Chapter 35 ~ The City of Bells

The following decades saw little change in Mirkwood, but the fortunes of the world beyond their borders continued to shift.  In their present situation the King felt that it would be unwise to completely disregard the doings of their nearest neighbors, and so his scouts were regularly sent into the rugged lands of the north, east and west.  Their reports were always interesting if not always auspicious.  Legolas was not immediately privy to every detail, but at his current post on the northern border he was occasionally the first to receive the special envoys as they returned to the wood.  His father always informed him of any specific points of interest later in his own hand.

The horsemen of the Éothéod had once again lent their aid to Gondor against the Balchoth in the south.  Their success in that endeavor was so greatly appreciated that King Eorl was gifted a fair but desolate portion of Gondor’s northern territory.  Eorl’s queen had sent messengers to Thranduil to graciously take their leave of him and their realm in the north had been completely abandoned. 

The region had continued to darken for another lifetime of Men before the Dwarves returned to Erebor with their king, driven out of Ered Mithrin by the dragons.  Northmen had begun settling in the shadow of the mountain in great numbers, attracted by the new lucrative opportunities the Dwarves provided.  Their initial settlement had quickly grown into the great city of Dale.  King Thranduil was openly glad of another kingdom of Men in that part of the world, especially now that Framsburg was a ruin.  The increased traffic of Dwarves was not something he or any of his people especially enjoyed, but whatever their faults, the Stunted People did bring a great deal of prosperity in their wake. 

Now it seemed they would be going to see this fabulous new city for themselves.

Legolas folded the letter again and slipped it beneath his jerkin.  “You may go,” he said.  “We will follow before sunset.”  Thranduil’s courier offered him a crisp bow and descended from the flet at once. 

“The King has recalled you?” Calenmir asked.

“Not permanently,” Legolas assured his cousin.  “It seems there is to be a grand festival of tradesmen in Dale before season’s end.  Our King has consented to attend, and Tauriel and I are to accompany him.”

Calenmir’s brows leapt with sudden interest.  “The King has not left the wood in ten centuries,” he said. 

“Then I suppose he has decided it is high time for a change of scene,” Legolas shrugged.  “He has been formally invited and he has accepted.  We are to set sail along the river in a matter of days.”

“I wonder that he insists upon Tauriel’s presence,” Calenmir continued, although his sly smile implied that he did not wonder at all.

Legolas replied with only a reproving glance, refusing to further dignify the comment.   Officially, the King feigned indifference to young Tauriel and her new career, but Legolas dutifully included a detailed description of her progress in each of his reports knowing it would be expected.  Likewise, he had not been personally tasked with Tauriel’s training, but he knew very well why the King had suddenly removed him from the southern border and placed him on the quietest stretch of woodland they still possessed.  Legolas did not resent the assignment; it had proven an enjoyable one, certainly of great importance to his father if not to the realm.  It was no surprise to him that the King had specially requested that young Tauriel attend him on this royal excursion to Dale and Erebor.

“I must say, we never expected the wood to supply you a sister,” Calenmir continued.

“She is the King’s ward and nothing more,” Legolas insisted.  “Even less now that she is of age.”

“Just as you say,” Calenmir agreed, though he made little effort to suppress an impudent smile.

The King’s favor was clearly less subtle than he might wish.

In the beginning, Legolas had shared his father’s dissatisfaction with Tauriel’s determination to become a soldier.  She was quite clever and seemed to possess a great deal of skill which might have been put to better use in pursuit of higher arts, and yet she had chosen the life of violence and brutality so often required of Mirkwood’s defenders.  She had not seen anything especially violent yet, but her training was progressing admirably.  She was still very young, impulsive and driven by strong emotions, but she had begun to gain experience and discipline, though the latter did not seem to come easily to her temperament.

The afternoon was fading when the patrol returned.  Legolas was there to receive them and their report, though very little ever happened in that region.

Captain Tirnorn brought his column to a halt.  “My Lord Legolas,” he said with a deep bow, “the eastmarch continues to be peaceful.  We have nothing of interest to report.  We left Captain Dolaras standing watch.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Legolas said.  “You and your troop may stand down.  But leave Tauriel with me.”

Unlike Calenmir, Tirnorn was disciplined enough to offer no comment.  “As you wish, my lord.”  He turned.  “Tauriel!  You are required.”

She stepped out of ranks as her fellows melted back into the camp in search of rest and sustenance.  “My Lord Legolas,” she said, presenting herself with a bow, her eyes bright and eager despite her recent exertions.  “What is your command?”

“This time it is the King who commands us both, Tauriel,” Legolas smiled.  “We must ride to join him at once.”

The river offered the swiftest route into Dale, so on the appointed day the King and his companions set out in a small but impressive fleet of boats, all of them flying the bold green colors of Eryn Galen.  The boatmen passed the time singing lively woodland songs to the beat of their oars, conspicuously foregoing the legendary stealth of their people.

It had been a very long time since Thranduil had last passed the border of the forest, so it was unexpectedly exhilarating to feel the unobstructed wind on his face and to see the open plains of Rhovanian racing by on either side.  He still claimed these grassy plains beside the river as part of his realm and some of their people still made their homes along the banks, but settlements were thin and the land was mostly wild.

Tiring of his seat under the canopy, Thranduil went to stand on the prow to better enjoy the view and the motion of the boat as it sliced rapidly through the water.  He glanced back at the formation sailing with him, each craft elaborately carved and beautifully painted, all driven onward by the indomitable strength of their oarsmen.  The nearest of them bore the remainder of his guard with Legolas and Tauriel.  His son met his gaze and offered a jaunty salute.

