Stars of Varda - An Elven Love Story (Thranduil)

7. Portrait

King Oropher mentioned very little of his Queen in his writings but was verbose on the matter of his elk steed.

Quill hovering over the parchment, I ruminate over the similarity between father and son. Thranduil never mentions his wife on any occasion. But neither does he speak often of his elk, much less with fondness. I wonder if he would be more expressive about his loved ones in writing. Does he keep an account of his life as I do? Or at least his many battles?

I tap my mouth with the quill's feather while imagining him writing long and eloquent descriptions about missing his wife. It is a stark contrast to what he portrays to the world and even me. An odd sensation whirls in my stomach at the thought.

The half-written parchment on Oropher's beloved elk can wait. It is likely past midnight...my mind can cooperate no further.

I hear a firm knock on the scriptorium door as I begin gathering my writings.

"You may come in."

I have a feeling my visitor is the only other inhabitant in the realm well known for keeping late hours.

I stand as the King enters, a night guard closing the door behind him. Before voicing a word, he removes his crown and discards it on a side table under a painting of the lands of Lindon.

"I first went to your chambers. Gailon then informed me you were still here," he says. "Is it your plan to forgo sleep and work until dawn?"

"Perhaps."

"Did you even have dinner?"

"One of your guards kindly brought me a plate. I lost sense of time..." I sit back down. "How late is it now?"

"Late enough for bed."

"Obviously, my lord."

Thranduil walks over to where I sit, his sharp eyes darting over the parchments scattered haphazardly on the table, as though trying to make sense of them. He likely is having derogatory thoughts about my organizational habits.

I resume the task of gathering and stacking the parchments. "I knew you were coming soon. I suppose I have been striving too hard for perfection. You know my nature."

"I do." The corner of his mouth lifts. "But you did invite me, so here I am."

"I shall show you only a part. The rest I keep until it is finished entirely."

As I open the table's hidden drawer, my heart starts to thump in my chest like a war drum. I am certain Thranduil can hear it in the silent room. I bring out the thick parchment, my twenty-third and most promising attempt, and lay it on the table carefully.

"Does this resemble your father at all?"

Thranduil's face gives away nothing as he leans over and examines the portrait. If I did not know better, I would believe him to be looking at an unremarkable account from the raft-elves regarding the barrel activity along the Forest River. Or a map of the Mines of Moria.

But when his eyes lift from the portrait to mine, staying there, I cannot guess what he thinks, even for all of Arda.

"It is perhaps not--"

"I would believe you have seen him, if I did not know he died long before your birth. It is not his exact likeness, but you have come close." His focus returns to the drawing. "I see Legolas in his face..."

"Yes." The risky idea came to me at the last.

"His expression is almost soft, as though he is a moment away from smiling. He did not often smile."

"I can change--"

"Keep it. It brings to remembrance days of my youth, when he carried fewer burdens and his crown was not as heavy." Thranduil rests his palms on the table's oak surface. "He often laughed at jests my mother made. She had an unconventional sense of humor he found refreshing."

We both pause in silence, lost in our thoughts. I wonder about Thranduil's mother and what she was like; she sailed to the Undying Lands soon after Oropher's passing. If her unusual kind of humor passed down to her son or grandson, I have yet to hear it.

"I decided on the expression because it is one I have seen you wear at times. When you are not being ill-tempered."

His sudden stern countenance is almost convincing. "I did not realize your keen observation skills."

"There is much you do not know about me."

"You may prefer to believe that, but I know everything."

"You only think you do. There is a difference."

Thranduil crosses his arms and straightens to his fullest height, peering down his nose at me. "I know you eat like a Halfling, close your eyes when you are thinking too hard and have an appalling lack of skill with the bow."

I stand up, undaunted. He is still taller.

"The first two things anyone could easily observe. And the last is no secret; everyone in the realm knows, even the raft-elves."

"But do you?"

"No." I raise my chin. "I am unaware that others must clear the area if even a bow is in my hands. Or that I nearly struck my sister with an arrow when we were younger. And of course I am unaware Legolas still speaks of our unsuccessful lessons."

"Not as much as he once did..." Distracted, he walks to the other side of the wide table and looks down at a parchment I have not yet put away. His hand touches its corner. "What is this?"

"A project for Gwendes. Her brother was killed in an orc raid long ago. He was a skilled storyteller. I believe his stories would even entertain you."

Last night I was unable to close his journal to sleep, my imagination captured long into the morning hours by the adventures of Ronir the Silvan and his quest over the plains of Rohan and through Fangorn Forest.

"This is...impressive." He holds up the drawing of Ronir standing in the Golden Hall of Edoras with King Fengel. "Your friend shall be pleased, if she has any sense. What did she offer for your help?"

"She needs silver more than I."

He shakes his head and lays the parchment back on the table. "You work too hard for nothing in return."

"I have no need for anything, only projects to keep me occupied."

One of my worst fears is becoming idle like Lady Aethel, with no occupation and no purpose, a harp without strings.

Thranduil returns to where I stand. "Surely your hands must tire."

I feel a jolt of surprise when he takes my hand in his own and brings it to his face. His eyes examine the black ink stains on my fingers, the evidence of my many hours spent with the quill. He squeezes them lightly before letting go.

"Go to bed, Rîneth."

"Is that a command, my lord?"

"Yes."

"I shall consider it."