillien had served the matrilineal line of Neldiel’s family for generations, following whichever noble daughter was first to marry until finally she had followed Neldiel to Celepharn’s household. She was Neldiel’s through and through, but she had served her lord well too, and had earned the right to walk in on him unannounced. Some of the time, anyway.
“I knocked precisely three times on the door with no response. You are not an impolite elf, my lord, so I can only assume that you are tired, overworked, or under pressure. Or, perhaps, all three.” Marillien looked away from the hand that Celepharn raised to silence her, and instead gave his papers a brief but critical glance as if she held them personally responsible for his inattention. “I would suggest my lord takes a moment away from work, but I fear it will have to wait. Lord Gwathion has arrived.”
“Was I scheduled to meet with my father today?” Celepharn asked distractedly.
Marillien looked exasperated. “After I have sent Lord Gwathion in, shall I see to the hire of a new secretary for you?”
“No.” Celepharn sounded equally exasperated. Three secretaries had served him since the establishment of his own household, and only the first had been of any use. She had left his service after nigh on four centuries to write storybooks for elflings, and her successor had been a bright and capable ellon with one unfortunate failing – the ability to charm his way into an elleth’s bodice one day and forget her very existence the next. At best, it had resulted in servants weeping into the wine they were serving their lord and lady, and at worst it had seen Neldiel breaking up a vicious squabble between two of the housekeepers and lecturing them on the merits of sisterhood and friendship versus the wandering hands of one lecherous ellon. As for the third secretary, she had been a stunning example of why it was best for Celepharn to just do everything himself.
“No,” he repeated, more vehemently. “Thank you,” he added, to pacify the disapproving elleth in front of him. “Kindly send my father in.”
Celepharn was a neat and organised young elf, but still, as Marillien left he gathered the petitions into a pile and straightened his leather bound law books. He tried to see his desk through his father’s eyes, and decided that it was acceptable. It was just as well, because Lord Gwathion strode through the door a moment later. The second son of the Steward was dressed as informally as a senior member of the royal family could be allowed to. His boots of polished leather went to his knees, silver buckles glittering. His leggings were of dark wool, and over a black silk shirt he wore a tunic of cream and gold, slit at the sides. Pearl buttons ran down the front of the tunic, his only real concession to wealth, and an unadorned black belt sat at an angle at his waist. Celepharn rose to greet him. Even married lords owed their fathers respect. “Adar. Were you waiting for very long?”
“Not very, once I made it inside,” Gwathion replied dryly. “No sooner had I dismounted than I was accosted and dragged to the barn to see the new born lambs.”
“Oropher and Vehiron are very taken with them,” Celepharn said.
Gwathion didn’t smile, but his aquamarine eyes sparkled like sunrays glancing off the surface of a still lake. “It was not Oropher and Vehiron who accosted me.”
“Ah.” Celepharn had to pause to consider his response. “Neldiel is also very taken with the lambs. I hope you liked them.”
“They were the most pleasant lambs I have seen today.” With an idle gesture that wordlessly commanded Celepharn to sit, Gwathion took one of the two chairs positioned in front of the desk. He watched in thoughtful silence as his son and heir obeyed him, and spoke only when the two of them were settled. “As much as I would like to say I came here to discuss sheep, you know I did not. Your aunt visited me this morning. She was upset.”
“Which aunt might that be?” Celepharn asked.
The sparkle was gone from Gwathion’s eyes as he frowned at his heir. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“I’m sorry. That was…not mature,” Celepharn conceded. “I know that Aunt Baraves was displeased yesterday. She warned me that you would hear about it.”
“What would you like to say, then?” The younger ellon’s bland expression indicated his disinclination to say anything at all, but his father persevered. “I will hear it from you, hil-nín, unless you wish your aunt to be the only one with a voice in this matter.”
Celepharn wondered if his own small sons felt similar flashes of resentment when he ordered them to account for their wrongdoing. “Very well,” he said finally, recognising that he had no choice. “Whilst escorting Aunt Baraves home with Celeborn and Galathil, we heard sounds from off the road. At her behest, I went to investigate. I found my wife playing in a lake with our children. Regrettably, Aunt Baraves had followed me, and she saw the same sight. We had a difference of opinion regarding what was proper and what was not. She thought I ought to put a stop to their play. I disagreed.”
“Quite vocally, I heard,” Gwathion remarked.
“I did not disguise the fact that I disagreed with her, no, but she made her opinion abundantly clear too,” Celepharn replied. He couldn’t quite hide the contempt that crept into his voice, but he didn’t try all that hard either. “She felt I should punish Neldiel. Of course, she failed to explain why Neldiel deserved punishment, because Neldiel didn’t. I chose not to accept her advice and instead joined my family at the lake. And,” the young lord added, a touch defiantly, “Oropher and Vehiron were pleased to see me, and Neldiel was delighted, and the four of us had a wonderful time together.”
