Chapter 19 ~ Hopeless Courage

They entered the idyllic valley and rode toward the city without fanfare.  Thranduil had not often been to Imladris but he knew the way, leading his modest entourage astride a dappled stallion as gray as the clouds gathered above them.  They were clad in very somber woodland colors, reflecting the temper of all Eryn Galen.  The posted guards along the road stood aside and let them pass without challenge.

When at last they reached the city gates, a small party had gathered to receive them, heedless of the rumbling thunder.  Thranduil dismounted and accepted Elrond’s formal embrace.  It was surprisingly good to see him and Celebrían again.

“Welcome again to my house, my lord,” Elrond greeted him with sincere warmth.  “It has been much too long.  We were deeply grieved to hear of the queen.  Know that all Imladris mourns with you.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil said, though he could not quite manage a smile.

“Come,” Lady Celebrían beckoned graciously, “let me take you inside.  Lord Elrond does not allow kings to stand in the rain when they might otherwise be sitting by a fire.”

Thranduil moved to follow her with Gwaelas behind, silently thankful the formalities had been brief.  He had neither the will nor the desire to remain artificially pleasant all evening.  They filed past a row of noble onlookers, each of whom offered a shallow bow as he passed.  Thranduil merely glanced at them.  None met his gaze, though he felt their eyes on his back.  At the end of the line, however, a lady with raven hair and startlingly familiar eyes did look up at him.  He stopped in front of her, halted by sudden recognition.

Celebrían noticed the delay and stepped in to make a formal introduction.  “My lord, may I present Lady Elemmiriel of Mithlond, a guest in our house.  My lady, King Thranduil of Greenwood.”

It had been four hundred centuries since they had parted in Lindon.  She plainly remembered him, yet betrayed no hint of familiarity.  “I am honored, my lord,” she said, dipping gracefully.

“The honor is mine,” Thranduil insisted, for lack of anything more eloquent.  He had absolutely no idea what to say to her.  It seemed he would be momentarily spared the difficulty as Celebrían turned once again to lead them inside.  Thranduil followed, but not without a backward glance.

“These will be your quarters while you stay with us,” Celebrían said, becoming more familiar once they were alone.  “It is not the grandest room, I am afraid, but it has always been one of my favorites.  It boasts an unparalleled view of the gardens, which I knew would please Gwaelas.”

“Thank you, Celebrían,” Thranduil said, genuinely appreciative.  “I am sure we shall be quite comfortable.”

“If you want for anything, you have but to ask,” she assured him, risking a quick kindred embrace.  “I shall leave you in peace now.  Doubtless you will want some rest before supper.”

Thranduil forced himself to smile as she left, but it quickly faded.  Rest may be what he needed, but at the moment he could not abide the thought of being alone.  As the rain began to fall in a steady downpour outside, he quickly changed out of his travel clothes and donned a more formal tunic.

“Gwaelas, make certain Dorthaer and the others have been properly settled,” he said, throwing a cloak over his shoulders.  “Then you may do as you please.  I do not expect I shall return before nightfall.”

The ornate corridors were full of the usual bustling of servants and guests.  They did not go particularly far out of their way to acknowledge him, but that was to be expected.  Great names from almost every realm in Middle-earth came to Imladris, and when they did so it was often to find peace and some measure of anonymity, not to be trumpeted from every tower. 

Thranduil was not certain where he was going, letting instinct and very old habits guide him.  He left the house and walked along a covered terrace toward the gardens, then ran briefly through the rain to a graceful pavilion standing alone amidst the holly trees. 

Elemmirë was sitting there, her embroidery in her lap, watching the rain fall in cold sheets outside.  She looked up and smiled as he arrived, but seemed only mildly surprised.  Seeing her brought back a flood of memories, but they had both changed too much for it to make him feel any younger.

“You plainly have not told our hosts that we have met before,” Thranduil observed, shaking some of the rain from his cloak.

“I did not know whether you would remember me,” Elemmirë confessed.  “You were not a king then.”

“I do not forget my friends so easily,” Thranduil assured her.  “I would like to think I may still count you among them.”

“Most assuredly,” she said, inviting him to sit.  He did, though at a decorous distance.

