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What Comforts We Can Keep	By : ebonykain Category: +Third Age > General Views: 1630 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I am very very sad to say I don’t own Lord of the Rings. And happy, too, because if I did, I’d be dead by now. O_o So I'll take being alive over making money off things like this, thanks.

Chapter List
- 1-What Comforts We Can Keep
- 1
Short Note: So apparently the last time I worked on this was juuust over a year ago. I put off posting it because I had planned to have another scene, but now I just don’t feel it. I think it’s good where it ends.

It was around that hour of the night when the darkness is most deep that the murky wood’s king gave up even the pretense of the goblet and simply carried the bottle of wine through the dark halls of his home. It was quiet this night, and all good little Elves were long abed. Only the occasional guard broke the monotony of carved and painted stone walls. And each he passed knew better than to speak when their king was in such a mood—some had seen him in this state before and those who had not had been quickly warned by their fellows upon gaining their rank.

Bare of foot and bare of brow, the silent king wandered the fortress he pretended was a palace in the light of day. The wine was course stuff, made by Men and offering little to the palette. But Men’s wine was strong stuff, capable of erasing entire days at a time from one’s memory. Thranduil had, in the past, wondered if it were possible to lose an entire Age to the drink.

He paused, and a guardsman just down the hall tensed in nervousness—The Silvan king had not entertained such a thought since before Legolas was born.

Ah, but there was the crux of the problem, now. Legolas had been given the duty to attend the Peredhil’s council. And instead of Thranduil receiving the report on its happenings from his son he had received a letter. A beautifully written one it may have been, truly Elrond was both poet and calligrapher, but it was little comfort to know his son, his only little Legolas was on some fool’s quest as… as a bodyguard for a gaggle of halflings on their way to Mordor!

Under his breath, Thranduil cursed bitterly before taking a hard pull from the bottle. Will it never end? he wondered as he resumed his increasingly unsteady journey. They were all fools to think this war had ever ended. That fell darkness will never be satisfied until the whole of Middle Earth is sopping in blood.

He had lived through the Last Alliance, though his survival had been at the cost of his beloved father and over two-thirds of their warriors. They were my friends, not just spears and arrows at disposal! He had survived to protect his people through retreat and retreat again. When the Necromancer came to Dol Guldur and spread his taint throughout their forest, infesting it with those horrid spiders, Thranduil had pulled his people even further north again, recognizing that terrible shadow. At least Mithrandir had saved the wood from that evil influence. The trees were healing. Slowly.

But where does it end? the tall Elf put a steadying hand against the wall as a decorative rug seemed to move beneath his feet. His senses were quickly dwindling but the door was in sight now. Forced to flee the encroaching darkness again and again, numbers too few to survive making a stand. We needed to be rescued in our own homes.

There were more now, though Elven populations were slow to increase. His people filled the forest around their subterranean stronghold to the edges of Men’s habitations. It was a blow to their pride to have lost the creature, Gollum, to the orcs, and they fought against spiders and other twisted creatures daily. The mixed Silvan and Sindar blood of his people was strong and capable. They wanted to fight, to take back their green wood and cast off the pall overshadowing her boughs. And so hundreds of years of voluntary isolation ended with Legolas’s entourage attending the Council of Elrond.

Thranduil pressed his forehead to the cool ironwood of the door as he clumsily fished the key from his robes. “My father was not enough, then?” his voice, roughened from the burn of alcohol, was barely audible above the scrape of the heavy door across the stone floor. Damp weather occasionally made it warp. It would need to be fixed again. “Should I lose my son as well?”

Inside the room was the treasure trove Thranduil sought comfort in. Even the low light of the hall caught and danced on the myriad precious metals and gems. Though full of gold, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, it was the silver and diamonds that soothed the inebriated king best. Like starlight could be held in the palm of his hand.

The empty bottle was set down with exaggerated care on the floor and from there it seemed like more effort than it was worth to stand again. Dignity long since abandoned to the bottle, Thranduil made his way on hand and knee to a plush rug woven sporadically with mithril threads. His favorite box was there, lid already open from his last visit, and the Elf plunged a hand into the necklaces, rings, circlets and loose stones. The action upset his saturated balance and he fell to his side beside the ornate box.

Lifting his hand, a thin strand of white gold caught around his wrist and thumb, the Elf king held a large white jewel in his fingers. Cut and polished by a Dwarf some millennia ago it caught even the smallest light and sent rainbows dancing along every plane and angle. If he turned it just right he could feel the refracted light on his face.

“Oh Elbereth,” the words sighed out of him and Thranduil could feel the pricks behind his eyes that heralded tears. “You, who hung the elenath which give us comfort even in the blackest night… I beg of you… my son—” The words choked in his chest as the fear settled deep and painful upon his heart once more, and the Elf king had to roll to his side to cough it clear.

The diamond had dropped from nerveless fingers and rolled a small distance to fetch up against an ancient shield. Thranduil stared at it, the tiny rainbows like shards of color across the polished surface. Breathing rough and hard the Elf reached out to grasp his gem again, pulling it to his chest and curling around it clutched protectively in the cage of his fingers.

Gemstones did not get up to wander into danger on their own. Wine did not fight, and fall, in battle against the unending Shadow. Circlets, candlestick and goblets remained where you placed them, or where quickly found again when mislaid. They could not fall ill; they could not hear the cry of the gulls on the sea; they could not die or leave. True, they could be dented, dinged or even broken but always, always, could they be mended again.

But they could not laugh. They could not speak and they could not clasp his arms and call him Ada! in that tone that spoke of such joy just to see him. Stones did not sing. Metal was cold and lifeless. Wine merely numbed the senses long enough for it to hurt worse in the morning.

But at least they were something.
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What Comforts We Can Keep