Thranduil was looking forward with new enthusiasm to meeting these other lords of Rhovanion.  He was irrepressibly proud of himself, of his people, and of the fierce reputation they had earned beneath his banner.  At that moment, he could have stood before all the kings in Valinor without a regret.  A few Men and Dwarves would be no trouble.

Evening was lengthening when they arrived at the Long Lake.  The ramshackle town which had been built along the shore had obviously benefited from the new munificence of its residents and neighbors, beginning to grow into something of greater consequence than a simple fishing village.  But, despite its improvements, the look of the place still led one to believe the accommodation it could offer would leave a great deal to be desired, and it was already crowded with people on their way to the festival.  The decision was made to press on slowly through the night.

The cloudless sky allowed the stars to shine with all their splendor, illuminating the river with that soft silver light dear to every Elvish heart.  Gil-Estel shone brightest among them, reminding Thranduil even now of all he had endured since he had seen its first rising long ago in the depths of history.  It always stirred a thrilling sentiment that never grew old, the fathomless centuries coalesced into a single bittersweet moment. 

A few hours before dawn, they moored the boats a short distance from Dale, out of the way of the enormous traffic of other boats further upstream.  The mountain loomed above the valley, a vast dark shape against the sky.  Several grand pavilions were immediately laid out and erected to house the Elvenking and his royal party while they remained there.

Thranduil, his guard, and his most intimate companions continued on foot into the city as the first light began to glow on the horizon.  People of all descriptions could be seen coming and going as they prepared their stalls, unloaded and displayed their wares.  Colored pennons fluttered in the breeze, and the clear music of many bells greeted the break of day. 

“Well, Legolas,” Thranduil said, pausing on the bluff, “what do you think of the place?”

“They have been very industrious,” Legolas observed.  “It is a great deal of stonework to have been completed in just six years.”

“No doubt they had some assistance from their neighbors,” Thranduil guessed.  “The Dwarves toil like ants when it suits their purposes.”

“I have not yet seen a Dwarf,” Tauriel interjected.  “Will there be Dwarves at the festival?”

“Undoubtedly,” Thranduil said.  “And that, young Tauriel, is primarily why I requested your company.  It is high time you saw something of the world.  I expect this occasion will prove a very efficient way to broaden your education.”

A herald greeted them at the south gate of the city, and they were escorted to the center of the brightly decorated marketplace where Thranduil was formally welcomed by Lord Brand of Dale.  He was a strong, stout Man, full of good cheer and a great many grand words.  Thranduil only attended as closely as courtesy demanded, bored by the necessary niceties but intrigued by the activity all around them.  Browsing through an exotic market with coin to spend was a rare pleasure.

“Please, my lords, enjoy your visit to our fair city!” Brand concluded at last.  “And, if it pleases you, I would be honored if you would join me at my table at midday for some refreshment.  We have keenly desired to become better acquainted with our woodland neighbors.”

“The honor would be ours,” Thranduil assured him.  “You may expect us.”

Lord Brand smiled broadly and offered a low bow as the Elves took their leave.  Thranduil, too, had every intention of learning as much as he could about his new neighbors, but there would be time enough for that later.  First there was an enormous market to explore.

At first glance, the sheer expanse of the place and the variety of the goods on offer confirmed that it was well worth the journey.  The city was crowded now with people of all descriptions as serious business was conducted against a backdrop of musicians, lively street performers, and hordes of children running about wearing paper crowns and waving brightly colored ribbons on sticks.  The air was thick with a confused blend of intriguing smells, sawdust and new leather, hot meat and fresh bread, blooming flowers and exotic spices.  It would take a considerable amount of time to see it all.

There were gems of all kinds, both finished and rough, and great quantities of amber.  Thranduil allowed his master jeweler to make several strategic purchases.  As they passed metalsmiths of a more practical sort, his master armorer negotiated the future delivery of a large quantity of raw ore from the mountain mines.  A long row of clothiers offered everything from sturdy canvas to the finest silks.  There were also twisted bundles of raw spun yarn in an impressive array of fibers and colors, some fabulously expensive.  The merchants seemed to sense that the Elvenking had brought gold enough to afford the extravagance and were keen to make the most of the opportunity, drawing his attention especially to the skeins made from the hair of mountain goats in the far east.  Thranduil's royal tailor went over the most interesting fabrics with a discerning eye and chose no fewer than thirty large bolts and five large sacks full of yarns.  There were tapestries large and small, carpets and woven rugs, furs and skins of both strange and familiar animals.  There were leathers of all sorts intended for all purposes, some thick and sturdy and others pale and soft, both raw and finished into delicately-tooled masterpieces. 

There was a great deal of food to be had if one wanted it, wheels of cheese large and small, honey and an astounding variety of nuts, bread either fine and white or stout and hearty, spices from near and far and the confections made with them.  The owners of these stalls were quite eager to offer samples of their wares in the hope of selling it off.  Thranduil made certain that enough was purchased to feed his companions so long as they lingered in Dale. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flurry of activity at a stall occupied by Rhûnish wine merchants.  Tales of the Woodland Realm's prodigious appetite for imported wine had clearly preceded them.  Competition for Thranduil's patronage was fierce among these mortal tradesmen who well understood that earning the favor of the Elvenking could secure their sons for generations.  The patriarch filled a glinting crystal cup and offered it to him at a distance with a grand flourish.  After pretending not to notice for a moment, Thranduil smiled to himself and decided to reward their boldness. 