They said nothing for a few moments, but the silence was not necessarily awkward.  So much had happened that it was difficult to know where to begin.  For a brief time they had been young together, their whole lives ahead of them.  Now that perspective seemed very different.

“Elemmirë,” Thranduil asked at last, “why are you still here?”  It was perhaps very forward of him, but they had always been frank with each other.  “I thought you must have returned to the West long ago.”

She frowned slightly, though seemed accustomed to the question.  “You of all people must understand the desire to stand when all others expect you to flee,” she said.  “It may not be the land of my birth, but can I not also feel at home in this Middle-earth?”

“Do you love it so much?” Thranduil asked with a new appreciation.

“As much as you do, perhaps, though you may find it difficult to believe.  Valinor may indeed be paradise, but this is a land of heroism and of nobility which must be earned, sometimes at a dreadful price.  It seems unfit to claim the reward without first making the sacrifice.  I want my sons to understand that.”

Thranduil nodded.  “If everyone had understood that two ages ago, this world may have been a very different place,” he agreed. 

“When we left Aman, no one could promise us that we could ever go back,” Elemmirë continued.  “Now when we do, none of us are the same.  I see it in their faces as they pass through Mithlond, year after year.  This world leaves its mark on you.  I just do not feel it has quite finished leaving its mark on me.”  She glanced up.  “Nor on you.”

Thranduil sighed, feeling the weight of time, memory and responsibility bearing down upon him again.  For a moment he had been pleasantly distracted.  “It seems intent rather upon bleeding me dry,” he said bitterly. 

An enormous clap of thunder shook the valley, giving them both a start before dying away into the steady downpour. 

Elemmirë turned to him with a look of such profound sympathy that he knew what she was thinking.  “I was truly sorry to hear,” she said, gently and without pretense.

Thranduil nodded gratefully.  “We must all bear it as best we can.”

“Will you not follow her?”

“I could never be easy again if I left Greenwood in the state it is in now,” Thranduil confessed.  "My son is a worthy heir, but his best talents lie elsewhere.  In any case,” he said, “Lindóriel loved the Galennath as her own children.  Whatever is to be their end, she wanted me to stay with them.”

The specter of just how wretched that end could be continued to haunt him.  His heart was crying for some support amid all the uncertainty, his loneliness only exacerbated by being away from his companions and from Legolas. 

“I miss my father, Elemmirë,” he confessed at last.  “I miss your father.”

“I am certain they and your courageous queen are all interceding with Tulkas and Oromë on your behalf,” she said with bittersweet resignation.  “They trusted you.  Your friends trust you, and your people trust you.  Trust them enough to trust in yourself.”

The storm continued to rage through the night, but even that could not disturb the calm within Elrond’s house.  The fire had faded to embers on the hearth, casting soporific shadows over the room.  Everything was quiet except for the steady falling of the rain.

Thranduil lay awake, too pensive to sleep.  He was still not accustomed to sleeping alone.  Too often he found himself reaching for her in his dreams, only to wake and rediscover the cold reality.  Sometimes it seemed there was nothing he wanted more than to sleep the years away, losing himself in the memory of happier times.  Sometimes it seemed easier not to sleep at all. 

At last, he rose and paced into the far room.  Gwaelas and Dorthaer were sleeping remarkably soundly in their own beds, a luxury the captain of the guard rarely allowed himself.  Apparently, the tranquility of Imladris was doing them both good. 

Together they reflected the two sides of the silvan race.  Thranduil could not help but be deeply appreciative of the gentle devotion of the one, the perilous skill of the other, the tenacious loyalty of both.  Gwaelas had been by his side for more than three thousand years and knew him as intimately as his own family.  Dorthaer had devoted his life to his protection.  Thranduil certainly considered them friends, but when he looked at them he also felt a stirring of the same paternal affection he felt for Legolas.  In many ways they were his family now.

Standing in the shadows like a specter, he took no notice of the passing time.  He belonged to the Galennath more than he had belonged even to the Iathrim, and he loved them with a fiercely protective love which burned brighter than any bittersweet memory of his youth. 

He would never abandon them.