Healing Hope

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Bur-der-bly Kisses

“Oh, with all that I've done wrong, I must have done something right
To deserve a hug every morning, And butterfly kisses at night.”

Bob Carlisle

Estel was enchanted when Thranduil spoke the magic words to open the magnificent gates. His little mouth opened in wonder that such large gates could swing open at the words of his King Adar. He would have begged to see it again, if he had not caught the scent of fresh air and seen the bright light of Anor beckoning him with promise. That was truly the magic that the child needed.

Raised in Imladris, where the rooms were open, airy and part of nature, Estel was unused to seeing only walls around him all the time...of light coming only from lanterns and torches. As beautiful and huge as King Thran-due’s palace was, it was still a cavern underground, and the confined space weighed on the child’s psyche.

“Oh,” Estel breathed as they walked out into the soft, warm light of Firith. The trees around the palace were ablaze with color and their sprinkled leaves crunched underneath the boots of the King as he carried Estel across the bridge so that they could enjoy the soft grasses. A smile lit the child’s face with a delight that seemed to mock the ugly bruises and swelling marring his features. “I borgot how beautibul it is, King Adar.”

At Nárë’s direction the guard fanned out to form a defensive perimeter well back from the two Kings to afford them as much privacy as possible. The Sword Master was the only one to stay relatively close to Thranduil and Estel, content that his guard would keep any and all threats well away from the pair. Should any danger get past the guards, Nárë himself would deal with it while Thranduil took the child inside and closed the gates.

Thranduil sat Estel down and whipped off his cloak, spreading it down for the pair to recline upon. Estel giggled as the cloak swung above his head in a shimmering red haze and then settled on the ground in front of him. “By order of the King, butterflies are drawn to this red cloak!” opined Thranduil, dropping to his knees. With a contented sigh, the king reclined, leaning on one arm with his long legs crossed. Estel smiled and dropped down beside his friend. He leaned back and made himself comfortable against the King’s chest.

“Oh look,” Estel exclaimed, pointing up to the clouds, “it is a dragon!”

Thranduil squinted at the cloud formation trying to make it into a dragon. “I rather thought it resembled a Balrog myself.”

“Oh no,” said Estel happily, “it is a dragon ‘cause he has a long tail.”

With his back to the Kings, Nárë smiled to himself as he constantly scanned the tree line for any danger. Yes, this expedition was just what both of them needed.

O-o-O-o-O

Lariel sat unmoving. The elleth had not touched food or water since the horrible incident in the healing rooms. She longed to see Pendan...to know that he was well and could forgive her for what she had done, but the King’s guard would not let her leave her rooms. Meals were brought to her, but she had no appetite for them. Tears began to fall as she contemplated her misdeeds and the consequences they would undoubtedly bring down upon her head. Never had she felt so alone. King Thranduil was known for his fiery temper, after all, and she had committed a grave offense to the Crown when she harmed the human. She still could not bring herself to say his name.

Disgusted with herself, Lariel flung herself down on the floor beside her bed. Why was she so angry towards the child...towards Estel? There! She made herself say his name. “He is a baby,” she cried aloud. “How could I have harmed him?”

When she heard the sound of voices outside her door, Lariel sat up quickly, trying to dry her eyes with the back of her hands. If her King was here to decree her punishment she would not meet him a mass of tears, but with the courage one of her house should exhibit.

“Pendan!” she cried as her brother entered. All her resolve to be courageous fled with the entrance of the warrior.

Pendan’s heart broke when he beheld his little sister’s face. “Avo osto Muinthil nín ” He sat on the side of the bed and opened his arms to her. “Come, my little Firefly, let brother make it better.”

Carefully, so as not to hurt him, Lariel sat beside Pendan and leaned into his embrace. Within the safe circle of his arms she allowed her tears to flow, heartsick that she had brought retribution down upon herself and dishonored her brother in the in the process. He was the world to her and had been for almost as long as she could remember.

“Forgive me, Pendan,” she cried. “I acted without thinking!”

“Shhhh, Istannen naa mae si,” Pendan soothed, as he kissed the top of her head and smoothed back her hair. “I know you did not mean to harm Estel.” He sighed, wearied by worry over what the King would decide. He had slipped out of the Healing Rooms without Thedin’s knowledge, because he knew that Lariel would need him. Finding the guards outside his sister’s door had startled him more than he cared to admit. “If you can explain to me what happened then perhaps I can make the King understand that you did not mean...”

Lariel stopped his words with a swift denial. She sat up shaking her head and looked at him with huge, watery eyes. “No, I will not let you open yourself to the King’s wrath.” She could not stand it if her brother suffered more because of her. “What I have done I must bear myself...even banishment from all Elven Realms.” Her words became choked.

Pendan pulled her back into his arms and tightened his embrace, his heart shattered at the thought of banishment for his sister. He shook his head against her head, willing it not to be so. “I will not let my sister go unprotected into the wild,” he vowed. “As we have shared everything since our father’s death, we will see this through together.”

“Oh Pendan, no,” cried Lariel, terrified at the prospect of banishment and yet more terrified at the thought of banishment for Pendan.

“I will hear no more of it, Lariel,” he said firmly, ending the argument. “What kind of brother would I be to let you go alone?”

O-o-O-o-O

Thranduil tried to release his mind to simply enjoy the afternoon with Estel, but the weight of what he must decide was like a fist around his head squeezing ever tighter.