“Very well, sir,” he said, approaching with his entourage and accepting the cup.  “Tell me why I should prefer your wares to all others.”

“I shall, my lord, with your gracious permission,” the merchant agreed eagerly, he and his sons bowing deeply before the Elves.  “Our grapes are far superior to any others, grown in the fertile valleys of Dorwinion beside the Sea of Rhûn.”

“Such a distance must certainly increase the price,” Thranduil observed critically, interrupting the presentation.

“Certainly, my lord,” the merchant admitted, “but perhaps you will find this vintage well worth the expense, as others have done.  The spirit of our vineyards runs deep within it and is, I dare to say, quite unique in its way.”

Thranduil nodded slightly, impressed by the man's confidence.  He had a cryptic look about him as though he were alluding to certain trade secrets in which he took great pride and yet would never divulge, and after unnumbered centuries’ experience with wine, Thranduil had to admit he was intrigued.  He swirled it critically, observing that it had a very pleasing crimson color.  He condescended to taste it, and then drained the cup.  It was a very sweet wine, although perhaps with a strange underlying flavor the sweetness was meant to either accompany or conceal.  It was quite pleasant despite that, but not especially memorable.  “You know your craft well,” he complimented the merchant, “but I do not find your fabled vintage so far out of the ordinary.”

“Perhaps my lord would be so kind as to taste another,” the Man said, accepting his cup back as his sons quickly presented yet another with slightly paler contents.  “I pray it is more to your liking.”

It was again very sweet but with a lighter flavor than the first.  It was clearly intended to be served in small portions but Thranduil finished the glass again seeing no point in wasting it.  “Had I to choose, I would prefer the first,” he said, returning that cup as well.  “I still do not see . . .”  Whatever incredulity Thranduil had intended to express died on his tongue as he began to feel the wine’s unexpectedly potent effects.  He already felt slightly inebriated, and yet not.  His mind was unclouded, but he felt more deeply at ease than he had for a very long time, his mood inexplicably lifted.  It was heady stuff, and indeed unlike any other he had ever experienced.

The sharp glint in the merchant's eye made it obvious that he had been anticipating this reaction and was inwardly congratulating himself.  Thranduil narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, provoking very innocent expressions from the whole party of them.  “I would ask what you have done to it if I thought you would ever tell,” he said dryly.

“The soil of Dorwinion has many virtues unknown to other vineyards, my lord,” the old man insisted slyly.  “Would my lord care to taste another variety?  This is from a vine we have cultivated ourselves and which exists nowhere else.”

“Enough,” Thranduil said, gently but firmly refusing any other offerings.  He did not wish to discover what effect further indulgence would have on him at that moment.  It was plain that this wine had been fortified with something other than fertile soil and sunshine, but also that it was something he could thoroughly appreciate.  “You have accomplished your purpose,” he assured them.  “How much do you have with you?”

“We have sixty casks with us today, my lord,” the merchant said, bowing so deeply that he had to secure his cap with his hand.  “How many do you desire?”

“All of them,” Thranduil decided, causing the man to fumble his cap to the ground.  “Deliver them to my master cellarer at the riverbank by sundown, and you and he may agree to a price.  I also wish to receive regular shipments from your vineyards in the future.  You may discuss those arrangements with him as well.”

They were still spluttering their thanks and appreciation as the Elvenking and his entourage moved on into the crowd.  There was still a great deal left to explore.

There were wood carvings of remarkable skill, bells of all shapes and purposes in honor of the city’s most memorable feature, and blown glass of all sorts which was all the more impressive for not being broken after the journey.  There were master herbalists, paper mongers, weapons masters, and toy makers.  There were small exotic animals on leashes, shells from distant seas, and other curiosities.  After a very long time, and as the sun was nearing its midday zenith, they arrived at a distant corner of the market which was notably calmer and quieter than the rest.  There they found the dealers and collectors of manuscripts and books of all descriptions.  Thranduil, mindful of his invitation to the midday feast, knew he did not have time to linger, but a group of Elves caught his eye who were almost certainly from Imladris.  Increasingly isolated as they were in Mirkwood, he would always be glad of some news of his fellows west of the mountains.

“Well met, friends of Eriador,” he said, approaching them.  “Am I correct in assuming you have come from Rivendell?”

“We have, Lord Thranduil,” they answered with low bows, recognizing him at once.

“It has been many years since I have had word of my kinsman, Lord Elrond,” Thranduil continued.  “I trust all was well with him when you left.”

“It was as well as can be expected in this strange and changeable world,” Elrond said from his unobtrusive place in the back.  He silenced Thranduil's surprise with a gesture.  “I am not here in any official capacity,” he explained, “and I wish to remain so.  Thus, I can avoid a great many tiresome obligations I imagine you cannot.”

“You are quite correct,” Thranduil agreed even as the midday bells began to toll, but his joy was already tempered by some measure of concern.  There was pain behind Elrond’s weary smile which they could not possibly discuss in that moment, but which he certainly had no intention to ignore.  “I must go present myself for one even now, but I trust we may soon meet again.  Unofficially.”

 “Of course,” Elrond promised.  “I shall visit your encampment as soon as I may.”

Preoccupied now with other things, Thranduil found it difficult to take a great interest in the pleasantries at the Lord’s banquet, and his wandering thoughts were not the only distraction.  Long tables had been placed end to end in a stone courtyard to create an enormously long rectangular space with the Elves seated at one end, the Dwarves on the other, and the Men in between.  Consequently, if one paid no mind to the servants coming and going, Thranduil and Thrór had a distant but unobstructed view of one another from opposite sides of the yard. 