The defiance didn’t raise Gwathion’s ire as it might other noble fathers. “I am glad. Truly, I am. It gives me no pleasure to discuss this with you.”
“Yes,” Celepharn said quietly. “I do believe that.”
Exasperation warred with pride and regret as Gwathion gave his son an intent look. “Your devotion to your family and your morals is admirable, but would it have been the end of all things to do what Baraves wanted? Even if you only made her think she was getting her way?”
“Would it have…no, Adar, obviously not,” Celepharn retorted, raising his hands in frustration. “But why should she get her way, or even think that she is getting it? She’s not a child who must be appeased. Am I to disappoint my sons and upset my wife just to avoid offending Aunt Baraves? I should not have to be the villain because she doesn’t agree with my family’s version of happiness.”
“I know. It is not fair, it is not right,” Gwathion acknowledged. “But to avoid this? To maintain a harmonious relationship with your aunt and uncle?”
The glittering gems in Celepharn’s braids clicked softly as he shook his head. “She told me to control Neldiel. To control her. I will not.”
“Nobody expects you to,” Gwathion began.
“Nobody but Aunt Baraves, and Aran Elu whenever the mood takes him. And you? You’re here,” Celepharn snapped, rising from his chair as his temper got the better of him.
“Sit down, elfling, we are not done,” Gwathion snapped back. His son glared at him, cheeks flushed and shoulders rising with each angry breath until sense got the better of him and he obeyed. Gwathion nodded curtly, eyes hard. “Thank you. Now, allow me to make one thing perfectly clear to you, since clarity of mind is not something that you seem to be in possession of. I am here because Lady Baraves reported your conduct to me, your father. And if, as your father, I was seen to ignore concerns raised by the wife of the King’s eldest nephew, the Steward’s heir, what do you think might happen? Where might she go next? Lord Galadhon? Lord Elmo? Aran Elu? Take your pick, Celepharn.”
It wasn’t often that Celepharn’s eyes were lowered, but his father had shamed him into silence and submission. He stared at a faded ink stain on the otherwise immaculate desk. He wished that Neldiel were there now, flicking ink at him to get his attention. The little spot on the desk anchored him, calming him. He took a deep breath, and spoke quietly. “You came here to punish me.”
“I must. And you must understand. If I fail to take care of it, you will face Galadhon,” Gwathion replied. “He is waiting outside.”
“I see,” Celepharn said numbly. He didn’t see. Not really. But he had to say that he did, because what was the alternative? There was no getting out of it – not that his pride would ever allow him to beg for mercy – and he knew better than to fight, especially when he had already tried the patience of his usually tolerant father. So, in the absence of anything better to say, yes, he saw. He saw, and accepted. He stood slowly, taking his cue from Gwathion, who had risen and moved his chair aside. Celepharn remained where he was though, on his side of the desk where he was safe and it wouldn’t be entirely real until he stepped towards his fate.
Fate, he thought, with a self-deprecating sneer. Call it what it is. Punishment. His only consolation was that he wouldn’t be going across his father’s knee like an elfling. He thought the shame would have overwhelmed him. He was almost relieved by the sight of Gwathion removing his dark leather belt and doubling it, even as his heart sank when he heard two words he’d not heard for a long time: come here.
Celepharn went, and the irony was not lost on him as he slowly moved to obey his father. Of all the things he had ever imagined using his desk for, his own punishment had not occurred to him. Hard work, yes, a spot that his children could use in a game of hide-and-seek, somewhere for Neldiel to perch while she happily chattered at him about the latest furry addition to their family. But this? Never. He leaned down across the desk, bracing himself on his forearms, and he blushed miserably as Gwathion lifted the back of his silver-and-blue tunic. Even over the desk, that made him feel small. Not my leggings too, he thought, only just managing to keep the words to himself. Leave them in place. Please. They stayed up, and Celepharn was grateful for small mercies.
The strokes from the makeshift strap, when they came, were half strength. Celepharn remembered that Gwathion could deliver much harder. He didn’t necessarily invite the pain that harder strokes would bring, for he felt no guilt over his actions of the previous day and he didn’t believe that he deserved worse. Even so, the prideful part of him couldn’t help but feel offended by his father’s lack of enthusiasm. The beaded braids hanging over his shoulders reminded him that he was a warrior, not an adolescent elfling feeling his first kiss of the strap. Perhaps he did invite more then, but only so as not to be diminished in the eyes of an ellon he respected above all others.
Everything became clear when it was over. “Stay where you are,” Gwathion softly instructed him, setting the doubled belt on the desk.
Celepharn stayed, sore and uncomfortable but not unbearably so. He heard the door open behind him, and he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know who had entered the room. The temperature was all of a sudden glacial. He bowed his head, feeling awfully like that nervous adolescent elfling he had silently scorned just a minute before. Still he stayed in position as his uncle strode to his side and rested a heavy hand on his lower back.
