Thranduil sui Adar [Thranduil as a Father]
In dread anticipation Thranduil departed from the Chamber of Twilight
and the throngs of disgruntled and dissatisfied Wood Elves. Glad
he was to leave behind the tactile hostility vented in every breath and
murmur among the common folk and each growling glunch shot his way from
amid the warriors as they exited the stronghold. Yet as soon as
he stepped within the internal hallways, the King knew there was a more
urgent matter to attend than deciphering the cause of his troops'
defection and his subjects' mutation from acquiescent compliance to
assertive belligerence. From high in the private chambers of his
new and happy home life the plaintive wails of the infant prince
filtered throughout the caverns and enveloped his very soul with
depression and woe.
Why does he cry so?
The sound was not the screech of a hungry stomach needing sustenance
nor the teeth-grating squall of complaint over soiled cloths and
venting gases of a nascent body. Nay, Taurant wept as though real
tears must be pouring down his downy cheeks and gut-rending grief
consuming his spirit. As unheard of as it might seem for an elf
less than a month freed from the safety of his mother's womb, the child
was beset by some malady of the heart. And his father was beside
himself in anguish as a stirring of guilt besieged his conscience. This
was a sound he had heard before; though intervening years had buried it
under other memories.
You were warned!
Meril's clear and lilting voice encircled and weaved throughout the
disconsolate desolation of her babe's distress, crooning a lullaby in
hopes of easing the little one's burden. Within her words the
strain from failing to placate the infant and the increasing
frustration for her lack of maternal power over whatever was amiss in
Taurant's world clung to the song as bitter cold fills the wetness of
winter rain. That she was pacing across the width and breadth of
the royal apartment's voluminous chambers added to the brittle tremor
affecting her serenade; the short stride and choppy steps offering
testimony to her fraying nerves.
She was warned!
Thranduil did not hasten on his way but instead progressed ever slower
as he climbed the numerous steps up through the main gallery toward his
lofty abode under the stony skin of Orod Im'elaidh [the Mountain Amid
the Trees]. He felt helpless. Doom dogged his whole life;
inescapable was his fate of wretched despair and unending
sorrows. What had he done to earn such troubles?
Well do you know! Do not play the innocent! His interior
intellect mocked in sneering disparagement and would not be silenced.
How could this disastrous destiny pass beyond him to engulf his beloved
children, truly incapable of any evil thought or deed? Was the
pain and torment carried in his very seed? Perhaps, if that were
true, then Ningloriel's child was the first to bear the affliction of
the curse. Thranduil paused upon the stairs and ground out a
bitter groan of impotent regret, for it was manifest that this was not
far from reality. Misdirected delusions of extant events, all
products of his lax character, had marked his heart and governed his
actions.
Again, you already possess this insight! Go and see what you
have wrought upon your unblemished prince! Why do you tarry in
the halls? He will yet be wailing however long you take to reach
his side.
With a severe shake of his shoulders and head, Thranduil straightened
his spine and lifted his drooping chin. At least let him face
truth squarely and do what he might to take from his tiny heir the
burden of retribution.
Manwë hear me! Let the blame and the punishment rest
where
justice demands, not upon this innocent but rather on his
parents. Spare my children!
With this plea ringing through his mind the King found his legs and
bounded up the remaining flights to reach his family, throwing open the
door to the front parlour with vehement determination to shelter the
next generation of his House from further harm.
At once he froze nearly upon the threshold, for there was Gwilwileth
curled up in a soft upholstered chair, her red hued cheeks stained by
tears that coursed with alarming regularity as each eye filled,
brimmed, and spilled over and over. She was virtually silent,
just a soft hitched sobbing accompanying her steady stream of worried
effluence.
Upon seeing her Ada come through the door, the distrait elfling gave up
on her efforts to be calm, lifted her watery countenance and opened out
her chubby baby arms. Quivering for a moment as she tried to
contain her fear and confusion, the child's lower lip quaked as she
valiantly sought to suppress the building wail of utter bewilderment
and fright inundating her world.
"Ada! Tauron crying an' Nana so angry! Want Lind'on!
Want Limlas! Where Lind'on, Ada, where?" the barely
comprehensible flow of speech burst out amid her sobbing cries and
shaking frame.