Perhaps it was because his pleasant humor had been suddenly dampened by his concern for Elrond, or perhaps it was simply a consequence of his own deep prejudices, but Thranduil found the seating arrangement to be more confrontational than he liked.  He and the Kings Under the Mountain had studiously avoided one another until now, forced together by the courtesy due their host.  Brand clearly meant well, but the difficulties lay far deeper than his goodwill could reach in a single afternoon.  Thranduil was by no means intimidated by Thrór, but his initial impression—fair or not—was unfavorable.  It certainly may have had something to do with his ancient grievances against Dwarves in general, as well as his more recent feelings about the murder of King Fram of the Éothéod and the Dwarves’ failure to control the dragons their hoards were attracting into the region.  Whatever the reason, Thranduil lost his appetite beneath the prolonged scrutiny of Thrór and his kinsmen, and he felt his mood hardening.

Legolas could plainly feel the change; he had sobered significantly and kept turning wary glances at his father to gauge his temper.  “The Lord of Dale seems to have taken a great deal upon himself,” he observed discreetly in their own tongue.

“The Lord of Dale is young and inexperienced,” Thranduil replied in kind.  “He does not understand the gravity of what he is attempting to right.”

Tauriel leaned in to speak but Legolas silenced her with a gesture.  Now was not the time for an extended conversation, and moreover the lord of the city had risen to address the assembly. 

“Greetings, honored guests!” Lord Brand began in a buoyant voice.  “I am excessively gratified to receive you all here, the kings and lords of the north, of Mirkwood, the Mountain and the Iron Hills, sitting amiably together at table as near neighbors ought.  I am convinced that greater congress between our realms will secure the prosperity of this region for generations.  The past may indeed be full of strife and grievance, but we need not let the past steal the joy from our future.”

Thranduil arched his brow severely but otherwise sat motionless.  How easy it was for the young to dismiss the past.  It was a cheap sentiment he personally did not appreciate, especially as he was increasingly the only one old enough to remember the past.

“There are scarcely seventeen leagues between the great Elven halls and the Mountain,” Brand continued, “and yet I would wager neither has ever received the other in friendship.”

Reflexively, Thranduil and Thrór looked one another directly in the eye, and then neither wished to be the first to look away.  They may have shared many sentiments on that score, but trust and clemency were not among them. 

“It is a new day in Rhovanion!” Brand declared.  “We are gathered here in a new city full of new promise and new opportunity.  Let us live together in greater harmony for the sake of our sons and the world we may build together.”

The situation was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and irritating.  Thranduil, with all the weight of his years and experience, was not prepared to tolerate being lectured like a recalcitrant child, especially not by an imprudent optimist who had begun walking the earth only yesterday.  He was on the cusp of delivering a sharp rebuke to Lord Brand when Thrór unexpectedly spoke.

“It is true that we have never extended any but the simplest courtesies to one another," the Dwarvish king said, “but if it please you, my lord, I shall be the first to heal the breach.  I and all my court would be honored if the Elvenking would consent to be my guest in the Mountain tomorrow.”

The offer surprised the whole assembly.  Brand seemed delighted and he, like all the rest, looked to Thranduil for an answer.  Thranduil hesitated, his mind churning in the sudden silence.  It seemed like a trap.  Perhaps Thrór expected him to refuse, burnishing his own reputation at the Elves’ expense.  He could not detect any genuine goodwill in Thrór's expression; he looked more like a chess player who believed he held his opponent in check.  Thranduil's every instinct rebelled against placing himself so completely in the Dwarves’ power, yet he did not suspect any real danger and to refuse would imply that he did.  Very well, he would play their little game and see what he could make of it.  There was nothing that could force him to reciprocate later.

“If Thrór has been so gracious as to extend the invitation,” he said at last, “it would indeed be churlish of me to refuse.”  It was courteous enough without feigning enthusiasm. 

Thranduil returned to his pavilion by the river that afternoon.  He had seen enough of the city for one day, heard enough of the ubiquitous music and incessant clamor, and he wished to be alone to think.  The whole royal company was clearly astonished that he had accepted such an obviously insincere overture, and wisely left the King to his thoughts.  Legolas finally approached him as evening fell, finding him seated on a stony bluff overlooking their camp, contemplating the dark silhouette of the Mountain. 

He said nothing for a long moment.  Thranduil could feel his unease and agitation, although his son was resolute enough to express none of it.  “Will I be accompanying you into Erebor?” he finally asked.

“No,” Thranduil said firmly.  “I will not risk both of us at once.”

“You do suspect some betrayal, then?”

“If I did, I would not be walking into it.  But Dwarves are brutal and volatile, and accidents have been known to happen.”

That clearly did nothing to console Legolas.  He knew his history, the sack of Menegroth, the grisly deaths of King Thingol and King Fram.  People bold enough to slay a king in his own halls would have little compunction about killing one in theirs.  Dwarves did as they liked and cared nothing for the prestige of their foes or the outrage of their allies.  Common friendship with Dale would not protect any Elves who ran afoul of them.

“I will go alone with only my guard,” Thranduil said.  “You and the rest may do as you please until I return.  Enjoy the festival while you may.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Legolas conceded without fruitless argument, “but you know I shall have no peace until you have made good your escape.”

Thranduil smiled gently, though the expression had an ironic edge.  “Neither will I.”