“I have made my point, and have nothing more to add,” Gwathion said, quietly but firmly. “My son has learned his lesson, brother.”
“I will make sure of it,” Galadhon replied.
The next two minutes lasted a lifetime, but it took less than half of that for Celepharn to understand. He knew now why the strokes from before had been half-hearted. He realised that Galadhon had always intended to make his displeasure known. Gwathion had known that, and had done his best to make it so that Celepharn would only have to face some of his uncle’s wrath and not the full force of it. Every swing of Galadhon’s arm made it clear, every hard and loud strike of the strap made Celepharn’s silent vow that he would not cry more and more tenuous.
Even the proudest of ellyn have a breaking point, and Celepharn reached his with a stifled cry and a pained arch of his back. Perhaps it would have been over sooner if he had given in more easily. He didn’t know. He hurt too much to care. One final stroke fell, and through a haze of pain he heard the belt being returned to Gwathion. He felt hands on him then that he knew were his uncle’s, raising him to his feet and turning him around. He hastily straightened his tunic before standing back against the desk, reaching behind to grip the edge with both hands so neither of the older ellyn could see them shaking. Bad enough that he had cried, he thought hollowly, fixing glassy eyes on the floor. He would not shame himself further.
“You took that well, but be grateful that your father managed the first half. Do not let this happen again.” Galadhon clapped a hand to his nephew’s shoulder, and squeezed lightly. “I will say no more.”
“Thank you, uncle,” Celepharn whispered.
True to his word Galadhon said no more, and he left as quietly as he had arrived, with just a soft swish of his forest green cloak. As soon as the door closed behind him, Celepharn shut his eyes. He hated the tears that spilled down his cheeks as if they had just been waiting for their chance to betray him. Gwathion’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, but he flinched away from it. It wasn’t personal. He wasn’t angry with his father, though he didn’t look to see if hurt flickered in Gwathion’s eyes. He just needed a moment. The conversation that would surely follow wasn’t something that he felt ready for.
“Your uncle would berate me for apologising to you,” Gwathion said quietly, keeping his distance. “But for what it is worth, I am sorry that this happened. I wish it had not.”
“I cannot blame you, Adar. You had to. I just, I feel…” Celepharn sighed heavily, looking miserable and defeated, and very young as eloquence failed him. “I don’t know,” he finished lamely.
“What is it?” Gwathion asked gently. His son started to turn away, so he caught him by the arm and gave him a small shake, refusing to be shut out. “Don’t do that, elfling. Talk to me.”
“I thought…I thought I was doing well. That I was getting it right. Marriage, the children, running my estate, serving the King,” Celepharn admitted in a rush, his voice low and his eyes downcast. “I was wrong. I’m not doing well.”
Gwathion didn’t mean to laugh, but he couldn’t help it as he pulled his child into a rough hug. “Thank Eru. I feared you would say something truly melancholy. Celepharn, you made a mistake. Nothing more.”
“A mistake that upset Aunt Baraves, and made you and Uncle Galadhon punish me,” Celepharn protested. “How is that getting it right? It’s failing spectacularly.”
“No, hil-nín, it is not. Everyone makes mistakes. Even me. Even Galadhon. Even Baraves, but don’t let her know I told you that,” Gwathion said dryly. He drew back and looked fondly at his unhappy son. “You found yourself in a challenging situation, and you did your best to manage it. You are still so young. You are still learning. There is no shame in that.”
“But I feel ashamed,” Celepharn confessed reluctantly. “It’s easy for you to say those things. This never happened to you.”
“Did it not? One day Oropher and Vehiron will say the same thing about you, and you will know better, just as I know better.” Gwathion put his hand back on Celepharn’s shoulder, and this time there was no flinching away. He gave his son a small, loving smile. “You never saw me flounder. I did not let you see my fears or my failings. That does not mean they never happened.”
Celepharn couldn’t help the relief that washed across his face. “Thank you for telling me. That helps.”
“You are quite welcome. Now, you need to rest. It wasn’t a suggestion,” Gwathion added, rightly predicting how his words would be taken. The younger ellon nodded reluctantly, and he gave him a kiss of paternal benediction. “Good boy. You will feel better after some sleep.”
That was debatable, but Celepharn had no intentions of disobeying. Not now, not after everything. And so, when Gwathion left, Celepharn summoned Marillien and asked her to advise the kitchen staff that he would be absent from that evening’s dinner. After a pause, and a quickly reached decision, he added that he would be grateful if she would see to the hiring of a new secretary – on a strictly probationary basis, of course. Electing to ignore the small but evidently satisfied smile that curved Marillien’s lips, Celepharn finally went upstairs and shut himself away in his sanctuary. He discarded his boots and his tunic, and a soft sigh escaped him as he got into bed. It felt empty and cold without Neldiel. His arms curled around one of her pillows, and he buried his face in it. It was her scent of wild berries and spun sugar that lulled him into a peaceful sleep.
