To Live Again: Waiting Between Worlds {Lord of the Rings Fanfiction}

8. Severed Ties

Mordor 3441 S.A. - The Battle Encampment
of the Alliance

The flames danced beautifully in the twilight - so full of energy and life. Watching them intently, Thranduil decided that it was almost poetic that he should watch how the fire erased the evidence of death before his eyes. He had learned to love and loathe flames in all their passionate aggression throughout his years. Right now, in this moment, he felt conflicted towards his emotions towards them. He hated them for burning up what was left of his father, and yet he was nearly thankful that they did? For he could not bear to remember the broken, bled out, and mangled corpse of the elf that he once called father and King. It was better that the fire purged that memory for him. It felt better to look upon the flames and remember a powerful spirit, which burned with conviction in an already dark world.

The silver circlet rested heavily on Thranduil's brow, it felt uncomfortable and it did not fit properly. It was not his to bear; it was made to be worn by his King...not him? Still, in the name of ceremony, he endured the painful restriction of the metal and jewel upon his brow. In order to distract himself from trying to reposition the crown, Thranduil played with the silver ring around his finger. The King's silver branch ring was slightly too large for Thranduil's longer fingers, so it moved more freely, and he absently made a mental note to have it sent to the silversmith on their return.

Thranduil felt himself smirking at his Ada's often pointed comments towards his hands. Oropher would tsk and gruffly shake his head, mentioning in passing that he had a high born lord's hands - something that undoubtedly came from his Nana's side - and useless for any hard graft work. Yet, there was many occasions were Thranduil had proven his father's words invalid on that point. Both father and son had worked hard to carve out the caves in the north of Greenwood, a safer and more agreeable position than Amon Lanc.

The thought of his Northern home, and his beloved forest, stirred in Thranduil a deeper longing and he absently reached out in his spirit to his wife. To his dismay he found her feä still clouded and withdrawn from him, Clara was hurting and she was too resigned to her sorrow to feel him call to her, though he would keep trying until she heard him. She had been persistent with him, she had given too much in pursuit of his life, and Thranduil felt completely to blame for her weakened state now. He needed to return home as soon as was possible, he needed to close the distance between them, for the two of them would not last much longer separated in this darkness.

"Majesty?"

Thranduil blinked, and shook himself out of his stupor, flinching slightly at the use of such a title. Sliding his gaze from the funeral pyres of his father and his people, Thranduil found a small but heavily bandaged elleth, with the loveliest shade of chestnut hair, staring up at him with darkened and haunted eyes. She leaned into Galion, and even in her pain managed a little curtsy for him;

"Your Majesty...I-I never had the chance to thank you," The little elleth hoarsely reminded her new King, and immediately Thranduil remembered her.

"Rista...little Rista?" He practically gasped in shock, as he leaned on his staff and turned painfully to regard her more carefully; "You are alive!"

"Yes," She whispered and patted her chest with a thickly wrapped arm. "All thanks to the bravery of my liege. I would have surely died on those plains if you had not risked what was left of your strength to save me."

"Your praise is not needed child, it is my duty to protect my people," Thranduil answered more stiffly than he had intended, for the little elleth's wounds filled him with such remorse that he had only wished he had been quicker; "I should be the one praising you for your sacrifice and your bravery."