Stars of Varda - An Elven Love Story (Thranduil)

42. The In-Between

The room is cold despite the fire; it is still March and winter refuses to give up the battle. Or perhaps it is the tidings of death which have brought the chill. I berate myself for not having thought to cover Thranduil's exposed chest. In an oak trunk in front of his bed I find a large woolen blanket and cover him up to his neck.

"You have been a lot of trouble tonight," I tease. "You would not be impressed to see yourself in this less-than-impeccable state, disheveled and looking like death. Even your crown is askew. Yes, it is best you are unconscious."

I remove his circlet and place it on the bedside table. Its silver entwined branches flicker from the fire's wavering light, as though it has a life of its own.

"It is a start, my lord. But your hair..." I shake my head. "You look as though you have walked through a cyclone. Those tangles will never do."

I find a comb and run it through his silken strands, a strong contrast to my coarse curls. I cannot resist gliding my fingers through them; this is an occasion likely to never happen again. His hair is a mixture of two kingly metals: silver and gold.

"I wish I could touch it every day," I confess matter-of-factly, emboldened by his unconsciousness. "If I were braver, I would fashion it in a lady's style. Your injury would be the least of your concerns upon waking."

His expressionless face remains unchanged, and my smile fades. Suddenly the teasing has lost its appeal. When his hair is combed, I walk to his ceiling-high bookshelf by the hearth and examine his collection. Unlike the public selection in his living chamber, these books are older and more delicate, with faded and broken spines. Most are battle accounts from the First Age, with a handful on the various languages of Men and Elves. But it is a folded parchment wedged between two weighty tomes which intrigues me most.

I gingerly pull it out and unfold it. My eyes widen. It is my own handwriting.

Rîneth is written numerous times in black ink, each signature a varying size and style. It is scattered across the parchment at different angles, even filling the corners, as though an excited child just learned to write their name. I remember it from long ago, something I thought was lost.

A small project to pass the time on a rainy afternoon, it was a silly attempt to create a unique signature for my artwork. It was nothing of importance. I had lost no sleep over its disappearance, and had forgotten it until now.

I look over my shoulder in astonishment. "Why did you take this?"

He must have visited my scriptorium when I was absent. What use would he have had for it? Why has he kept it all this time? I am stunned, incapable of making sense of it. I re-fold the parchment and return it to its home between the tomes, and walk back to his bedside.

"You are a conundrum, Thranduil Oropherion."

A deathly silence answers me. I rub my arms to fight the forbidding chill, but it is no use. The fire is now little more than an ember, and I am too fatigued to continue standing. Hoping Thranduil will forgive me if he lives, I remove my slippers and join him on the bed. The woolen blanket is large enough to cover us both. I dare to place my head on his shoulder and grasp his hand. His wound is under his opposite arm or I would not have attempted it.

"Do you remember our day at Laurenendë? I have deemed that the pond's name, so you must never call it anything else." My smile is shaky. "It was...a good day. It was even worth riding on Gilroch."

Having never been this close before, I make a study of his face. Its planes and curves fascinate me, even his disfiguring burn. I have never noticed before how long his eyelashes are. I reach out to touch his mouth, but think better of it.