He woke to that same scent some hours later, and he knew without looking that Neldiel was there. He didn’t have to look. She had a way of making her presence known even in a crowded room, even when she was the smallest there, even when she said not a word. Celepharn pulled his attention away from her and stared at the covered windows opposite their bed. It wasn’t quite dark, but the slowly setting sun was visible through a small chink in the cobalt curtains. Mid-evening then, he decided, blinking slowly. He never went to bed in the afternoon. At least, not without some influence from Neldiel, and that was never for the purpose of sleeping. He felt disoriented and sore, and it was the soreness that brought it all flooding back in a bitter rush. Of course. It hadn’t all been a cruel and humiliating dream. He exhaled, pressing his face into the pillow. “What do you want, Neldiel?” The words came out muffled, but still more harshly than he had intended.
“We missed you at dinner. Oropher and Vehiron wondered where you were,” Neldiel said readily, from somewhere on the other side of the room. “Did everything go well with your father and uncle?”
Celepharn lifted his head from the pillow and returned his gaze to the curtains, focusing on the small splash of purple-and-red painted sky he could see between them. It was a pleasing sight, even though a pair of not fully drawn curtains usually annoyed him, like a portrait that wasn’t hung right or a door left ajar. He was peripherally aware of Neldiel crossing the room, the silk of her gown making a whisk-whisk sort of sound as it brushed the floor, and then he sensed her sitting on the other side of the bed. Neldiel couldn’t get away with watching him unobtrusively, because he always felt when her lovely eyes were fixed on him. He could feel them now, and he knew that sky blue and apple green would have darkened with concern to the colours of the deepest ocean and the darkest forest. “I heard you took them to see the new lambs,” he said finally.
“Oh, I did. Everyone likes lambs,” Neldiel replied softly.
It was no good. Celepharn couldn’t keep his back turned to her. He had to see her smile, the way her face lit up when she spoke of all things fluffy or woolly. Setting aside his wounded pride, he carefully turned onto his other side and looked up at his wife sitting on the bed with one leg curled beneath her. She was a vision of beauty in lavender and silver, her windswept dark hair tumbling beyond her bare shoulders and all the way down her back. He would wager anything that she had taken their little sons to see the lambs after dinner. “What did Adar and Uncle Galadhon think of the latest additions to the menagerie?”
“Your father thought they were lovely, and he promised to bring your mother to see them. As for Uncle Galadhon...” A flicker of displeasure crossed Neldiel’s face. “He wanted to know when the lambs will be old enough to roast. I think it was his idea of a joke, but it was still terribly rude and insensitive, particularly as the lambs and their mother were within hearing distance.”
With a soft laugh that he truly meant, Celepharn reached out and caught Neldiel’s hand. He drew her down to lie next to him, and she came willingly. “I love you.”
Neldiel’s smile reached her eyes. “I know. Tell me again.”
Lying side by side, eyes locked, so close that Celepharn could feel Neldiel’s hair brushing his arm and see the exact point her irises shaded from blue to green and back again, he remembered the earliest and most innocent days of their courtship. They had laid like this then, sharing secrets, showing their love not through passionate touch or excited kiss, but by trust and trust alone. Celepharn took a deep breath, and made himself say the words. “They punished me. A strapping.” It took all he had to admit that. Even here. Even to her.
“I’m sorry they did that to you,” Neldiel said softly. She did kiss Celepharn then, but it was light and tender. “Was it because of me?”
“No. It was because of me,” Celepharn replied.
“Because of yesterday?”
“Aunt Baraves had some concerns, but they were more to do with my conduct and less with yours,” Celepharn promised. “She wasn’t out to get you this time. It was me.”
As Neldiel tucked her head under Celepharn’s chin and pressed close to him, she muttered something about that not being any better. Then in an even quieter breath, she called Lady Baraves a name that Celepharn was fairly sure she must have heard from her worldly and well-travelled youngest uncle, Baralin Ravondirion. Wherever she had heard it, he thought it was probably anatomically impossible. “I feel sorry for Uncle Galadhon and Aunt Baraves,” Neldiel announced then, more clearly. “How can they be happy? Do they even make each other laugh?”
“Everyone has different ideas of happiness and love. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong,” Celepharn murmured.
Neldiel didn’t draw back from him, but he felt her finger jabbing him in the chest. “Don’t defend them.”
“Don’t poke me,” he retorted, giving the sensitive point of her ear a playful nip.
“I am cross with them,” Neldiel complained.
With a soft sigh, Celepharn tilted his wife’s chin up and gave her a kiss. “I know. But being cross with them won’t change anything or make it better.”
“It will make me feel better,” Neldiel informed him.