The next day the Elves did as their King had commanded and attended the festival without him.  They tried to be of good cheer, but they were all distracted by the brooding shape of the Mountain and thoughts of what may be happening there.  Thranduil had taken ship at first light and intended to return before sundown.  Legolas had again been disquieted by the sight of the solitary boat bearing the King’s banner sailing away toward Thrór’s mysterious stronghold, but there was nothing to do but wait.  He trusted his father to have his wits about him, which was all one could do when he was otherwise defenseless.  Still, the creeping voice of his deepest fears imagined adding Thranduil of Mirkwood to the tragic roll of murdered kings and made the waiting more onerous.  Tauriel recognized his distress and was making a sympathetic effort to distract him as they wandered through the market together. 

“Let us see what this apothecary has to offer, my lord,” she said, turning aside.  “I would see how their craft compares to Master Noruvion’s.”

Legolas watched as Tauriel engaged the herbalists in detailed conversation, inquiring about their most unusual tinctures and remedies, how they were made and how efficacious they were.  It revealed again the considerable skill she had developed under her foster-father’s tutelage.  After the better part of an hour, she had nearly exhausted them with questions, and they had resorted to showing her potted specimens of medicinal flowers they had gathered from distant lands.  Intrigued, Tauriel purchased a pouch of seeds from a striking orange blossom they called hirilmalad.  “They say it has a great many virtues,” she said, returning to Legolas, “not least among them the ability to soothe wounds.  Master Noruvion will wish to study it for himself.”

“It seems he trained you very well,” Legolas observed.  “Have you never reconsidered your decision to abandon your craft for a soldier’s life?”

Tauriel turned a tolerant sidelong look at him which implied she may have been more annoyed by the question were it within the bounds of military propriety to be truculent with one’s commander.  “I have never thought better of it, my lord,” she assured him.  “I am quite happy in my new role, and I hope very soon to be of some real service to our lord the King.”  She sighed then and abandoned the banal platitudes.  “It is true that he is not my father, but he brought me into the world when my mother could not.  I wish to honor him and the sacrifice made by my parents, and sadly I have observed that there is more in Mirkwood in need of killing than of healing.”

Legolas said nothing.  He was still not entirely happy with her choice, but it was not his place to voice an objection if the King had chosen to allow it.  But she was young, beautiful, innocent and talented, and he dreaded seeing those qualities worn down and scarred by the harsh duties she had taken upon herself.  “Surely the King and indeed your parents could be honored by any profession you may choose,” he said instead.  “Why this one?”

There was that sidelong look again, but this one came with a shadow of a kindred smile.  “Surely you understand,” she said quietly, “the thrill of standing beneath his banner.  I was born by Thranduil’s hand in the midst of a battle, and I feel I cannot rest until I have fought whatever battles are yet to come.  This is what our heritage has become, has it not?  We have become a race of soldiers.”

As the Elves sailed between the wide spurs of the Mountain and approached the gate, they were greeted by the deep beat of many drums hidden behind the elaborate facade.  Without a doubt, it was the most ominous royal salute Thranduil had ever received.  The Dwarvish bargemen at the dock greeted them with silent bows and chained their boat to the landing as they disembarked.  A contingent of armored Dwarvish guards likewise received them in courteous silence and led them up the stairway and through the enormous gates. The drum salute swelled until it was almost deafening, and then it also fell silent. 

Grand halls and passages stretched away before them, elaborately carved and gilded, the immeasurably high ceilings lit by cold shafts of sunlight.  Thranduil was more accustomed than most Elves to living underground, but neither Menegroth nor his own caverns could compare to the sensation of an entire mountain looming above him.  The whole experience reminded him of those strange few days he had spent traversing the length of Khazad-dûm when they had fled from Eregion.  He had never expected to enter a Dwarvish city again.

They were led straightaway into the Great Hall where the King Under the Mountain sat on his enormous throne of stone surrounded by his courtiers, wearing his crown and his jewels and his furs.  Mounted into the throne above his head was the most remarkable gem Thranduil had ever seen, as large as his fist with a pale light of its own gleaming from a thousand facets.  His otherwise implacable face must have betrayed his appreciation because Thrór allowed himself a sly smile of satisfaction. 

“Welcome, Elvenking Thranduil of Mirkwood,” he said, standing, “to our Lonely Mountain.  I must admit I am surprised that you accepted my offer.  It is quite plain that you do not trust us, and yet here you are.  I cannot decide whether your courage is admirable or foolhardy.”

So, it was to be that sort of meeting.  Thranduil was not offended, and even somewhat relieved.  He could be as brutally forthright as anyone.  “It is quite plain that you have no respect for me, King Thrór of the Longbeards, and yet you honored me with an invitation,” he countered smoothly.  “I have merely done you the courtesy of taking you seriously.”

That hung in the air for a long moment before the depth of its bite could be determined.  Contrasting him now against his companions, Thranduil observed that Thrór seemed very young, perhaps only recently come into adulthood.  He had reestablished the Dwarvish kingdom there less than a decade previously.  Thranduil had been born in the First Age of the world and had reigned as King in Eryn Galen for more than two thousand years.  His hosts were children by comparison.

Thrór finally laughed.  “You are quite right, my lord,” he admitted.  “I shall not waste any honeyed words attempting to win you for an ally.  Those tales which are distant history to us and confused rumor to Lord Brand are something quite different to you.  You were there.  You remember.  Perhaps your courage is admirable after all.” 

Thranduil nodded graciously.

“But we also remember the old history even without the benefit of your longevity, my lord,” Thrór continued.  “We remember the greed and arrogance of other kings, Elves and Men alike, and how they came to grief.  If you are honest with yourself, since you were there, you may admit that perhaps it was through their own fault.”

Thranduil was intensely offended by that comment, but under the circumstances he decided that the present vein of conversation was becoming too hostile to pursue.  Even with his guard fanned out at his back, he was quite alone. 

