Partition

After spending several Ages of the world in the dreamlike, timeless land of Lothlórien, Celeborn was amazed at the energy his northern kinfolk displayed in their labor. Thranduil ushered him among the Elves of the settlement, stopping every now and then to lend a hand or to add a word of encouragement. Celeborn marveled at the efficiency with which the Silvan Elves sifted through the ashes of their homes, salvaging what they could, repairing small household objects, scrubbing clothes, tending to the wounded, and setting fishing lines in the Forest River. Even the smallest children made themselves useful, stalking the black squirrels to find their hidden caches of nuts from the previous autumn.

As they walked, Thranduil explained some of his long-range plans to improve life in the settlement. The Silvan Elves would follow the example of the Galadhrim and move completely off the ground into talans among the trees.

"My folk are skilled in the construction of talans," Celeborn said. "It would be no trouble for one or two of my companions to remain with you and instruct your folk in the art."

"That would be much appreciated," Thranduil replied. "But I think that the talans of Northern Mirkwood must be of a different design than those of the Golden Wood. Winter is harsh here, and we will need to construct walls and good roofs as well. We will learn to build the floors of these tree-houses from the Galadhrim, and then we will show them how to thatch a roof in return."

"I will be most curious to see the results," Celeborn said. His attention was caught by Luindil waving from the opposite edge of the new clearing. Thranduil and Celeborn joined the seneschal, who knelt in the thin layer of ash and humus covering the ground.

"What have you found, Luindil?" Thranduil asked.

"New grass, here at the edge of the clearing," Luindil said, indicating a small patch of barely visible green growth. "You see, my Lord, the soil appears to be fertile. I know little of these matters, but I judge that in three turns of the seasons, this area will be ready to try out your plan."

"What plan is that?" Celeborn asked his cousin.

"We have very little food," Thranduil told him sadly. "We traded furs and leather for much of what we ate, and the trading grew poor long before the attack came. Most of our food stores were destroyed in the battle, and we are living now on the edge of starvation. I do not ever wish to depend that much on trade with the South again, and therefore I have decided to till this soil in the hopes of growing food that we may have under our own control. This space was once a copse of young ash trees, but they all died in the fire, and my folk have been hard at work clearing the stumps. Now the ground is bare, and we will move to the trees. I had thought to put this land to use as our first garden."

"That is a wise choice, Thranduil," Celeborn said. "Do your folk know aught of farming?"

"Only a little. We had hoped to ask the Men of Lake Town to teach us that art."

"You may have assistance from us in that regard as well, should you wish," Celeborn offered. "Those of my folk who come to build talans may stay to teach you farming if it is your wish and theirs."

Thranduil and Luindil exchanged a look. Finally, Thranduil nodded, and Luindil bowed to Celeborn.

"It is a gracious offer," he said, "and we would be honored to accept it."

"Good," Celeborn said. "I will send a messenger back to Lothlórien today and request a company to bring aid and extra food. Lembas, I think. It keeps well and will give you the strength you will need to achieve your projects."

"You have my deepest thanks," Thranduil declared. "Send your messenger now, and then I would ask that you appear in the Great Hall in the delvings at the first hour past noon. Luindil and I will both be there."

"Might I ask the reason for this formality?"

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "There is still the matter of payment for your services to discuss," he noted. As Celeborn rolled his eyes at the persistence of Thranduil's independence, the son of Oropher bowed and left with his seneschal.

Thranduil waited in the Great Hall, willing himself to remain calm and regal. Luindil stood by the throne, a great roll of parchment in his hand. He turned to his King.

"Are you certain you wish to do this?" he asked.

"Very much so. I have told you my reasons, and they are good ones."

"Agreed. It is a noble offer, my Lord."

"I am glad that you think so, Luindil. Not all of the reasons behind it are noble ones."

Luindil turned and fixed his King with the gaze of centuries. "No," he said, "not all of them. But the ones that are noble are truly noble, and the ones that are not so noble are nonetheless good and wise."

Thranduil nodded, and was about to reply when a herald announced Lord Celeborn's entrance, precisely on the hour. Thranduil rose, and Luindil came to attention as Celeborn strode through the hall and made a deep bow when he reached the throne of the Elvenking. "It is the hour at which you commanded my presence," he said formally. "What is your will?"

"It is this," Thranduil replied. "You and the folk of the Golden Wood have proved to be the salvation of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood. You have offered us life-saving aid in our hour of deepest need, and for that we owe you much that I fear we will never be able to repay. Yet would I offer a small token to you, to represent our gratitude and our thanks." Thranduil gestured to a council table off to the side of the throne. With a practiced flick of his hand, Luindil unrolled the parchment in one smooth movement. It was a map of Mirkwood lovingly drawn in brilliant color.

"To the victor should go the spoils," Thranduil said. "You and your folk overthrew Dol Guldur at your own peril. I would gift you with the lands surrounding that place. There is good hunting there; or, there was before the Dark Lord set himself in that tower. The Great River can provide you with fish, and there are berries, nuts and mushrooms --"

"Peace," Celeborn said. "Do I understand you correctly? Do you give this land freely?"

"I do," Thranduil answered. "I have no need for such a large territory as once I ruled. Now that we will have gardens in our lands, we will not have the time to spare patrolling such expanses of forest. I had thought to repay you for your kindnesses to us. This land, which we call the Wood of Dark Secrets, should be joined to Lothlórien the Dreamflower."

"The Wood of Dark Secrets?" Celeborn chuckled. "It never ceases to amaze me, Thranduil, just how much of a romantic soul lies beneath the skin of the eminently practical Elvenking. It would set your heart at ease were I to accept this gift?"