The look Celepharn gave her was reluctant amusement mixed with exasperation, but he had no time to say anything for they were interrupted by a knock on the door. He disentangled himself from Neldiel and got up, straightening his shirt with one hand and smoothing down his hair with the other, all the while doing his best to ignore the throbbing ache left by the combined efforts of his father and uncle. Neldiel just rolled over to face the door and called for whoever-it-was to come in. Whoever-it-was turned out to be Ivoniel, their children’s hazel-eyed nurse. Her dress of dove grey wool was pristine, but her white apron had a few splashes of water on it, which she glanced at ruefully as she spoke. “The bath is ready for Master Oropher and Master Vehiron.”
“Oh yes, their…actually, Ivy, would you be a dear and give them their bath tonight?” Neldiel asked. “But tell them Celepharn and I will be along soon to put them to bed.”
“Of course, my lady,” Ivoniel replied, dipping into a curtsey for her young master and mistress.
As the nurse retreated from the room and quietly closed the door behind her, Neldiel sat up and looked across at her beloved. “You know I don’t judge you for what happened, don’t you?”
Celepharn blinked, caught off guard. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, it just occurred to me that that’s the sort of proud and stubborn thing you’d think, so we probably ought to address it now before it gets out of hand,” Neldiel clarified. “I don’t judge you or think any less of you just because you…just because that thing happened. It’s happened plenty of times to me before, and you’ve never thought less of me for it. I just wanted to reassure you, that’s all. And now I have.”
“Up until half a minute ago, I hadn’t thought anything of the sort,” Celepharn said dryly. “But now you have brought it up…it’s completely different, Neldiel.”
A frown briefly crossed her lovely face. “It isn’t at all.”
“Of course it is,” Celepharn insisted. “How can you say it’s not?”
Neldiel was staring at her husband from across the bed, thoroughly confused, but her expression cleared as she understood. “I see. It’s different because one of us is a big, strong, mighty warrior,” she said, lowering her voice so it was deep and gruff. “Whilst the other is just a dainty little elleth, delicate as a butterfly,” she finished in a put-on high voice, pressing her hands to her face and fluttering her lashes.
“Firstly, neither of us sound a thing like that,” Celepharn retorted. “Secondly, I would never use your choice of words, not least because you are anything but delicate. Having said that, the patriarchal society in which we were born and raised does have some impact on my feelings.”
“Well, now you’re just being rude,” Neldiel said, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a toss of her head.
Celepharn resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was never a good sign when Neldiel started using her hair to convey her displeasure. He went to her, and pulled her into his arms. “Stop that, minx,” he scolded her softly. “I meant nothing by it. Remember where we call home. Rightly or wrongly, this kingdom holds ellyn and ellith to varying standards and it judges them differently. You know that better than anyone.”
It was a debate that could have lasted the night, but Neldiel let it go with a rueful smile and a kiss for her beloved. “Sorry. I should be making you feel better, not starting arguments. I completely blame Uncle Galadhon and Aunt Baraves for all this. I’m still cross with them.”
“We can blame them, that is well,” Celepharn agreed, laughing. “But don’t try getting back at them. It will only end in tears.”
“What if I-
“No.”
“How about-
“No.”
Neldiel drew a breath and let the words tumble out before Celepharn could stop them. “WhatifIgiveUncleGaladhonastatueofasheepforhisBegettingDayandsayitsfromthechildrensohefeelsobligedtodisplayit.”
It took a moment for Celepharn to decipher the rush of words, but when he did, he gave in to the renewed urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, you may give Uncle Galadhon a sheep statue for his Begetting Day and say it’s from the children so he feels obliged to display it.”
“It will be a perfectly lovely sheep,” Neldiel said sweetly. “I promise.”
Celepharn couldn’t help but laugh. “Of that, my love,” he murmured, kissing his beautiful, confounding wife, “I am quite sure.”
Summary: A young lord discovers how rewarding it can be to break the rules, and a promise is made.
Notes: This isn’t the very first story in the series as we won’t necessarily be posting chronologically, but we hope people enjoy it all the same!
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Once upon a time the young Princes of Doriath had been the most sought after ellyn in the kingdom, the greatest and most coveted prizes for any ambitious parent seeking matches for their daughters. But that was no more. Galathil and his cousin Celepharn were husbands and fathers, and all knew it was the Lady Galadriel who held Celeborn’s heart though he was Sindar and she was not. Still, that did not spare them the occasional flirtatious look or coy smile from a hopeful elleth trying her luck. They had learned to smoothly navigate such currents and manage the disillusioned few, but there was one elleth none of them could dare defy: Lady Baraves.
If the sudden slew of hasty bows and wide-eyed curtsies hadn’t alerted them to the arrival of their mother and aunt, her familiar scent of morning glory would have as she swept through the salon with a trio of handmaidens trailing behind her. “What are you boys doing?” Lady Baraves asked by way of greeting, her silks of lavender and sky blue settling around her as she stopped by their table.