Thrór, too, seemed satisfied enough with his rhetorical victory to change the subject.  “Come, my lord,” he said, standing.  “I would show you something I know you can appreciate.”

Thranduil followed sullenly as Thrór led them through an extremely grand archway into a corridor entirely overlaid with gold.  The corridor then became little more than a stone catwalk supported by enormous arched pillars as it spanned the incredible distance across a cavern chamber which extended both above and below them.  Risking a glance downward, Thranduil discovered the floor of the chamber to be entirely obscured by a vast hoard of treasure greater than any he had ever imagined.  He was indeed impressed, as was doubtless the objective of this whole excursion, but he was determined to give no sign of it. 

At the end of the walkway, a pair of armed guards thrust open two heavy golden doors to allow them to enter another more intimate chamber lit by several iron lanterns.  “I know you were more patrician in your origins than the woodland folk of Mirkwood, my lord,” Thrór boldly observed, “and that you know how to appreciate exceptional jewels.  Feast your eyes upon our choicest treasures.”

It was indeed a sight to see.  Thranduil said nothing, but began slowly pacing along one of the many aisles of stone tables thickly arranged with more magnificent jewelry than one could reasonably hope to see in a lifetime.  On the one hand, it was an enviable treasury in which he knew he could spend many pleasurable hours.  On the other hand, the longer he walked the aisles and considered the individual pieces, the prized regalia of many ruined and pillaged houses, the more tragic and offensive the whole collection became.  Each carcanet, every brooch, ring and jeweled circlet represented a proud heritage come to nothing, plundered and gathered into a mountainous tomb for the solitary pleasure of a Dwarf king.  It was unlikely that any of it would ever see the light of day again. 

It was in this temper that he had to suddenly clench his jaw as he recognized his own crown with those of his Queen and all his brothers gathered into a glimmering pile of white gold and diamonds, lost to them more than a thousand years before.  He had to close his hand into a fist lest he snatch them out of that jumble of spoil.  By a tremendous act of will, he did not alter his pace as he passed them, though it turned his stomach to see Oropher’s heirlooms displayed like trophies.  He would not give Thrór the satisfaction of knowing it.

“You are indeed fortunate to boast to great a hoard as so young a king,” Thranduil admitted, turning back to his host from within the midst of it.  “But I wonder whether you have considered the dangers.”

“Dangers?” Thrór scoffed.  “Do you imagine we are in danger from burglars?”

“From the dragons,” Thranduil said bluntly, his voice echoing in the stillness.  “I have been reliably informed,” he continued in a more even tone, “that your people have been struggling to contain a population of dragons in Ered Mithrin for the past nine centuries at least.  I am also told that it was in fleeing these dragons that you left what remained of your father’s halls and returned south.  Now that you have relinquished the north and gathered the wealth of your people here, will not the beasts be enticed to follow you?”

Thrór glowered at him.  “Any dragon brash enough to attack us here will have a great deal to contend with,” he declared.  “But what is that to you, Thranduil?  You care nothing for our safety.”

“Perhaps not,” Thranduil agreed brusquely, “but I do not wish to see you luring dragons farther into Rhovanion, as Lord Brand has astutely observed, not twenty leagues from my own halls.”

The silence descended again between them for a few long moments before Thrór unexpectedly relented, letting out a long and slow breath.  “Very well, I grant your concern is a just one,” he said.  “No king worth his crown could fail to mention it, so I will forgive your insolence.  I will say only that we and the Men of Dale have been strengthening our defenses against such contingencies.  Let that suffice.  Come, I have more Elvish baubles you can appreciate.” 

Thranduil rumbled under his breath as Thrór turned and led the way to the far corner of the treasury.  He had not hoped for much better from a Dwarf—let alone a young, foolhardy, arrogant Dwarf—but the flippant way in which everyone dismissed his counsel was wearing on him.  He imagined Thrór and his bullish companions charred by dragon fire and was not as sorry as he should have been. 

Being led about like a penniless child in a sweet shop was also becoming tiresome, but Thranduil humored Thrór once again to preserve the fragile peace.  It seemed the King Under the Mountain did possess a great many Elvish jewels.  He recognized the style of the ancient Golodhrim, the Exiles from the West.  There were pieces which recalled the days of Celebrimbor and Eregion before the war with Sauron.  There were many he could not attribute to a particular place or time. 

Then Thranduil saw one that shocked him to the core, causing an eruption of many grand and terrible memories.  It was unmistakable, the flower set upon a disk, set upon a rhombus, set upon a square, set upon a disk, all with jeweled points.  He stopped and seized it out of the pile of brilliants, to the consternation of his host.  “Do you know what this is?” he demanded of Thrór.

“It is a silver brooch set with diamond and sapphire,” Thrór answered, clearly quite annoyed. 

“It is the heraldic device of Melian, the Maia Queen of Doriath!” Thranduil informed him.  “I saw her wear it!”  Nor had she been the only one.  Thranduil thoughts were careening back to the Elder Days as he considered the grisly origins of the brooch’s six-thousand-year journey to the vaults of Erebor.  Nimloth, King Dior’s queen, had also worn it.  She had been wearing it the last time he had seen her, as she had quickly given her daughter Elwing into Oropher’s care while bloody Fëanorians battered down the doors.  It had to have been plundered off her body, then traded by the Golodhrim to their Dwarvish allies until it had by some dark miracle landed in his hand here on the other side of the world.  Melian was gone, Nimloth was gone, Doriath was gone, and indeed all Beleriand was gone, but that brooch remained, a rare tangible link to his earliest years.