In seconds the King had reached his daughter, scooping up the child in
sheltering arms, clutching her with protective desperation next to his
laden heart. He shushed her gently and rocked Gwilith in his
clasp as he sank upon the chair and attempted to comfort her. In
his pocket he found a handkerchief and pulled it forth to dry her nose
and cheeks.
"Ai! There now, there now, Echuiross [Early Spring Rain]. What is
this distress? Lindalcon is well; he has left the Council Chamber
on some errand, that is all. Naneth is not angry, hêniell
nîn [my girl-child], she is only wearied by concern for
Taurant. Who is Limlas, sell dithen [little daughter]?" He asked
this even as his inner self scoffed, asserting that he was fully aware.
"Legolas."
Gwilith confirmed his assumption and unconsciously his hold around her
tightened as the familiar disgust arose within him. That his
outcast heir had somehow managed to find favour with the common folk
and the lower ranks of the Wood Elf warriors was one thing. For
Ningloriel's son to win the affection of his daughter was something
that burned in his gut like wine turned to vinegar. He felt
Gwilith whimper under his grip and sighed as he relented, softly
patting her curling chestnut tresses in commiseration.
"I am sorry, sellen [my daughter]. He is gone from the stronghold
with his friends. I do not think he will be sleeping within the
walls any longer now that he is healed of his injuries. His home
is with Fearfaron." Thranduil tried to answer as pleasantly as he
could, not wishing to upset his elfling further.
"Limlas not stay?" The undisguised confusion and hurt in the flutey,
bird-song voice actually made Thranduil cringe. Her tears started
anew with greater force and she gave forth voluble expressions of her
petulant distress noisy enough to drown out her brother.
"Gwilith! Gwilwileth, do not carry on so! He is a grown elf
and has a home of his own. It is not that he wishes to be away
from you, hênen [my child]." It seemed to the father that
his children were holding an unofficial competition to determine who
could holler louder, for surely Taurant's cries increased in amplitude
almost instantly.
"Want Limlas here!"
"Shh! Do not fret, you may see Tirno again. He may come to
visit," even as the words left his lips the King's eyes grew huge in
disbelief over what he had just promised. The fact that his
daughter's tears diminished to a trickle and her unbridled ranting was
replaced by a small smile and a glimmer of her usual lively cheer only
minimally ameliorated Thranduil's dismay.
"When, Ada?" Gwilith demanded.
"I do not know exactly, hên vell [dear child]. Perhaps when
next Lindalcon takes you to the gardens to play. I will speak to
Nana first and we shall decide."
"Really? How good of you to include me in your planning!"
Meril's words were hard to discern over the woeful bawling produced by
her son, but she was confident Thranduil heard.
She stood in the archway of the second room, her private study, with
Taurant pressed against her bosom as his baby body trembled under the
unleashed feelings his small frame was so desperately attempting to
vent. She jiggled him gently as if this artificial jostling might
help minimise the jarring caused by his unending sobs and tearful
keening. The glare she sent her husband was surpassed only by the
acidic character of her vocalisation.
Thranduil flinched at both and shifted Gwilith from his lap as he stood.
"Hervessen [my wife], allow me to take Taurant. You have consoled
him all day." He held out his arms and offered her as gentle a
smile as possible under the stress of their ragged nerves. "You
see to Gwilith and find some solace in the gardens; take tea there
together. I will try to calm our elfin prince."
Meril scowled deeply. If Thranduil thought she would ignore his
offhand remark and have the outcast's acceptance in her home remain
unchallenged, he was mistaken.
I will make certain to apprise him
of
that fact. She was, however, beyond weariness and truly
needed
to be free from her babe for at least a few hours to regain her own
strength and composure. Carefully she transferred the
inconsolable soul over to his father's waiting arms and watched as
Thranduil adjusted Taurant into a comfortable position, cradled in the
crook of his elbow, so he could peer down into the scrunched up, puffy,
red-blotched, completely miserable little face.
Taurant seemed not to notice the change in parental possession and
continued screaming and hiccuping every breath that entered and left
his lungs. Squeezed down into expressive lines of utter
desolation in a visage seemingly composed of vivid red skin and a
hugely gaping mouth, the green eyes were unwilling to acknowledge his
father. The infant's small hands were wrapped tight around his
fingers and flailed out now and then as his plump legs kicked together
in frog-like spasms.