Celepharn thought it was obvious as Galathil moved a piece of polished white marble on the Warriors board set between them. He held his tongue, and watched Celeborn rise to kiss Baraves’ cheek. “Naneth,” the older ellon greeted her smoothly. “We just came from a visit to Daeradar Elmo and Daernaneth Aerdis. We thought to have a quick Warriors tournament and hear Minstrel Lindril’s latest composition before leaving. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, no,” Baraves said briefly. “Your father is attending the King. I’ve a mind to return home. I thought my sons might escort me.”
It sounded like a suggestion, but all three ellyn knew that Baraves only ever gave commands. “I had best stay with Celepharn,” Galathil attempted. “It would be rude to leave him mid-game. You don’t want me to be rude, Naneth.”
“You may bring him with you if you like,” Baraves offered, glancing at her nephew. “Celepharn, I trust that is acceptable.”
Celepharn thought he had best make the effort to be gracious. He took a breath, but his aunt had turned on her heel and was already halfway across the salon, scattering a group of young lords and ladies dancing to the minstrel’s song. “You may bring him with you if you like?” Celepharn repeated, getting to his feet. “That is what I tell my children when they don’t want to leave their favourite toy at home.”
A reluctant smile touched Celeborn’s lips, but Galathil laughed out loud as they abandoned their game of Warriors. Two minor lordlings and their hangers-on were quick to replace them at the gaming table. “I am sorry. If it’s any consolation, at least she knows you’re our favourite toy.”
“Thanks ever so,” Celepharn replied dryly.
The three ellyn didn’t tarry, for that was never the way to respond to a summons from Lady Baraves. Even so, by the time they emerged from the caverns of Elu Thingol’s subterranean palace, Baraves was astride her silver mare wearing the expression of an elleth who had been kept waiting half a day. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she waited for her sons and nephew to mount up, but soon enough – though surely not soon enough for her liking – they were off. Galathil and Celepharn rode at the front, while Celeborn stayed next to his mother and sweetened her mood like only a favoured son could. The handmaidens and a couple of guards brought up the rear, each of them grateful that they had been saved from keeping their lady happy.
They hadn’t been riding for long before the sound of a distant commotion reached their ears. Galathil stopped his horse, and Celepharn brought his to a reluctant halt as shrieks and jumbled exclamations drifted onto the path. “What is that racket about?” Baraves demanded from behind them. “Can you hear it? What is going on?”
A less polite ellon than Celepharn would have pointed out that they couldn’t see through trees. “I’m sure it is nothing,” he said instead. “But I shall go and check to be sure.”
“Take a guard with you,” Baraves commanded him. “Thalamir, accompany my nephew.”
Somewhere, that less polite ellon was rolling his eyes. Celepharn settled for the tiniest of sighs that barely lifted his shoulders, and rode off the path with the guardsman at his side. As his horse picked a careful route through the bushes and trees, over a fallen log and around the holes of a rabbit warren, the disturbance that he had heard became clearer – laughter, splashing, the sound of joy. He didn’t need to hear it to know what it was. He could feel it in his heart, three distinct bonds becoming stronger and surer with every step his horse took. The young lord’s heart swelled with anticipation, and his breath caught as he emerged from the trees into a sunlit glade with a lake of sparkling silver-blue at its centre.
He stopped at the treeline, unwilling to disturb the scene in front of him until it was committed to his memory. His usual expression of noble indifference was gone as he gazed upon his beautiful wife, clad only in a soaking wet shift that clung to her every curve, as she lifted their youngest son above her head. Celepharn watched her playfully threaten to drop the child in the water, while little Vehiron shrieked and giggled without restraint. Their eldest, fifteen coronarí old Oropher, jumped up and down in excitement, clapping his hands and begging Neldiel to let go of his baby brother so he could have his turn.
“What’s happening, gwador? Oh…” Galathil had followed, and he tilted his head in mild interest as he stopped next to Celepharn. “That looks remarkably like your wife and heirs playing in the lake.”
Celepharn rolled emerald eyes towards his cousin. “You are as observant as ever.”
“Do you want to stay?”
Yes, Celepharn longed to reply. I want to stay. I want to be with them. “Best not,” he said instead. “Your mother.”
Galathil gave the younger ellon a smile that was both sympathetic and encouraging. “Say no more. Come back after escort duty and perhaps Neldiel will still be here with the boys. I’m sure she will be.”
“I’m sure you are right.” The reluctant nudge that Celepharn gave his horse should have seen them turning back to the road, but the grey stallion’s ability to read his master’s moods prevailed. “Now isn’t the time to be perceptive, Aranuir,” Celepharn quietly scolded his horse, who ignored him with not even a flick of an ear. “I shall blame you if Aunt Baraves loses patience and comes to find us. Let’s go.”