Thrór snatched it away and gave it a critical look.  “The workmanship is not exceptional,” he decided dismissively, tossing it back onto the pile, “but we may yet take it to pieces and use it for scrap.”

Legolas was intensely relieved to see the King’s boat returning just as the evening sun had begun casting its deep golden light over the clouds in the west, but Thranduil had not even set foot on the riverbank before his son could tell he was in a foul mood.  When the King did disembark, he was still so distracted that he scarcely noticed who had gathered to greet him, full of volatile energy in need of a target.  Legolas imagined his father had been obliged to hold his tongue and endure many indignities in order to accomplish the day’s purpose, neither of which came easily to him after so long on the throne.  Now his frustration was seething out around the edges of his composure. 

Rather than importune him at that moment, Legolas dismissed the guards and quietly fell into line behind Thranduil as he stalked back to his pavilion.  Inside, the King cast off his crimson cloak, swept out his dagger and brutally stabbed a cushion several times.  Legolas and Gwaelas exchanged wary glances. 

“Stupid, rude, pompous fools, the lot of them!” Thranduil shouted amid a swirl of downy feathers, giving vent to the true feelings he had suppressed all day.  “The murderous imbeciles will spill a sea of blood over a fistful of gems and yet have not the slightest comprehension of what they have.”  He twirled his blade and slashed angrily at the air.  “Scrap, indeed!  It is an offense against antiquity and justice!”

“I regret the Dwarves did not meet your expectations, my lord,” Legolas said flatly.

“No, Legolas, they perfectly confirmed my expectations,” his father countered. 

“Did you see Grandfather’s heirlooms?” Legolas asked, guessing at what might have piqued this impotent rage.

“Yes, I did,” Thranduil admitted sharply, “tossed atop a mound of other priceless refuse.”  He slashed the cushion a few more times for good measure.

“Did they feed you, my lord?” Legolas asked, obliquely changing the subject. 

Thranduil sighed and sheathed his dagger, the initial violence of his anger spent.  “Not enough,” he said.

Legolas nodded to Gwaelas who bowed and slipped out to summon the King’s supper.  “You will have a guest tonight if you wish,” Legolas continued.  “Lord Elrond has come.”

Thranduil brightened at once and tossed the ruined cushion behind a larger one.  “Send him in, by all means,” he insisted.

As Legolas took his leave, Thranduil brushed the remaining feathers off his jerkin and put the Dwarves out of mind.  Whatever that bizarre interlude might mean for the future, he had more important matters to attend now.

Elrond entered quietly with a pale smile and accepted the warm embrace Thranduil offered.  Gwaelas returned with a train of Elves bearing refreshment for the King and his guest.  It was all very good, if not very fine, bread and cheese from Dale, autumn apples, a fire-roasted fish from the river, and of course an ample supply of wine.

“Here,” Thranduil said, pouring a cup and handing it to Elrond as they seated themselves on cushions on the ground.  “We found this remarkable stuff in the market today.  Whatever the source of its strange virtue, I suspect you have need of it.”

“Ah, yes, the Dorwinion vintners,” Elrond said, taking it gladly.  “I sampled some of their wares yesterday as they were arriving.  I have heard that its soporific qualities have something to do with certain flowers which grow beside the Sea of Rhûn.  Judging by the extraordinary amount you are rumored to have purchased, am I to understand that life in Mirkwood has been especially demanding since last we spoke?”

“A great deal has happened since last we spoke,” Thranduil agreed, remembering just how long ago it had been.  Several centuries at least.  “With Dol Guldur on the rise again and the Orcs infesting the mountains, we have become quite isolated.  I hardly expected to see you here under the circumstances.”

“It was a risk, to be sure,” Elrond admitted, “but some passes are safer than others to those who know them.  I needed to leave Imladris for a time, to get out and see something new in the world.” 

Thranduil had noticed how Elrond’s countenance had fallen when he had mentioned the Orcs in the mountains.  “What has happened, my friend?” he asked, cutting immediately to the heart of the matter.  “I can see that something has.”

“It happened decades ago,” Elrond explained in the flat and emotionless tone of one who has already grieved much.  “Celebrían was to visit her mother and father in Lothlórien, as she often did after the death of her brother.  We had heard of the Orcs multiplying in the mountains, but we did not realize the extent of it, and she would not be dissuaded.”

Thranduil listened with a growing dread in the pit of his stomach.  “Celebrían always knew her own mind.”

“They took her in the Redhorn Pass,” Elrond said miserably.  “Only one of the party escaped to alert us, and it was several weeks before our sons were at last able to recover her.  She would not speak of her torments, but the marks on her body told much of the tale.  I saw the brutal indignities she endured, the damage they had done.  I could heal her body, but her spirit was broken.”

Thranduil said nothing, stricken with a deep sympathy which no words could adequately express.  Lindóriel had been fatally wounded by Orcs and had suffered much, but at least she had never been brutalized by them.  The possibilities were too horrible to imagine. 

“The next year she asked me to escort her to the Havens where she took ship into the West,” Elrond continued.  “I hope she has found her peace there.”

Thranduil groped for words in the heavy silence.  “I am truly sorry,” he said at last, stripped of all royal posture and diplomatic pretense.  “I wish there was something less inadequate that I could say.”

“You do not have to,” Elrond assured him kindly.  “You of all people understand our affliction.  I wish my sons could have the opportunity to speak to Legolas on that score.  The ordeal has awakened an unbecoming bloodlust in them that is nonetheless very effective.  Their incessant raids against the Orcs in the mountains are the only reason the passes are safe enough for travel at present.”

