The Last Elf Queen of Arda

Chapter 18 - Blood on a White Rose

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The rest of Thranduil and Anthelísse's stay in Imladris went off without incident, although there was a brief exchange between the hot-headed young king and an elf lord in the training yard of the barracks. When it came to light that the elf lord in question was in fact Lord Glorfindel formerly of Gondolin, Thranduil found himself yet again having to swallow his pride and make apologies. This time though he at least could find some solace in the fact that Glorfindel also begged Thranduil's forgiveness for losing his own temper.

When it came time three weeks later for Thranduil and Anthelísse to return to the Woodland Realm, there was a tiny bit of relief mingled with the goodbyes all around. Elrond assured them that they were both welcome to return and visit whenever they pleased, and in return Thranduil extended an invitation in kind to the Lord of the Hidden Valley.

Spring was approaching its zenith as Thranduil, Anthelísse and their followers began the ascent into the Misty Mountains once again. The melt had widened the paths and made for somewhat easier going this time over. Still there were many treacherous passes and narrow roads overlooking seemingly endless chasms as they passed.

Unable to sidle up to Thranduil on the single-file ledge, Anthelísse called forward to where he rode near the head of the procession.

"I have been thinking meleth-nin; it's a blessing that you have begun your reign in this age in the company of others such as Elrond and young Amroth."

Thranduil dared not take his eyes off the rocky path, not with the drop being so far down on his left. Clever as she was, he still didn't want to surrender full control over their course to his horse. Instead he settled for calling out and letting the wind carry his words back to Anthelísse.

"Oh, why is that?"

Anthelísse answer had a teasing note to it. "Because if you were pitted against the likes of Finarfin or Thingol in diplomacy, I fear the elf kings of old would eat you alive with that hot head of yours!"

Gurithon snickered from the lead, earning a glare that could have killed directed at his shoulders from Thranduil. Likewise Aislinn and Iminyë giggled on their grey and white horses. It was the plain but unfortunate truth. The king of the Greenwood was not without a retort though.

"What of Fëanor? I daresay the old fox had a temper that burned far hotter than mine, and yet he still managed to lead the Noldor back to Arda from the Blessed Realm."

Disapproval was evident when Anthelísse replied. "Surely you wouldn't want to compare yourself to Fëanor Kin-Slayer? His is hardly a standard to follow."

"True, but you must admit that he had his own sort of intelligence and courage. It was no small feat to convince the Noldor to face exile at the hands of the Valar like that."

Iminyë piped up from behind Anthelísse as they rounded a dizzying corner. The valley floor was so far below that it could hardly be seen beneath the clouds. Wisps of mist clung to the handmaiden with delicate golden curls like a veil.

"But in the end, Fëanor's courage came to naught. He and his sons never reclaimed the Silmarils, and the Halls of Mandos shall be his prison even until such time as the Second Music of the Ainur." Iminyë spoke with great solemnity. "In the end, the will of the Valar wins out over any petty designs we may strive toward."

Thranduil's eyebrows went up. "It takes courage to disagree with a king too, Iminyë. You put great faith in the power of the Valar, don't you?"

"Shouldn't I?" Iminyë replied. "They formed the world by the decree of Eru, and so I think it's only right to give them their just reverence. In the end, we are all in their hands."