“My Lord.” It is not Glorfindel, standing in their usual meeting spot, but one of his soldiers of Rivendell. “My Lord… I am sorry. I am so very sorry.” He held forward something Thranduil might well have recognised, a brooch in the shape of a golden celandine flower, dented and bloodied. “He was taken… taken to Gundabad.”
He had entered the room where he and Glorfindel always meet when he arrives in Mirkwood and, immediately, what might have been the barest hints of a smile vanish as the moon behind clouds on a dark and cold winter’s night.
The elf he sees standing before him is vaguely familiar, yes, but not the one he expected to find. And something about the way he stands, something in his body language is… unsettling. Even before the other speaks, Thranduil has already concluded that he will not like what will be said.
What follows from the elf––one of Glorfindel’s soldiers, he realizes as he understands the familiarity––makes him wish that, at least once, he could happily admit that he was wrong. That he had overreacted. That Glorfindel had simply been delayed and sent someone to inform him of as much.
But wishing has never gotten him very far. Neither had dreaming or hoping. No, the world and the Fates had always seen fit to keep him firmly grounded in reality with one tragedy right after the other.
Though his expression is a careful blank, there is something in his eyes… something that reflects the coldness suddenly coursing through his veins at the sight of that blood-stained brooch.
‘He was taken… taken to Gundabad’
Wild blue eyes snap from the damaged trinket to the soldier, and in a moment, there is an almost deathly pallor to his face and the slightest shift in the way the shadows fall on the left side of his face.
“To Gundabad… ?” the words escape him without his knowledge even, his voice sounding far away, perhaps from across the leagues of memories now erupting once more to the surface.
‘She was taken, My Lord. Taken to the Gundabad Mountain. There is nothing we could do. There is nothing can be done.’
He had been too grief-stricken then, too shocked, too beside himself and heartsick to continue to argue, to not be persuaded from what he had wanted to do––what every fibre of his being had urged him to do––which was to storm the Gundabad and slay every orc that crossed his path until his wife had been rescued.
Yet his counsellors had convinced him that nothing could be done. That she was long dead by now.
So the winter had begun for the Elven-king and had not ceased. At least, not entirely. But, there had been signs of spring. Quiet and subdued though they were, they were hints that winter did not have to be everlasting.
Now the golden sun who had caused, or at the least assisted, in the thaw… had been dragged down to where the winter had first begun.
Perhaps it is this thought that causes it. The squaring of his shoulders. The hardness to his eyes. The clench of his jaw.
He strides forward and––with a gentleness that would contradict everything in his manner––he takes the brooch from the other, expression momentarily softening before he looks away again and departs the room, brooch clenched in his fist.
Unlike when last he had received such news, there is no brokenness to his demeanor. There is only determination, defiance, rage.
He will not idly remain within his kingdom while one so dear to him suffers. Not again. Never again.
So he storms through his halls, shouting for his warriors, his archers, and any others who would answer his call, and when he stands before them in one of the great halls, he announces what had happened to the shocked dismay and despair of all those gathered.
Many were old enough that––though nary a word was ever spoken of it––they remembered the loss of Mirkwood’s warm and beautiful queen. The brutality and barbarity of her death.
And now, sweet Glorfindel––‘the Golden Lord, of all elves!’ they quietly exclaimed––had been captured as well.
Yet before those gathered could be carried away in their murmurings and cries, their king had commanded their attention once more and announced his intentions.
They would storm Gundabad Mountain as he should have done so many years ago, and they would kill every orc they find on their way to rescue Glorfindel.
Only as he is leaving them to their preparations that he may begin his own, does he realize those of Imladris had heard him as well. No doubt they would carry word to their lord. He does not care, and yet must they be so swift? He had hoped to be well on his way long before Elrond had an opportunity to approach him, to try to speak ‘sense’.
Again his wishes and hopes are ignored, for when he had been ready to depart from his armor room, Elrond had been standing there, frowning.
“What are you thinking, Thranduil? To invade Gundabad Mountain is madness. Have you any idea what––”
“No matter my respect for you, Elrond, I will not listen to you speak to me as though I were an elfing,” he snaps as his crystalline eyes flash. “I would wager that I know far more of Gundabad Mountain and the orcs that live there than you or any other elf here.”
“That point I do not argue, and yet surely he is already killed. Is the recovery of a body truly so important to you that you would lead your people to slaughter?”
With a frustrated sound, Thranduil turns and walks several steps back, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid.
No doubt, in this moment, Elrond believes that he had done it, that he has perhaps talked sense into the Elven-king, yet when he turns to face him once more, his determination is still quite apparent.
“No. They will not have killed him yet.”
“I know that you hope as much––”
“How?” the Lord of Imladris quietly exclaims. “How can you know?”
Another moment of silence falls and Thranduil’s gaze shifts to the floor.
His entire demeanor is changed. Gone is the fire and the pride of the Great King Thranduil. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped, he seems smaller, somehow diminished. He is the very picture of someone who is preparing himself to say something terrible, to share what he would rather forget, what he had only shared with one other of his own accord.
“Were you to ask Legolas of his mother, he would no doubt tell you that there is no grave for her… Because it is what I have always told him. What those who are old enough to remember have always maintained out of respect for their king, and for his loss…”
His expression darkens even still, and once more, there is a shadow that plays upon the left of his face…
“But…” He looks up at Elrond again, an anguish in his eyes that is far beyond what words can express though his own words, while heavy, do not betray him with even the slightest tremor or break.
“There is a grave… And there is a body… And there is the memory of how it was recovered, two moons after she had been taken.”
Thranduil has the rare moment to see Elrond, the Lord of Imladris, at a loss for words, his expression drawn and almost pained, as he stares at him.
“How long, Elrond? How long did she continue to believe that I would rescue her? How many times did she call for me as I remained safely within my walls?” he questions before once more retreating into his stoic facade, his perfect mask.
“I have lost my One because I allowed myself to be swayed. I will not lose a brother as well.”
And then taking a step forward, he stares down at Elrond, a cold fire in his eyes.
“Now move or be moved. I will either rescue Glorfindel or see him avenged, and every moment that I tarry here pointlessly arguing with you is another moment that begins to favor the latter.”
Though he breathes a heavy sigh, Elrond nods and steps aside. With not a glance or a word more––for what more is there to say after one has bared to another what memories and words as have seldom been given thought, let alone utterance?––he passes by him.
By the time that Thranduil and his small army have readied themselves and gathered to embark upon their mission to rescue or avenge, Thranduil is astride his great war elk, watching as others bid farewell to those who will stay behind… when he begins to hear the approach of horses’ hooves. Mildly curious, he turns, only to see the approach of Elrond and those who had travelled with him, those remaining of the attack that had seen Glorfindel captured, outfitted in armor of the Woodland Realm.
Brow furrowed, Thranduil’s gaze remains locked on him even as the ranks clear a path that Elrond may reach their king. When the other has drawn up beside him, he is both confused and suspicious.
In answer to his unspoken question Elrond merely gives a grim smile.
“Why do we tarry now? Let us save your brother.”
Giving no more than a nod in reply, though perhaps the somber expression is returned, he then calls for those gathered to march onward, and they set their way toward Gundabad Mountain…
