In Deepest Sympathy
Written for LOTR Community Challenges.
Rating: PG-13
Theme: Letters
Elements: Letter of condolence
Author's Notes: Features my own fanon, with ideas borrowed from Jay of Lasgalen.
Summary: Thranduil struggles with the wording of a letter to Elrond after Celebrían sails to Valinor.
In Deepest Sympathy
Light from the lanterns in the study of Thranduil king of Mirkwood blazed steadily. Brighter than candles, they never flickered. He could not write while distracted, and often locked his study door when working on important documents. At this moment, he was alone in the room with the parchment before him on the desk. Blank and square, its emptiness challenged him, and demanded the application of the ink-filled quill that rested in the grip of his right hand, which hovered less than an inch above it. Where were the words? They would not come.
Exasperated, he put the quill down, got up and went to the bookshelves that took up most of the back wall on either side of the door. Thranduil prided himself on his book collection. Though he and the Sindar nobles who led his people had taken on many of the customs of their Nandor subjects, the love of learning had never left them. These books were his own; copies were available in the palace library. Accounts of the travels of explorers - Elves, Men, and even Dwarves filled several rows. Poetry took up half the space between the midsection and the ceiling on the right hand side of the door. The rest was reserved for a set entitled “The Books of Knowledge,” a collection of facts about the animals, minerals and plant life in all Arda. Many of the pages in these books were left blank on purpose so new facts could be added as they came to light.
Arms akimbo, Thranduil stood and gazed at the books, silently demanding answers from them. “Songs of Sorrow,” a slim black volume, caught his eye. That was the one! He picked it up, went back to his desk, and thumbed through it.
A dirge for Denethor lord of the Laegrim, The King Of The Hill, had some lyrics that seemed appropriate. Besides, Elrond had thanked him profusely for the copy of “Songs of Sorrow” sent as a Yule gift some years before. Applied to the loss of Celebrían, the words on the page before him seemed to fit better than anything he could contrive himself.
For love of freedom and of truth
The flower of Elven grace and youth
'Gainst forces vile and uncouth
Valiantly fought
With fell intent the Orcs assailed
Their cruel master's will prevailed
All efforts made to thwart them failed
They all came to naught
We his kin think of him still
Denethor, king of the hill
With a few alterations, he could compose a fitting verse to demonstrate his great regard for Celebrían. His own wife had been friends with her for many years, and was very upset by the events that had occurred the previous year. Ai! The thought of it cut him to the quick.
It occurred to him to ask his lady for help with this. Though his courtly training had prepared him to deal with any eventuality, including partings and death, Thranduil found that applying courtly terms and stock phrases to a situation that involved a friend did not feel right. Elrond had probably heard them all.
Memories of his own experiences of loss and how he had been treated came crashing into his heart and mind.
“He will find comfort and rest in Mandos.”
“One day he will return. You will see him again when you heed the call and go to Valinor.”
“His end was quick.”
“He is at peace now.”
The snarl on his father's cooling face, the blood of Orcs mingled with his own on his exposed teeth did not bespeak a peaceful passing. The foul image of his father's ruined body had haunted him for may years, and now it had returned with a vengeance.
When he thought about it, he realised why: he felt the same impotent rage now as he did then. The relationship he and his family had shared with Elrond's had now become a source of pain that eclipsed the pleasure they had once enjoyed; Elrond's problem was theirs, too.
Tears welled in the Elvenking's eyes as he realised this, and he sat down to weep for a moment. “Ai, my brother, I am sorry for all this,” he declared aloud. “I just wish I could do something to make it all better!”
When his grief had abated, the words he needed came to him. In fact, he could not have stopped them if he tried; a torrent of promises built on sentiments he held dear filled his heart and mind, and he snatched up his quill to set them down on the parchment. With the back of his fine-boned hand, he wiped his eyes, and began to write.
To Elrond son of Eärendil, Lord of Rivendell
From Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood
My dear friend,
my household is saddened at the news that the lady Celebrían has decided to sail to Valinor. Ever have my people held her in the highest regard, and they sing of their hopes that the lady will find peace among the Ainur.
I feel your loss, for Celebrían is as a sister to myself and my wife, and our children consider her a kinswoman. It is easy to say you will meet her again, but I understand that you would very much prefer to keep her here if you could. I felt that way when my father died.
As I consider how to make things more tolerable for both of you, it occurs to me that there are things I could send to Valinor to remind her of how much she is loved. I will have a tapestry made that depicts the times she came to my realm with you and your children, and send with it letters and gifts from my family. Círdan can put them on the next ship that sails.
Legolas has asked if he can take a barrel of Dorwinion with him when he goes to Rivendell. He insists on lending his aid and support to any plans you have for dealing with the Orcs. If there is anything else you require, please let me know. Mirkwood stands shoulder to shoulder with Rivendell in this matter, and you can rely on us for all the assistance you need.
Your friends are with you now and forever.
A grimace tightened the muscles of his cheeks and jaw as Thranduil read over his letter. It was warm and personal, and said what needed to be said without rubbing salt into the wounds or trivialising the situation. It felt right.
In fact, if memory served, Elrond had sent a letter just like this to him when he returned from the battlefields of Mordor many years before. The king jumped up, opened the drawer above the leg-space arch and rooted around till he found the small brass key he was looking for. He picked it up and went to the chest where his personal papers were stored. It creaked when he opened it. There among the piles of letters was the scroll he was looking for. Wrapped in red ribbon, it was yellow and crumbly with age. Gingerly, he took it out and opened it.
From Elrond son of Eärendil, Lord of Rivendell
To Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood
My dear friend,
my household is saddened by the news of your father's death. Ever have my people held him in the highest regard, and they sing of their hopes that he will soon be released from the halls of Mandos.
I feel your loss, for Oropher treated me like a son when Rivendell was being founded. His generosity and assistance will never be forgotten by my people.* It is easy to say you will meet him again, but I understand that you would very much prefer to have him here if you could. I felt that way when my brother died.
As I consider how to make things more tolerable for both of you, it occurs to me that there are things I could send to Mirkwood to remind you of the debt we owe him. I will have a tapestry made that depicts the times he sent us the food and supplies we so desperately needed, and send with it letters and gifts from my household. Erestor, who is acting as steward of my realm, will send them with the next despatch rider.
Lindir has already composed a dirge for him, which is enclosed. If there is anything you require, please let me know. Rivendell stands shoulder to shoulder with Mirkwood, and you can rely on us for any assistance you may need.
Your friends are with you now and forever.
He had never been able to bring himself to read the words of the dirge. It was written on the outer sheath of parchment. Thranduil took a deep breath and held it open to his view for the first time.
For love of freedom and of truth
The flower of Elven grace and youth
'Gainst forces vile and uncouth
Valiantly fought
With fell intent the Orcs assailed
Their cruel master's will prevailed
All efforts made to thwart them failed
They all came to naught
Amid loud shouts and voices harsh
Fell Oropher, king of the marsh
A sharp braying sound startled the king for a moment, then he realised that he had made it. The sense of unreality that had temporarily overwhelmed him began to lift.
“So much for originality!” he said with a snort. “He is a minstrel; he should have made more of an effort. But maybe he just could not find the words...”
Wrapped in thought, Thranduil retied the scroll in the ribbon, replaced it in his chest, then locked it.
He scattered some blotting powder onto the letter he had written and blew it away, then rolled it into a scroll for despatch the following day. For reasons he would never be able to explain, he grinned for the first time in ages.
The End.