Chapter 23 ~ Holding the North

“Thranduil,” Noruvion said gruffly, “if I had a silver piece for every time I told you to sit down and hold still, I would be very wealthy.  Be easy and allow me to do my work.”

“I am hardly at death’s door,” Thranduil complained, reluctantly submitting to the master healer’s attentions.  “There is no need to be so anxious.”

“You are simply embarrassed that you require my services at all.”

It was true.  Thranduil could be justifiably proud of wounds earned in valor, but his current difficulties had been caused in large part by his own horse during a particularly rough encounter with a clutch of the giant spiders.  The beast had completely lost its nerve and subsequently flung them both into a jumble of rocks and tree trunks.  Now Thranduil was suffering the annoyance of a wrenched muscle in the back of his neck, among many other minor hurts.  The shooting pain was surprising, as was the realization of just how often he required that particular muscle to function properly.

Noruvion probed the extent of the damage with practiced fingers.  “You will live,” he pronounced, though no one had suspected otherwise.  “No irrevocable harm done.”  He began to firmly knead the stiffness from the injury, demonstrating the proper technique for Gwaelas.  He also gave him a small bottle of oil infused with the essences of many wholesome things for additional relief. 

“Do not overtax yourself,” Noruvion admonished him as he prepared to take his leave.  “If you injure yourself further by neglect, I shall know it.”

Thranduil scowled at him.  “Have I ever disregarded your advice?” he asked.

“Only in that respect,” Noruvion insisted.  “Rest, and you will mend all the faster.”

Thranduil only sighed as Noruvion left them.  He was correct, of course.  Pushing doggedly through the discomfort of the many injuries he had endured during his lifetime had never once helped them to heal better or more quickly.  Moreover, he was tired, which had no doubt contributed to his inability to control his horse in the first place.  His sleep had been fitful lately, fraught with ominous shadows.

He said nothing for a moment, still seated straddling the wooden chair backwards with his shirt open, his thoughts adrift.  Gwaelas, choosing to make something of the opportunity, quietly put several drops of the oil on his hand and resumed the restorative attentions as Noruvion had instructed.

It was painful but not entirely unpleasant, and Thranduil had to resist being lulled insensible by the repetitive motion.  “I have no time to nurse petty injuries like this, Gwaelas,” he said stubbornly, though he made no move to stand.

“Then you must make time somehow, my lord,” Gwaelas insisted, uncharacteristically impertinent.   “You must abide by Master Noruvion’s instructions and recover your strength properly.  You are not inexhaustible.”

“You and Noruvion seem to be the only ones who realize it,” Thranduil allowed himself to admit.  His carefully cultivated image as the tireless guardian of the wood seemed to be accepted by most, and only a few knew the true extent of his daily struggles.

“Your secret is safe with me, my lord,” Gwaelas assured him.  At last, he stopped kneading in order to stretch his fingers.  “Will you not take some sleep?” he asked, gesturing to the bed.  “Surely the broad light of day harbors fewer perils than the night.”

Despite all his protests, Thranduil found the prospect very appealing.  He would have nodded, but it still hurt to do so.  Recognizing his victory, Gwaelas turned down the bedding and placed the goose down cushions in such a way as to best accommodate the King’s injury.  Thranduil kicked off his boots, untied his hair, and gingerly lay down on his bed, intending for once to take Noruvion’s advice entirely to heart.

“I shall inform Lord Linhir that you are not to be disturbed,” Gwaelas assured him, obviously anxious to get away as quickly as possible to stem the constant tide of royal affairs and leave Thranduil to his rest.  “Have you any last instruction for him?”

A loud rapping at the door made Thranduil bolt upright without thinking.  He and Gwaelas cursed at once, he from the pain, the other from frustration.

“Come!” Thranduil barked, rubbing his neck, although now the untimely messenger seemed reluctant to enter.  “Come in, come in.  You can do no worse.”

Captain Lancaeron of the King’s Guard entered, looking perhaps a bit more sheepish than a captain of the King’s Guard ever should.  “I beg your pardon, sire,” he began, “but we have had such news from the western marches.  Commander Dorthaer thought it best to inform you at once.”

“Very well, say on,” Thranduil said, intrigued.  Lancaeron’s agitated aspect did not imply that it was bad news, but perhaps news of a strange and wondrous sort.  They needed more of that those days.

“Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel have entered the wood and are encamped with our guard on the western road.  They have declared their intention to continue here by the swiftest road at first light, by your leave, and take counsel with you.”

Thranduil was genuinely surprised, and said nothing for a moment.  Celeborn had not sent word ahead, indeed had been little heard of for many long years, and Galadriel certainly did not make a habit of consulting him.  His interest was keenly piqued. 

“Send an escort for them, Captain,” he said at last, “and show them every courtesy.  Celeborn and his Lady are ever welcome in any realm of mine.”  For one fleeting moment, Thranduil was reminded of that scowl which had always darkened his father’s countenance at the mention of their sundered cousin in later days.  Then it was gone.  The jealousies of Oropher’s reign were little more than a faded memory now.