"Ahh! Glîbrog, Glîbrog! Tirio nin, tirio Ada!
[Ah! Honey-bear, honey-bear! Look at me, look at Daddy!]"
The Sinda Lord accompanied this ridiculous demand with the bizarre
demonstration of extending his tongue to touch the tip of his nose as
his dark green eyes crossed to focus on the maroon muscle's
progress. This had no effect and so he tried again. "Tirio
nin, Taurant! Tiro sí, penlend! [Look at me, Taurant! Look
here, Sweet One!]"
The small face unfolded as the mouth shut and the eyes were
unveiled. Two enormous orbs of emerald seemed to suddenly
fill the quieter countenance as the elfling locked his tear diluted
vision upon his sire.
A bright smile lit the King's eyes, which he shared for an instant with
Meril, and he immediately tried the one look sure to work whenever
Gwilith had become unwieldy in her babyhood. Thranduil puffed out
his cheeks into big round balls separated by lips pulled into a
ridiculous pout that pushed up to touch his elegant nose again as he
opened his eyes wide, crossing them. He added in a peculiar sound
that issued from his nostrils, since his mouth was sealed, reminiscent
of a cricket or a frog. Each time he made the noise, he would
suck his cheeks back to normal and then puff them full again.
Taurant stopped crying and just stared.
In spite of her wrath, Meril's eyes softened as she watched the Sinda
Lord making faces and odd chirpy noises to try and distract Taurant out
of his sorrow. Beside her, Gwilith bubbled out a giggle and
pointed at her Adar.
"Ada be the cabornîf! [frogface]" she laughed and glanced at her
Nana.
Like Lindalcon, Meril found her daughter's exuberance hard to resist
and she shared a genuine grin of delight with her daughter.
"Aye, Adar is an old mundgabor [bullfrog] sometimes, is he not?"
Thranduil uncrossed his eyes long enough to send her a soul smile
through them, then returned at once to his demonstration of the depths
of paternal love expressed in terms of his silly pantomime.
Meril and Gwilith left, passing into the interior rooms and thus to the
balcony stairs, the girl chattering away at her usual level of
irrepressible intensity. Her mother's calm and noncommittal
answers gave proof that she realised the child merely needed to talk
away her raw emotions. Their voices diminished as they descended
down into the gardens, and soon Thranduil could hear them but
faintly. He relaxed his facial muscles into their normal
construction and observed his son's reaction to that.
Taurant looked back from those clear intelligent eyes of his and made a
few more minor hitching sighs as his small form finally released the
strain from hours of unabated shrieking. His mouth opened but
this time no ear-slicing scream issued forth, only a tremendous yawn
that stretched the diminutive lips, a thin, red rim round a great,
crimson cavern. The involuntary intake of air seemed to go on for
eternity until at last his lungs blew out the mighty breath in a wispy
sort of mew. A couple of blinks of his lavishly lashed lids
preceded the sudden concealment of his penetrating green gaze.
His thumb found its way inside the over-worked mouth as the other hand
latched onto his father's long hair. A half-hearted sucking
ensued and this was followed by a sudden spread of warm wetness at his
crotch as his diminutive body completely relaxed into deep repose.
Thranduil laughed softly and carried his child to the nursery to change
the damp cloths and the babe did not even stir during the procedure,
lying in limp exhaustion with shut eyes the while. Dry and
redressed in a long gown of spun flax, the infant prince did not wake
when he was again lifted up and tucked against his father's
chest. Thranduil moved to the rocker and settled in, establishing
a soothing rhythm that was as much a comfort to himself as his
slumbering son. The Sinda Lord began to hum the melody of an
ancient lullaby as he rested his cheek on the fine mass of silky hair
and carefully rubbed his fingers against the prince's back.
Taurant is so very small! Of course he had noted the same
with
Gwilwileth, but the concept was just as jarring now as it had seemed
then. How would this tiny thing ever become an independent
elf? So vulnerable was this beginning of life, so easily thwarted
could it be if the strength Taurant required was not poured forth from
his parents' feär into his. It was as vital a nourishment as
the milk he demanded seemingly unceasingly from Meril's breast.