It was too late. Lady Baraves had already lost patience. She rode out from the trees with Celeborn while Celepharn was mid-argument with his horse, and irritably swatted away a branch that had dared to snag on her silken sleeve. “You may look as dismayed as you like, Celepharn, but if you insist on taking your time then you cannot be surprised when I come to make sure you are not dawdling or getting into trouble. I know what boys are like,” she said haughtily. She glared at her nephew and youngest son, but her expression turned to one of horror as she looked past them. “You said you were sure it was nothing, Celepharn. It does not look like nothing to me.”
“Well, in the grand scheme of things,” Celepharn began.
“No,” Baraves interrupted severely, raising a hand to silence him. “Your wife is splashing about in a lake wearing nothing more than a shift – though it is a small mercy she is wearing anything at all, knowing Neldiel as I do – whilst your heirs frolic and roll in the water as if they were common urchins. This is not acceptable behaviour, Celepharn, and you ought to be doing something about it. Are you not going to control your wife?”
“Not really,” Celepharn said flatly.
Galathil promptly turned a snort of laughter into a cough, and Celeborn just sighed as he resigned himself to the inevitable clash between his mother and his cousin. Lady Baraves wasn’t paying attention to either of her sons; her incredulous gaze was fixed on her nephew. “Not really?” she repeated. “What is that supposed to mean? You are Neldiel’s lord and husband. Don’t you think you ought to at least punish her?”
“For what?”
Diamonds sparkled in the sunlight as Baraves jabbed her finger in the direction of the lake. “For that.”
“For what?” Celepharn asked again. He looked calmly at his aunt. There was no acceptable answer to his question; no matter how personally offended Baraves was, she couldn’t provide a legitimate reason for Neldiel to be punished. Celepharn knew that, and what was more, Baraves knew it too. She stayed coolly silent, refusing to be baited. “My wife is being a mother to our children,” Celepharn said finally. “I was unaware that such a thing is an offence.”
“That is not the way a noble lady should be a mother,” Baraves snapped.
“My sons seem to have no complaints,” Celepharn remarked.
“Then what will you do? If you approve of this behaviour so very much, are you going to join them?” Baraves demanded. Her eyes narrowed as the young lord tilted his head thoughtfully. “Don’t you dare.”
“But your suggestion was so well made, Aunt Baraves,” Celepharn replied, turning his horse toward the lake.
He didn’t have to see the fury on his aunt’s face to know it was there. He could feel it as she pierced his back with her sapphire stare. “Your father will hear about this, and we shall see what he thinks about such conduct,” Baraves said sharply. “Lord Gwathion would never approve of you turning your back on me and riding away without so much as a by your leave. It is as though you have completely taken leave of your senses.”
Celepharn paused and turned back. “By your leave, Aunt Baraves,” he said politely, bowing from the saddle. He didn’t wait to see her expression. He didn’t need to see it and he didn’t want to. He spared an apologetic look for his friends as he rode into the glade, and he was secretly relieved to see no disapproval on Celeborn’s face. His eldest cousin could be even more a stickler for the rules than he himself could. Galathil always had his back, but breaking protocol in Celeborn’s presence tended to carry with it some risk. Dismounting, he tethered his horse next to Neldiel’s white mare and Oropher’s little pony. He assumed that Baraves had left in disgust, for as his wife and children noticed him and came out of the water, they only had eyes for him.
“Ada, you’re here!” Vehiron exclaimed, looking like he very much wanted to throw his arms around his father’s legs.
“Have you come to take us home?” Oropher asked, sounding resigned.
Kneeling between his children, Celepharn took a small hand from each of them. He ran his thumb lightly over the tips of their fingers, smooth and unwrinkled by the water. “Well, you have not yet started turning into raisins. I think you have not played enough in the water.”
Oropher looked doubtful. “Really?”
“Really,” Celepharn confirmed. “You should play some more.”
Vehiron didn’t need to be told twice, and he ran back to the lake with an excited whoop while his elder brother smiled and followed at a somewhat more sedate pace. Splashes and laughter immediately filled the glade once more as Neldiel turned to her beloved. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Nor I you.” Celepharn pulled her close, uncaring that she was soaking wet against his body. He ran the tips of his fingers from her neck down to her lower back, smiling as she shivered pleasingly. “I thought you had a gown fitting this afternoon with your mother. And what happened to Ivoniel?”
“The couturier had to rearrange for tomorrow,” Neldiel replied. “Oh, and I fired Ivoniel.”
Celepharn blinked. He drew back and looked down into his wife’s lovely eyes, attempting the impossible and trying to figure her out. He had known Neldiel for most of his nearly nine hundred years, and loved her for almost as long, but still she could confound him with no effort on her part. “You…fired our children’s nurse?”
“No, silly,” Neldiel laughed. “I gave her the day off, and extra wages, and I told her to go buy herself something pretty.”
“How generous of you,” Celepharn observed.
Neldiel smiled sweetly. “It is good to be kind. But you haven’t been kind. How cruel of you, to hold your wife yet fail to give her even the tiniest of kisses.”