Lancaeron left at once to do as he was bidden.  Thranduil moved to stand, but Gwaelas rounded on him and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder.

“The Lord and Lady cannot arrive any sooner than tomorrow evening,” he said in a tone which brooked no argument.  “There is nothing to be done and no preparation to be made that cannot be entrusted to others.  Your first duty, sire, is to take your rest.”

Thranduil tried to frown at him, but the expression twisted itself into a strange smile.  “You have grown very bold, Gwaelas,” he said, gently cuffing his hand aside.  “It will land you in trouble someday.  I forgive you now, and I shall take your advice, but if the good silverware is not polished or our guests are bedded too near the sluices, I shall know who to blame.”

“Nothing of the kind will happen, I assure you, my lord,” Gwaelas said, extinguishing many of the lamps and leaving the King’s chamber in a soft golden twilight.  “Now sleep, for the love of Elbereth.”

They arrived late on the following evening, crossing the bridge over the river in the dappled orange light of sunset.  It was a small party of six mounted on handsome brown horses, hooded and cloaked in soft woodland colors.  They were dressed for anonymity, which was usually not the case with the Lord and the Lady.

Thranduil stood at the gates to welcome them, flanked by his honor guard.  He wore on his brow only the simple military circlet of twisted steel.  He had not yet brought himself to replace their treasured crowns, and that one seemed to better represent the sort of society they had become. 

“Welcome to the last bastion of Eryn Galen, my lords,” he said as they dismounted.  “I am immensely gratified to receive you at last, though I am quite at a loss to account for your coming so suddenly.”

“It has been a long and weary journey for us in these past months,” Celeborn explained, stiffly according Thranduil the honors due a king in his own halls.  “Forgive our coming upon you unannounced, but we seem to be driven more by instinct than by any prepared route.”

“The fault is mine, I am afraid,” Galadriel said, throwing back her hood to reveal her striking golden hair, “though my lord would never admit it.  There is much evil afoot in the world, and we have been on a long journey of inquiry throughout Rhovanion to learn all we can.”

“I trust your efforts have not been in vain,” Thranduil said.  “I shall be glad to assist you in any way you may require, and it has been too long since we have had any news from the south.  But unless you have learned of some immediate danger, I must insist that you take some refreshment with us before we begin.  Speaking of evil things can be hungry work.”

They had no objection, for plainly life in the wilds of Rhovanion had long ago lost its charm.  On a rare impulse of hospitable generosity, Thranduil showed them to the royal baths deep in the caverns, recently finished and complete with amenities fit for any lord.  Deep pools were fed by branches of the river strained clean by a series of fine screens.  Heated water flowed in from a reservoir hidden behind the walls.  The floors were tiled with black granite from the mountains, glimmering with iridescent inclusions like stars in a clear night sky.  It was Thranduil’s new favorite retreat, but he sensed his road-weary guests had more need of it than he did at that moment.  Celeborn seemed duly impressed, but Galadriel, who perhaps had expected a frostier welcome and more rustic accommodations, named him a true friend and blessed.

After they had bathed and recovered themselves, Thranduil received them at his private table for supper.  The enormous venison roast with chestnuts and mushrooms left nothing to be desired, complemented as a matter of course with generous portions of wine.

“Where is Legolas?” Celeborn finally asked. 

“Legolas has gone to lead a patrol of soldiers south to the mountains,” Thranduil explained.  “Had I known of your coming, I would have held him back.  Of all the fine things my realm can boast, I dare to say he is the finest.  We can only hope he returns before you must depart.”

“Indeed,” Galadriel agreed.  “It would be a shame to leave without meeting him.”

“Tell me how it goes with Amroth,” Thranduil said.  “A great deal has changed since last I saw him.”

“I imagine you do not see much of anyone we used to know here in your isolated corner of the world,” Celeborn observed.  “For that I cannot fault you.  We have only just left our own distant home in Belfalas by the sea where we have been for much of this age.”

Thranduil now noticed Galadriel’s nacre brooch and her pearl jewelry.  It stirred a strange melancholy in his heart with memories of Lindon and Mithlond and a simpler time.  He drowned it in wine before it could trouble him further.

“We passed through Lórinand first on our journey,” Galadriel was saying.  “While all goes well with Amroth himself, I regret that he had dire news of Eriador.”

“Things go very ill in Arnor,” Celeborn said, cutting to the chase.  “It may not even be accurate to call it Arnor any longer.”

“I was aware that the northern kingdom had been split into three parts,” Thranduil said, pouring himself another glass.  “That was the last reliable report I had until we last met in Imladris.  I did not pay an extraordinary amount of attention to what moved in those kingdoms of Men at the time, but I did not hear anything of concern.”