The child's distress this day had proved this more than any word of
lore or advice from scrolls on child rearing ever could. He was
apparently reacting to his mother's uneasiness over the events in the
Council Chamber.
The image of the Tawarwaith, glaring in bright blue rage as he boldly
asserted his kinship to the new prince and the outspoken woodland
princess, invaded these musings. Thranduil tried to recall what
Ningloriel's child had been like at Taurant's age, but of course he
could not summon an image for what he had never seen.
Heard him, though, in those early days. Surely then he
generated
more noise than in all the years after speech became his tool to use.
Who had cared for the child he had never considered, yet this day he
wondered, for surely it was not Ningloriel. While she had seemed
to like the idea of a child to call her own, the actual practice of
raising one was not within her command. Too much mess and loss of
rest and responsibility was demanded in such a task, none of it focused
on herself.
She had doted on him intermittently once he was older and in control of
his bodily functions. The King seemed to recall the garden was
their haven during the elfling years. Or rather it was hers and
she would let him spend time with her there.
Did she ever sit
thusly and hold her son as he dreamed? It did not seem
likely,
given what he knew of her nature, yet she must have done in the first
days, before the shrieking started. Then she had fled to Lorien,
as she always did when bored or stressed, and was gone for two loa.
And Thranduil remembered the terrible argument between him and
Ningloriel that preceded both actions. His refusal to even look
upon the newborn had initiated her flare of rage.
The infant's screaming had continued on and on ceaselessly, night and
day, and Thranduil recalled his vocal threats to strangle the babe if
it was not silenced. He had demanded the healer deal with it, and
told her to employ some herbal drug, he cared not, as long as he need
not hear the crying any longer. How Gladhadithen managed he had
never asked, but the wailing had ended after two unbearable months of
lamenting tears. The child, and the elf he grew to be, was
amazingly silent after that.
Easy to overlook and forget about, if that is what one wished, as
did
I.
What this early deprivation might render upon an elf he had met in
living evidence already. The son of Oropher comprehended the
irony that in large part he had contributed to the creation called the
Tawarwaith whether the elf was of his seed or not.
But can I deny he grew from my germ? I would have
confirmation,
yet there is no one to give it. He was lying to himself again.
There
was means to gain the proof but he no longer truly desired it.
The carpenter's words were ringing soundly through his soul.
'Elrond's
actions only make sense if Legolas is yours.' Fearfaron had
been
just in expressing deriding scorn for Thranduil's lack of compassion
for a virtual orphan within his House.
Since that conversation the concept had taken root, slowly insinuating
its choking runners and creeping vines throughout the fertile furrows
of his convoluted mind while the more stubborn parts of his brain
refused to let the insight supplant his familiar, habitual disdain for
the outcast. Yet he had come to accept the former prince was his
child. Embracing that notion meant acquiring responsibility for
what had been lacking in the Tawarwaith's childhood. Unwilling
had he been before but Taurant's despair showed him the path he must
take if he would spare his youngest the bitterness endured by his
oldest.
Thranduil cuddled his infant heir closer as if to shield him from the
penance owed for this neglect.
The source of Taurant's upset; did the babe sense the danger and
peril
I faced in the room below? Did he feel the anger of our people
turning against us?
Thranduil, however, knew this was not the reason for his son's
distress. The cause for the new-born's unrelenting anguish was wound
around his mother's betrayal of his older brother, for Taurant had been
in the archer's arms, looked into the blue eyes. It was all part
and parcel, the past catching up with the present, laying siege to the
prince's future. It was the Tawarwaith for whom the infant wept.
Or rather, for the enmity from the step-mother, the conflict between
the forest champion and his father. The King stopped rocking
at
the import of that phrase. It was the first time he had mentally
recognised the elf as his own without hesitation. Meril's false
claims he shoved aside lest the uneasy bewilderment this would bring
also engender the babe's renewed ranting. Best to handle that
difficulty when Taurant was snugly tucked in his cradle behind the
closed nursery door, then he would speak with his mate in private.
And what of Tirno's thoughts on it all? Does he look to me as
his progenitor? The idea seemed preposterous. It was no
surprise that this elf would despise him; threats and vengeance were
what Thranduil expected.