“Well,” Thranduil shrugged, refilling Elrond’s cup, “at least they are being productive.”

They sat together in the quiet of the evening for some time, each taking comfort in the simple presence of the other.  They both knew it was an experience not often to be repeated, especially with the dangers of the world reasserting themselves.  The myriad bells of Dale sounded across the valley as dusk veiled the land in shadow.

“Will you not return to the Wood with us?” Thranduil finally asked.  “You would be most welcome.”

“Thank you, but no,” Elrond sighed.  “Celebrían was with us the last time we saw Greenwood.  To see it now without her, beset again with darkness as it is, would just be another grief.”

“More so than Imladris?” Thranduil asked skeptically.

Elrond seemed to reconsider.  “I am sorely tempted,” he admitted, “but I cannot.  I cannot risk the mountains becoming impassable again while I linger.”

“Very well,” Thranduil conceded.  “We must not trap you on the wrong side of the world.”

It was truly unfortunate that they lived so long and yet so seldom saw one another.  So it must be in Middle-earth, beset with a perpetual parade of griefs and perils which darkened their days and stole the joy of their immortal years.  For a moment he wondered why they loved it so much.

It was said that Elves who lingered too long in mortal lands would begin to fade.  Thranduil had never been inclined to give the matter much thought, but perhaps the process had already begun.  Contrasting them both against their younger selves, both he and Elrond did seem a bit faded.  When one by one the most cherished aspects of their lives were taken from them, it was difficult to not fade.

The royal party from Mirkwood stayed a week in Dale.  As time wore on, they stayed less because of the festival and more because Thranduil wished to keep company with Elrond as long as possible before they were obliged to part ways once more.  When at last that time came, the King and all his companions turned their boats south, this time laden with all the fine things they had acquired. 

The return journey was a somber one.  Sensing the King’s mood, and now that all had heard rumor of what had befallen Lord Elrond’s wife, the boatmen confined themselves to more melancholy songs.  An early chill had swept down from the north, seeming to encourage a hasty return. 

Nothing had changed in Greenwood as they passed beneath the trees and arrived at the King’s caverns, but Thranduil was aware that he saw it differently.  As he strode across the bridge, passed through his gates and heard the echo of his tread within his own grand halls, he was at once grateful for the good things they still enjoyed and keenly aware of their deprivations.  Haunted by thoughts of Elrond returning to a desolate home, he found himself remembering those bygone days before their Queen had been taken from them. 

When at last he retired to his private chambers for the night he was still too distracted to sleep.  Instead, he opened an ancient wooden chest which he had seldom disturbed over the years.  Inside were Lindóriel’s gowns and other things he had simply put away rather than discard.  Thranduil pulled them out one by one and saw they were going to pieces with age after lying there for a thousand years, another reminder of just how long they had been without her.  Her scent had long since gone. 

Facing the miseries of life with new purpose, Thranduil gathered the decrepit garments into a sack and took himself to his armory. 

“No cause for alarm, Garavorn,” he assured the Guardsman on duty.  “I wish to visit the Night Watch.”

Garavorn promptly equipped him with his light scale armor, his knives, and his bow.  Properly attired for duty, Thranduil gathered his sack and turned his steps outside into the starlight. 

The long, winding walk circling towards the hilltop was still one of his favorites.  It climbed at a gentle pace and there were many distinctive trees along the way who were old friends.  It gave one a great deal of time to think without actually traveling very far.  When at last he crested the summit, he saw the guards on duty gathered around the fire pit sharing a fresh pot of hot tea as a small comfort against the first winds of winter.  They were startled by his approach and leapt to their feet. 

“Stand down, all of you,” Thranduil said simply.  “I will man your post for a time.  Return in three hours.”

“Yes, my lord,” they all replied at once, and then hurried to leave him in peace.  It was not uncommon for the King to occasionally sit the Night Watch, and he always had reasons of his own. 

Alone on the highest point north of the mountains, Thranduil took a moment to gaze out toward the northwest.  It was just possible to see the gentle glimmer of lights here and there amid the trees, the scattered villages of the Woodland Realm.  There were many fewer lights in the south, these days mostly populated by soldiers defending their slowly shrinking borders against Mirkwood’s advance, as they continued to fight the long defeat.  That was their task, and they must fulfill it.  “Whatever the threat,” Thranduil breathed softly, remembering the oath he had sworn to himself after the Necromancer’s return.  “Whatever the grief.”

Slipping on one of his heavy gloves, Thranduil removed the hot teapot with its iron stand and stoked the fire higher, throwing on several more logs for good measure.  He sat in the rough stone throne which had been built for him and watched the growing blaze until he was satisfied.  Then he drew out one of her gowns and threw it onto the flames.

One by one, he sat and watched them burn.  This was Middle-earth, and he could not hold onto the past.  He could remember it and he could honor it, but time slipped away despite him.  Things moldered, things rotted, things sickened and died every day in Middle-earth.  Eventually the slow decay of time would take everything from them, and that would be enough to make anyone fade. 

But, Thranduil reminded himself grimly, the end of all things was still a distant prospect, and he was not yet so faded that he had forgotten how to fight or his ultimate purpose there.  He was not tasked with holding the Wood for his own pleasure, but to safeguard its people.  Whether he found that pleasurable or not was his own affair.  She had made him promise to fight their war to the end, and he would.  Even as the earth aged and crumbled around him, as they were gradually compelled to sacrifice everything they loved, as they were left ever lonelier in a darkening world, he would.