"It would," Thranduil said. "I would not wish for the cares of my folk to be a burden upon you, cousin. I would return to you the full value of your labors."

Celeborn smiled. "Then I would be honored to accept your gift, King Thranduil," he said. "Although, I must say that I do not care for the name that you have bestowed upon it. I will call it East Lórien, I think. It is a simple name, but it will attract neither good nor ill fortune. I believe that my folk could find peace there, should the glories of the Golden Wood become overwhelming."

Thranduil stood a little straighter. "Then claim the territory of East Lórien, Lord Celeborn, with my deepest gratitude." He nodded to Luindil, who produced a quill from his doublet and a bottle of ink from a drawer in the table. With a steady hand, Luindil sketched a line along the map of Mirkwood just at the narrows, and wrote "East Lórien" in a clear, strong script. He blew on the ink to dry it, rolled the map, tied it with a leather thong and handed it to Celeborn, who took it gravely.

"I will send a messenger to the Lady Galadriel at once," he said. "She should be made acquainted with our sudden increase of land." With a formal nod, Celeborn left the Great Hall.

Luindil turned to Thranduil. "That was well done, my Lord."

"Thank you." Thranduil was surprised at how gratified he felt at Luindil's approval. The partitioning of Mirkwood had been harder on him than he had expected, although he remained convinced that he had done the right thing. "Luindil," he said after a moment, "I would ask you to oversee the rest of the day's work. I would have some time to be alone with my thoughts."

"As you wish," Luindil said. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Thranduil alone in the Great Hall.

Later that evening, Thranduil sat by himself in the library, contemplating a full decanter of Dorwinion wine. He had been staring at it for most of the afternoon and the evening, and he was using every bit of his considerable will to stay staring at it. The wine beckoned to him, singing its promise of sweet oblivion at the bottom of the decanter, but Thranduil steadfastly refused to touch it. That was a rule of his, as tough and strong as old oak. Thranduil would never drink wine if he was in the least bit unhappy or upset. That way lay ruin.

Thranduil was too well acquainted with the perils of drowning his sorrows. Twice before in his life, he had sought forgetfulness in wine. The first time had been after Orodruin, when he had watched his father crumble under the tension of waiting for the battle to begin. With a mighty yell, Oropher had loosed the army of Wood Elves under his command, and the resulting battle, engaged too soon, had dissolved into a nightmare of desperate hand-to-hand combat where all was blood and steel and screaming. Thranduil had seen Oropher impaled on a black sword, and his last memory of his father was the look of shock on his face as Mandos claimed him.

When the battle was over, there was a celebration, not so much of victory as of survival. The wine had flowed freely, and it was then that Thranduil first knew the seduction of the warm numbness flowing through his veins. For many nights thereafter, the young Elvenking had numbed his grief with wine, but had hated himself for doing so. He had watched himself become progressively more confused and unable to command, dependent on the peace that wine brought. Oropher would have despised him for that dependence. One night, in a rage at the sluggish, ineffective creature he had become, Thranduil had taken his sword and smashed every wine vessel in his tent, and though at times it hurt him deeply, he had not touched another drop for years after the battle.

Eventually, he found himself living in peace and prosperity as the King among the Wood Elves, and he began to allow himself a little wine at festivals, when laughter and merriment surrounded him. Even as the forest darkened, the Elves had found reasons to celebrate, not least among them being the marriage of Thranduil and, later, the birth of his son. And then, in an instant, that joy was shattered, and the Queen was gone forever. On the first night he spent without her, Thranduil had once again sought comfort in drink. He had behaved terribly for some time thereafter, and in particular he regretted his neglect of Legolas during that time. But one night Luindil had found him half-asleep in the Great Hall and scolded him as fiercely as his father ever had. There had been much shouting and many tears, but Thranduil had once again stiffened his resolve and had put the wine away.

Now he faced that temptation a third time. Desperate to avoid giving in, Thranduil gripped the arms of his chair tightly as he tried to think about anything other than the decanter of wine in front of him. The only thought that could penetrate was the image of Legolas, laughing, running merrily through the wood in pursuit of a deer. Thranduil had not seen or heard from his son in months. During those months, there had been a great war. Always the terrible thought knotted in Thranduil's stomach and threatened to paralyze him. What if Legolas, his dear beloved son, had died somewhere far away from home, where his father could never see him again, never smell his new-leaf scent, never take him in his arms? What if his boy never came back?

What if he did come back? Thranduil sat up a little straighter and remembered something his mother had told him. "What happens in your absence happens," she had said. "You cannot alter it, nor can you change it by wishing. You can only prepare for it." Either Legolas was dead, or he was alive. And if he was alive, he should not come home to a father grown dull and maudlin with drink. In that moment, Thranduil made his choice. He would keep his hope alive, and he would not touch wine, even in celebration, until such time as his son returned to him.

Swiftly, before he could change his mind, Thranduil went to the door and peered out into the corridor. "Luindil?" he called. The summons was picked up and passed along by other Elves in the twisting corridors of the delvings, and in short order, Luindil arrived at the library.

"You called?" he asked.

Thranduil stood stiffly just outside the doorway. "There is a decanter of wine on the table," he said. "Please, take it away, for I dare not touch it myself."

Luindil nodded. He saw the strain in Thranduil's eyes and easily guessed at the struggle that had taken place. This time, Thranduil had made a wise choice, and Luindil would not deny his King any aid he might need in keeping his resolve. He stepped into the library and removed the decanter and the cup that stood nearby. When he left the library, Thranduil was gone.