And yet it was confusing. Legolas had so vehemently stated his
claim of a brother's bond in blood to both Taurant and Gwilwileth then
had drawn a dagger to threaten the sire the three must share if the
kinship was true. Next he reversed himself and defended the
King's actions regarding Erebor, demanding the Judgement be left
intact, even when the carpenter would have it otherwise and Lindalcon
revealed the depth of his distress over the situation.
Fool! It is not you he supports, but the father of his brother
and sister! Their benefit, not yours, defines his actions.
He told you as much. The interior persona sneered at his
dense-headed attempt to think things through.
This being the case, it made no sense for the Tawarwaith to have
instigated the mutiny of the troops during the noon break.
Thranduil shook his head, frowning, and rose from the chair cautiously
so as not to rouse the resting child. Out to the balcony and down
the steps he softly trod, verily tip-toeing to prevent a return of the
harsh shrilling cries that had so wracked the little one through the
morn. The King came upon his daughter and wife amid a bed of soft
ferns by the brook; they were stretched out flat, cloud gazing.
"Meril," he called and both heads craned up to peer in his
direction. His consort sat and reached out for their son, and
carefully he handed Taurant over. "Watch him awhile; I must tend
to something urgent regarding my troops."
"Ada, stay!" Gwilith commanded loudly but Thranduil smiled and shook
his head.
"Worry not; I will return to read you a story and tuck you in.
That is, if you are good and let your brother sleep!"
Gwilith nodded solemnly and Meril said nothing, allowing her cold
demeanour to communicate her displeasure at this abandonment.
With a last glance over his shoulder at his family, Thranduil strode
through the garden toward the barrack's grounds, determined to get to
the root of the uprising, using the same gateway Aragorn had earlier
destroyed. An odd thing he found that to be when he came upon the
tattered remains of the wooden pickets strewn over the lawn, and
absently noted the need to order repairs.
Instantly upon setting foot within the warriors' domain his presence
generated a strong sensation of strain and displeasure amid the
scattered groups of stalwart fighters. With no word spoken to
call them forth, the barracks emptied and the hard clay ground was soon
hidden under the press of numerous booted feet. They made no move
in his direction, merely tracking his progress with silent disgust, and
the depth of their antipathy made the Sinda Lord want to shiver.
Thus he endured for one short span what Legolas had faced so frequently
in his youth.
Soon the King was ringed in by a wall of elves, very angry and
thoroughly dangerous. Into the centre where Thranduil stood
stepped Talagan and faced his old friend with fiery reproach.
Thranduil was not cowed by this display of hostile solidarity, however,
and turned slowly about to meet the eyes of any warrior that would
dare, for he was Oropher's son and was bold enough to confront whatever
challenge might present itself. Warriors' ways he understood, and
he could not believe these soldiers stood in such open defiance over
the perils of war and the fate of chance. Finally, having given
any that would take it the opportunity to share their personal
displeasure, the King turned to his comrade of his elfling days.
"Talagan," he began, "to you I come to understand the meaning of this
opposition. What is the cause for this lack of faith among my
troops?"
"We have shown no treasonous behaviour, Lord, rather we uphold our
sworn oaths to protect our people. We stand in defence of the
innocent. Our wrath is just if what has been told holds
truth. For that determination, we need to hear an accounting from
your lips," answered the Sinda to murmurs of agreement and nodding
heads.
Thranduil's brows arched in surprise and he let his eyes wander
throughout the throng again, judging the level of indignation and
seeing that the elves believed they were in the right. This was
not about war, then, or treasures, or even Lost Souls and Wandering;
none of those things could be said to involve innocence on any level
for the participants. That they would risk those same vows of
allegiance Talagan invoked and oppose their King bespoke the
seriousness of this mysterious misdeed.
"Of what do you speak? I am not aware of fault of the kind to
which you allude. Be plain and state your charge or make your
queries, that I may answer," he commanded, easily as righteously
incensed as were they.
"The Noldo Lord has made a charge against Maltahondo of the most
heinous sort. The guardsman defiled the innocence of a child, a
defenceless elfling with no family willing to safeguard his
welfare. Word has reached me that you were aware of it and did
nothing."