“Oh, but of course I am so terribly cruel.” Celepharn leaned in to steal one of the kisses he loved so much. His lips had barely grazed Neldiel’s when he sensed that they weren’t alone. He opened his eyes, and the sight of an elfling standing a respectful distance away made him draw back from his wife. “What is it, Oropher?”
“Nana told us that when you come swimming with her, you throw her in the water,” Oropher reported. “Is that true? I think you ought not to throw ellith. It’s rude.”
“I applaud your sense of decency, hil-nín,” Celepharn said seriously, while Neldiel stifled a husky laugh with the back of her hand. He removed his cloak and unbuckled his boots, dropping them to the ground as he spoke. “You are quite right. It is entirely inappropriate to throw ellith. You must never do that. Unless, of course, you have married the elleth in question and there is an agreement between you both – spoken or not – that you may throw her into lakes.”
“Do ellith agree to that?” Oropher asked uncertainly.
Celepharn shed his tunic and his shirt of blue silk so he stood in just forest green leggings, and gave his son a half-smile. “Your mother did.”
With her hands on her hips and her head cocked, Neldiel took a step back, and then another, daring Celepharn to follow. He responded to her challenge, and swept her into his arms with one deft movement that made Oropher’s eyes widen in shocked delight. In the shallows of the lake, Vehiron giggled as their father strode past with his willing prisoner squirming and wriggling in his grasp. Neldiel’s protests were only token ones. She was breathless with laughter, helpless as her husband effortlessly lifted her above the water.
“Drop her, Ada!” Vehiron crowed, splashing his feet. “Drop Nana in the pool.”
“I’ll get you back for this, Celepharn Gwathionchil,” Neldiel gasped.
Celepharn smirked. “I cannot wait.”
The boys cheered and clapped as Neldiel was summarily thrown into the water, but the moment she surfaced and sent a great splash of water at Celepharn, they switched sides and joined in. It wasn’t often that the proud young lord indulged in such playtime, so his small sons took advantage of the opportunity and he took it in good humour. He snatched up an elfling in each arm, holding them close and dunking them underwater. They emerged spluttering but howling with laughter, shaking droplets of water from their dark hair.
Finally, Celepharn declared it time to get out of the lake. The children hesitated, but it only took a raised eyebrow from their father to make them sigh and reluctantly splash their way back to shore. “Were we starting to turn into raisins?” Oropher asked, examining his somewhat wrinkled fingertips.
“I’m afraid so,” Celepharn replied, settling the boys together on Neldiel’s cloak. “Lie there and dry off, both of you.”
The playtime had well and truly worn the brothers out. Their energy of moments before was replaced by yawns, and they curled themselves into balls beneath the warmth of the sun’s rays. As it lulled them to sleep, Celepharn covered them with his own cloak. Kneeling beside them, he rested one hand on Oropher’s head and the other on Vehiron’s, silent as he idly stroked their hair. He could feel Neldiel’s eyes on him, and he looked up with a small smile. “What?”
“Nothing. I like watching you with them,” she replied, smiling back.
Celepharn had seen that smile a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, but still it took his breath away and made him feel weak. He thought he would never stop marvelling at his wife; at her beauty, her strength, her power. He stood and went straight to her, taking her into his arms and burying his hands in her damp hair with a sigh of longing. He couldn’t be happier that he had defied his aunt to be with those he loved most, and yet…uninvited, the harsh words and callous criticisms of Lady Baraves came back to sting him. How could her vision of him and Neldiel be better than their reality, he wondered. “Will you promise me something?” he asked of his beloved. “Promise me you won’t change. Promise me that we won’t change.”
“Many have tried to change us, and they have all failed,” Neldiel replied, her voice gentle. “Why do you ask this now?”
“Just promise it,” Celepharn softly implored her.
Neldiel tilted her head up and gave him a sweet kiss. “I promise.”
Greenwood the Great was not the only Woodland Realm of the Elves, nor the first. It was not even the greatest. Before Legolas, before Thranduil, before Oropher, there was Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, Lord of Beleriand in the First Age. He was the mightiest King of the Elves east of the Great Sea, and his kinfolk would one day rule realms throughout the world. This is the story before the story, the tale of those whose sons and daughters would shape Middle-earth for good or ill.
This story starts before the rising of the Sun and the Moon, when the world was lit by the blaze of Elbereth’s stars, and it ends…well, we haven’t got there yet. We’re having too much fun exploring the beginning. But we hope to get there one day!
At times our stories will contain scenes, subjects, and mature themes that may be triggers for some people. We will always post a trigger warning beforehand. Some of our stories also refer to or show corporal punishment (spanking) as a form of discipline. This does not necessarily reflect our personal beliefs, but it is one of many themes that we have chosen to incorporate within our work as forming a part of the cultures that we explore.
