Chapter 6 - Before the Throne of Thranduil

"I sought you not. Where is thy brother?" The voice of Thranduil was dreadful in its cold fury. Gilúviel heeded not his own fear and did approach his father’s throne with slow and measured step. As he knelt before the king, his dark eyes beheld the elf that to him had always been all he strove to emulate, for Gilúviel’s nature was ever that he saw only the best in those he did love. It saddened him to be the cause of his father’s pain, and he was willing to pay the wergeld that his liege might demand with his own blood. He would pay it though and not his Legolas.

"Thy grievance is not with Legolas but with myself, Father. Unto me be your wrath and your judgment."

"Ungrateful son that I did pluck from the slaughter of the forest’s battle and lay upon my own wife’s breast, now you tell me with whom my grievance lies?" Thranduil’s fist clenched as if he would smite this elf and his dark beauty that stood before him.

"If I be ungrateful ever for thy love or that of my mother than what e’er you do to me this night shall all call just. Yet do I hope to beg that you may judge me on my deeds, my father, and not the reverence I have ever borne for you and for her who nurtured me and taught me first to love."

And the dark elf knelt proudly before his father despite the aching of his heart. He knew that this night would see his end, for his father was ever unforgiving to all who challenged him and even so was this wrath more dreadful than aught he had ever beheld. Thranduil was blind in his fury against his sons. Gilúviel’s sole hope now was to spare his brother and seek safety for the one who was his beloved.

Slowly he removed the woodland crown from his head and lay it at his father’s feet. Then did he draw his dark hair back from his neck and open his tunic. Unto his king, he offered one of his own white knives and bared the flesh of his throat to his lord’s judgment and his  blade.

"Here is my knife, Father, that your own be not be stained with the blood of your son, and here also is the crown that you have given unto me, so that it may not be dishonored by the death of one who wore it and has so offended you. Father, take my life but spare my brother and Tingalen. They are innocent. The sin of loving is all my own."

Trembling did the hand of Thranduil grasp the knife and gaze upon its cold length. He looked upon his son and saw no fear in the great dark eyes that beheld him, but Thranduil did see the lips of his son move, and heard him breathe a prayer to Ilúvatar for forgiveness for the pain he had caused his father. Nothing more did Gilúviel entreat but for this forgiveness, and then he waited quietly and with great dignity for his death, with his fair neck exposed to his father’s wrath and love still abiding in his great eyes.

Thranduil felt himself rise from his throne and walk towards his son, and his fingers closed tightly upon the white knife he held.

"Stay, my lord, for there are two here to meet your justice, and I would accompany my brother." And from the shadows came forth Legolas, and swiftly did he lay his own crown next to his brother’s and kneel beside him to wait for death.

"Father, thy sons have ever loved thee and each other. Let us not be separated in our death. It is all that I seek from you now, to die with Gilúviel as we have lived, and that you may know that we have loved you ever."

And Thranduil raised the knife and pressed it into the throat of Gilúviel until the red blood did spurt and stain the white of his son’s flesh, and he heard his son gasp with the pain of the cold blade, and still he saw no fear and only love in the dark eyes that beheld him beneath a cloud of pain. For even as the blood stained his tunic, did Gilúviel love his father and pity him, and this pity did his father see in those dark eyes awaiting death. And Thranduil watched as his dark son sought the hand of his fair brother even as the red blood flowed from his neck. And he saw Legolas raise his brother’s hand to his lips and kiss it softly, the blood that stained that hand marking his own lips.

Then only did Thranduil throw the knife far from his hand and sink to his knees. Trembling, he drew his sons into his arms and he wept at his own blindness and cursed his anger that had so nearly robbed him of all his joys. And with the crimson of his robes did the king staunch the blood of his son Gilúviel and pray that he was not too late.