The King visibly startled. Whatever he had been expecting his old
friend to say this was further from it than he currently stood from the
shores of Eldamar. His eyes narrowed and he stared in shock at
Talagan, unwilling to really accept that he had just been accused of
conspiring in the rape of an elfling. His face coloured a vivid
purple in his fury and he was forced to clench his hands together to
keep them from forming fists and striking the captain down.
"How dare you!" he managed to hiss out through bared teeth. "What
manner of treacherous lies has that Imladrian miscreant and friend of
kinslayers been feeding you? By what sorcery has your mind been
turned to such imbecility to even consider this claim; you, Talagan,
who have known me my whole life?"
"It is not the Imladris Lord only that says this!" one of the Wood
Elves announced.
"Aye! We have heard testimony from the healer that Maltahondo
admitted his crime before the wizard and the carpenter." Another
seconded.
"Vile then is he!" shouted back Thranduil. "Yet I was not a part
of this evil act! What causes you to think thus? If I would
be indicted let the evidence be presented before me. I am no
rapist of children! Valar! I am a father myself!"
"That letter." Talagan quietly inserted the simple words and watched
carefully his comrade's reactions.
Thranduil's confusion was genuine enough, for he had no idea what the
captain was talking about yet. Seeing this heartened the Sinda
warrior and he relaxed slightly.
"I do not know what you are referring to," the King said, taking a deep
and calming breath upon registering his friend's release of
strain. "Please explain."
"The letter you showed me from the Lord of Imladris indicated
Maltahondo was Legolas' paramour. Do you recall it now?"
"Aye, Talagan, I remember the letter and do not deny its contents were
inflammatory and bizarre, even grotesque. Still there is not a
connection that I can see. I say now, be open in what you charge
or I shall deem it an act of treason designed to overthrow the just
rule of the House of Oropher and hold you to trial before the Council."
"The connection is our Tawarwaith!" a Sylvan voice proclaimed
vehemently. "The healer revealed that the guardsman abused the
trust of his office and took the elfling for his own pleasure."
"And this long before the child was of age, or had even enough
knowledge of such matters to form any judgement on the rightness of
submitting to these acts," added one of the Sindar warriors, and shot a
stream of spit into the dirt in disgust. "These are the ways of
Orcs, not eldar."
Thranduil's thoughts were in a whirlwind of disarray and denial. He
knew not which emotion to give preference: indignation over being
likened to so lowly a criminal or repugnance for the act having been
done by an elf retained in service to his House. No matter that
Maltahondo was sworn by a debt of blood to Ningloriel's people; he had
dwelt in the stronghold and been entrusted with the welfare of the
Queen's offspring. It was truly not in Thranduil's disposition to
wish such a horror upon any elflng; not even the bastard of his worst
enemy deserved so horrible a fate.
'How could you hate a child? An innocent you had in your care.'
Fearfaron's accusing voice interrupted his busy thoughts.
"Ai, can this be possible? Would Manwë allow so foul a deed
upon one of the First-born, by one of our kind?" he mumbled as he shook
his head, clapping both hands over his ears as if they were wounded
just to hear the story.
"Why do you call so readily upon the Powers? They heed us
not. We look after our own affairs; but for Namo's final decree
of fate we expect nothing from the Valar," said a quiet Sylvan
voice. "The crime did not originate on the distant shores of the
Undying Lands."
"Aye, this was under my hand to prevent, yet I was too blinded by false
treacheries to ever look upon the child," whispered Thranduil.
"I judge you did not realise," said Talagan with great relief, and no
one contested this, for everyone could see their King was overwhelmed
by how easily this evil had slipped past his best defences and resided
comfortably within his home. "I hoped that was the case yet there
were over-arching circumstances that cast this doubt upon you."
"Nay, I did not see," Thranduil said flatly and dropped his hands
listlessly to his sides, "and I comprehend what you infer. It is
true I wished the child never born, but I did not wish his death, at
least not as such and certainly not by so dire a method. The
calling of a warrior often hastens the journey West, and for that end I
did hope, but nothing more."
"More than sufficient for malice to be done!" growled a Sinda
archer. "I am guilty of the same foul hope."