“There was peace then,” Celeborn explained, “but the intervening centuries have been evil.  The Nazgûl have risen again, and the chief among them rules a realm of sorcery in the far north which has been named Angmar.  He and his minions have overrun Cardolan and seduced Rhudaur into becoming a vassal state.  King Araphor of Arthedain still resists, but his people are diminished and he is hard pressed.  His father, Arveleg, was killed by assassins from Rhudaur, and it was only with the timely assistance of Círdan of Lindon that he held his throne.  Just this past year they endured another assault, and Elrond was obliged to cross the mountains and beg reinforcements from Amroth.  They had the victory, and Angmar has been repulsed for the time, but no one imagines the Witchking to be conquered forever.”

“This is dire news indeed,” Thranduil agreed slowly, his mind racing.  He had no soldiers to waste in Eriador, certainly not against a rogue kingdom ruled by Ringwraiths.  He prayed they would not ask him, because he would be forced to refuse.  Nonetheless, he could feel a request coming.  “What is it you desire of me?”

“We do not ask you to leave Rhovanion,” Celeborn assured him.  “Your circumstances here are too pressing for that.  But, should all Eriador fall to the ravages of Angmar and Imladris be overrun, it would be a comfort for Elrond to know our forces may retreat to your wood at need.”

“That much I can promise,” Thranduil said, relieved.  “My borders are ever open to anyone of good faith from Imladris, Lindon, or Lórinand.  I regret that it was not always so, but those days are past.”

Celeborn smiled at him then, an expression more spontaneous and genuine than any Thranduil could now remember.  Perhaps his elder cousin was slightly undone by the wine, but Thranduil could still recall a brief conversation in a crowded hall on the other side of the mountains many centuries ago when Celeborn had dared to admit that he would have preferred to see Thranduil on Oropher’s throne.  The idea had seemed incredible at the time.  This was not the way either of them would have chosen to effect the reconciliation of their houses, but the accomplished fact remained. 

“Enough talk of doom,” Galadriel said then, banishing the dark tidings about which they could do nothing.  “We cannot afford to despair of Eriador yet, and Imladris will never be conquered without being very dearly bought.  Tell us about your defenses in Mirkwood, Thranduil.  We have come to learn all we can on that score.”

“Tales of life in Mirkwood will keep until the morning,” Thranduil insisted.  “You have both earned at least a fortnight of unguarded sleep after such a journey.”  He rose from his seat, but could not hide the painful twinge in his neck as he straightened.

Celeborn frowned.  “Are you hurt?” he demanded tersely.

“It is little more than an annoyance,” Thranduil insisted, minding his language in the Lady’s company.  “It will mend in time.”

“Please, Thranduil, allow me to attend it,” Galadriel said earnestly.  “Let this be a small token of our gratitude.”

Not certain what she meant, Thranduil said nothing.  Galadriel plainly interpreted his silence as consent, for she placed a hand on his shoulder to bid him sit, and Thranduil found himself obeying without question.  It was when she unbuckled the front of his jerkin and began unlacing his shirt that he became decidedly uncomfortable and glanced sharply at Celeborn.  The silver lord observed the scene with a tolerant air, as if he had seen the like a hundred times before.

Trying not to stiffen entirely, Thranduil sat quietly as Galadriel reached into his shirt and slowly ran her smooth hand over his chest, back across his shoulder, and then along his neck.  He could feel a power in her touch that he had never experienced before, at once gentle and perilous, thrumming through his core.  It was intoxicating, and in that moment he could not help but imagine that he understood Celeborn better than Oropher ever had.

A pleasant wave of heat seemed to emanate from her hand as it lingered over his injury.  Thranduil almost pulled away, startled, but allowed her to continue.  The heat grew stronger, spreading irresistibly through his body, and it seemed he could feel all damage righting itself. 

Galadriel at last withdrew her hand as the residual warmth faded, leaving him rather stunned.  “I trust you will find your hurts much improved,” she smiled.

Thranduil turned his head experimentally and found all trace of the pain had gone.  “Thank you, my lady,” he managed to say, still a bit unsettled.

A household servant with an armful of plates passed by the door, paused and took a few steps backward to give the King a quizzical look before carrying on as before.

Thranduil frowned and pulled himself together, quickly closing his jerkin before he became the talk of the kitchens.  He was almost certain he had caught a fleeting glimpse of silver and adamant on Galadriel’s finger, but tacitly agreed not to speak of it. 

“As I said,” he continued, standing once more, “there is time enough to show you whatever you wish in the morning.  Take whatever leisure you require for we need not start at first light.  I am in no great hurry to be rid of you.”

“You are proving a very gracious host,” Celeborn commended him.  “I would that I could show you the same courtesy.”

“Someday,” Thranduil agreed as his guests departed for their chambers in the company of their escorts.  “Someday when the shadows of Mirkwood are lifted and Dol Guldur is no more, I promise I shall visit your home wherever it may be.”