Never before had he felt so utterly torn by consequences of what he must do. Back and forth his thoughts battled, like combatants dueling to the death, and the decision was as bitter to him as the dust of the Dagorlad. Dagorlad...he closed his eyes as scenery of that vile place entered his mind.

“Silvans must look to the care of Silvans before all others,” he could still hear his father rage. The King of the Greenwood was shaken and furious at the horrendous loss of Malgalad and his elves. Oropher was beyond livid…he was very nearly crushed by the weigh of grief over what had transpired earlier in the day. The proud King had begged, literally begged Gil-galad to send reinforcements to help him reach Malgalad and been denied. Thranduil knew what that act of submission had cost his father. Oropher was not one to grovel.

Alone in their tent that night a nearly broken Oropher railed at Thranduil as he spewed his frustration and anger towards Gil-galad over and over again until Thranduil wanted to close his ears to it. He was so very tired of it all…of the death, the dying, the ash and fume, the dust, and the day after day repetition. Oropher paced the confines of the tent, a larger than life figure, worn down by the cares of leadership.

Thranduil closed his eyes wanting so very badly not to go down the trail of memory that he was on, but unable to stop. Perhaps if Malgalad had not been lost that day or if Gil-galad had been able to turn the tide the tragedy of the next day could have been avoided. How many times had Thranduil asked himself these same questions? What if Núthil had not come to his aid, had not taken the spear thrust meant for him? Would his death have turned Oropher from his deadly path? Could his death have bought the lives of all those warriors who faithfully followed their King to destruction?

Brave, loyal Núthil…his friend, his own guard, whose wife was slain by orcs only a few cycles of Ithil earlier, willingly gave his life for Thranduil. The King was drained and so very tired of trying to figure it all out…tired of the questions and the what ifs. If Thranduil had died his Greenleaf would never have been born. How could that have been better for Arda? Legolas would make a wonderful King…far better than himself. Thranduil believed this deep in his heart of hearts.

In his Kingdom he was the ultimate law…the fiery and fierce King of Kings, but Thranduil did not always feel so powerful. None, save Nárë, would ever know the depths of self doubt that sometimes troubled the King for he would never, ever let the mask slip, let the rigid control grow lax, but never before had he been faced with such a decision. One way or the other, he would break his word.

Núthil’s face swam before his vision. The beautiful features twisted in pain as he gasped for breath and attempted to hold in the life’s blood draining from his wound. It was mortal, Thranduil had known that the moment he heard the blow behind him and felt the force of Núthil thrown into his back. He turned in time to catch the warrior as another cut down the threatening orc.

Sinking to his knees he cradled Núthil, shaking his head in denial as he realized that the elf had taken the blow meant for his back. “Why, Núthil…why?” he gasped, begging the Valar to change the inevitable outcome. “You have young ones that need you…” he crooned.

“You…are…our…Prince,” Núthil gasped, coughing blood from his lungs, as the gaping hole took its toll. The dying warrior used his last bit of strength to grasp Thranduil arm. “My children…promise me…” He died before he could finish the sentence.

Thranduil reached up to close the warrior’s eyes. “I give you my word your children will be cared for,” he vowed.

“My Lord,” the panting sentry interrupted, “my Lord, your father has fallen in battle!”

Thranduil looked almost dumbly at the sentry. His words made no sense to him. “What did you say?”

“We are cut off from the main forces…you are..” the shocked sentry’s words stammered to a halt. “What are your orders, my King?”

Thranduil Oropherion rose from the ashes of that day with a spine of iron, rallying his beleaguered elves and stopping it from being a complete rout. It was a costly day…a deadly day for the Silvans, but they would survive to return to the Greenwood. To the Elves of Greenwood, Thranduil was the one that held them together – by the force of his will - through the darkest of days. His people saw only the resolute young King fighting for them and their homeland. They never saw the inner grief and pain that he forced far beneath the surface of his waking mind.

The young children of Núthil were assigned to a loving couple to be raised as their own, but were never far from the King’s mind or attention. As Pendan matured into a fine warrior he was named to the King’s own guard, and later promoted to his chief messenger. In a time when much of the correspondence between the Elven kingdoms was handled through messengers and accuracy was absolutely necessary, only the most trusted of Elves became Royal messengers.

It was while he was in the service of Thranduil that Pendan was so badly wounded by an orc attack and then denied aid and chased from the human village where he sought help. The young elf had barely made it back to Mirkwood alive. How many more would be injured and die in his service? He gave his word to protect Núthil’s children.

And he gave his word to Lord Elrond to protect his son. Not to act in this case would only worsen relations between Mirkwood and the realms of Imladris and Lórien. More than that, his personal honor was at stake. His word meant something to him and he had assured Estel that he would be safe. Oh, his head hurt with it all.

Childish giggles interrupted his reverie, pulling him back to the warming rays of Anor and the innocence of childhood. He did not realize that tears were streaming down his face until little fingers traced them. Ever so softly, feather light kisses dried the tears, and the King drew in a ragged breath and attempted to smile at the young one. “Why did you do that?’

Estel placed his chubby hand against the King’s cheek. “My Ada says that bur-der-bly kisses make him beel better.” He graced the king with another kiss. “Do they make you beel better, King Adar?” He laid his head against the King’s chest, staring up at his face while he patiently waited for the magic to work. It always made his Ada smile.

“Butterfly kisses,” the king sighed. “Perhaps they are enchanted after all.”

TBC

Translations:

Avo osto Muinthil nín: Fear not mysister

Istannen naa mae si: You are safe now