The truth was unpleasant but easier to admit once their King had set
the standard. Had Thranduil dissembled and attempted to put off
responsibility, the assembly might have turned him out from the
Greenwood at once. As it was they murmured in disquiet and
grudging admiration for their leader's honest confession.
"A fine line but at least our King did not cross it," said
Talagan. "None of us were cognisant of the despoilment, not even
Gladhadithen."
"Too fine. Inaction and passive disregard are dishonourable,"
complained a Sylvan.
"Let it go, he was unaware!" replied another.
"Nevertheless, something must be done about it!" a third called out and
his words met with solid approval.
"In this I agree. Yet never have we faced a situation of this
nature and I do not think any Laws deal with it. How could an elf
do this thing?" Thranduil wondered aloud.
"I have questioned him on it and he denies fault on his part, stating
that Ningloriel gave him the elfling," quoted the captain in disgust.
"He lies!" blurted Thranduil, the expression on his features lending
the two simple syllables a venomous virulence. "She was not a
good mother, but even I would not accuse her of hating her child.
He was the only thing she cared about besides her ambitions and her
comforts."
Many assenting comments followed this rebuttal; it was easy to believe
an elf low enough to abuse an innocent entrusted to his protection
would be sufficiently cowardly to lay blame for the act on someone
unavailable to refute the claim. Better that than envisioning the
possibility of a life-bearer despising the product of her creative
power.
"Aye, he is a worm. We have come to feel he is the one
responsible for Tirno's failure at Erebor. Maltahondo had reason
to want his transgression kept secret!" a warrior asserted and most
were vocal in their avowal.
"Nay, I do not concur. The Tawarwaith is going to great lengths
to prevent the forthright account of events on the ridge. He is
not protecting the guardsman, surely." Thranduil sighed heavily
and rubbed his brow in irritation. This discussion was only
making things murkier rather than clearing them up.
"The Noldo Lord, he asserts that Tirno loves Maltahondo," the
difficulty this idea still presented was obvious in the soldier's
halting report.
"Gladhadithen says so, too," proclaimed another in equally displeased
tones.
"Ai, Valar! What an odious situation! He may or perhaps he
only misbelieves this, for what example does he have and to what can he
compare his feelings? Certainly not his mother's association with
me!
"And even if it is true there are those he loves more strongly.
Did you not listen to his words this morning? He stated so quite
clearly; he will do whatever he must to ensure the future of the infant
heir and our princess of the woods," said Thranduil and blinked in
wonder to hear himself take on the role of defender of his off-cast
heir.
Talagan could not suppress the sharp inhalation that turned into a fit
of coughing, as though it was he who had just swallowed a gagging
aggregation of pride mixed with black feathers. To hear these
words from such a source he would not have ever dreamed possible.
"Where is this proto-orc being held," Thranduil continued, flashing an
annoyed scowl at his old friend, "for so I assume Gladhadithen meant
when she referred to his resting recovery. I think a second
interrogation might be fruitful."
Talagan motioned and together the group moved across the grounds and
around the back of the barracks toward a small out building where the
healer's art was practised.
"Hold," Thranduil paused in the courtyard ten paces from the healing
wards, eyes trained upon the bolted door before which a stout swordsman
sat, leaning back in a chair braced against the barrier, arms locked
over his chest, warily watching the crowd approach. The King
could not prevent a wrinkled expression of scandalised condemnation
from contorting his patrician features as he considered the creature
beyond that door.
He did not truly wish to confront this despicable elf and trade words
with something so degenerate. Not since he had last held Orcs in
his dungeons had the King felt such a fulsome sensation of revulsion
creep across his flesh. He had no doubt of the verity spoken by
Mithrandir and Gladhadithen; questioning Maltahondo would produce
nothing new.
Besides, he had much to say to Meril and needed to hear her thoughts on
all that had thus far transpired. That she was angry he already
accepted, yet Thranduil was beset by the nagging notion that he would
soon be teetering between fear and rage himself. These emotions
must be acknowledged and eradicated before further distress was visited
upon their elflings.
And I promised Gwilith a story.
"A snake speaks but a single language with its doubled tongue and all
its words are false. Flog him." With that command the King
turned and hurried back through the garden toward his waiting family.
Tbc
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