(Elvenking)—❧ Thranduil Oropherion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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eachdraidh2014-12-08 04:22 pm
firith) wrote in eachdraidh2014-12-08 04:22 pm
❧ VIDEO; 06 (BOTH COURTS)
[ Thranduil is not in Caer Glaem for this broadcast. In the roughly hewn (to Elven eyes, anyway) new study where he has forsaken his usual super fab robes for a plain grey tunic and leggings, the fine sleeves are rolled up and his thigh-high boots look like they have a scuff or two on them. The clinking, clanging, and general chatter in the background is never-ending for the time being through the ajar door; the Fortress of the Many-Eyed, I Othrann-in-Heneb, is clearly under construction now that the united clans under his leadership are able to start shaping their new home and taking to it with relish. Just as he opens his mouth, a Silvan and a Galatath, fair and dark by comparison, stride in. ]
My Lord, three more poachers have been apprehended close to the foot of the mountain.
[ Anyone can see, by Thranduil's pursed lips, that the interruption isn't a source of irritation so much as the news it brings. He doesn't bother initially turning around, sifting through books on his desk. ]
Escort them over the river with the rest.
[ The Galatath, knowing less of his Sindarin king, speaks up as the Silvan immediately lowers his eyes. ]
That is a day's march for them. They are weary and in no mood to follow our orders, they do not recognise you as the lord of these lands.
[ Thranduil's gaze flickers sideways, slowly followed by his head and a cool, measured tone that makes the Galatath Elf straighten. ]
Then give them bread and water, allow them to cook whatever they killed prior to your intervention, and slow the pace of your marchwardens to that of the fastest Man. The others will keep time with their companion. [ He arches a brow. ] Are these not once again Elven lands, rightfully reclaimed?
Yes, Sire.
Then get them out of the Maechenibryth. Throw them across the river if you must or if you prefer, Captain, they may languish on just as hearty fare in the dungeons until winter's chill consents to better their manners and educate them on the situation. Have the guards exchanged hours?
Not yet, Sire.
Have them do it. Ensure all the mountain's sentries are well-rested on your rounds before continuing the combing of the forest.
[ Wood-Elves may not be as sweet and may be less wise, but they are dangerous and clearly, when pushed, Thranduil is not hesitant about making a point of it (he has too much shit going on to care about some dissenting troublemakers). The messengers come to attention after exchanging an uneasy glance. As Thranduil turns back to the locket, the Silvan gives the chastised Galatath a wide-eyed look of What is actually wrong with you? as the messengers leave, and then the door shuts and the lockets have one exasperated Elvenking to themselves. ]
That says quite enough, I should think, and far more succinctly than I intended to put it. The Maechenibryth is being cleared while the mountain's delving is in progress. If you wish to make yourself useful, do not venture south of the forest river in Glaschu or you will be escorted safely across its newly enchanted waters by marchwardens of the Eldar, who have better things to do with their time than ensure trespassers are not falling asleep under its spell on the way out.
[ Kicked out, when not in polite society. As fair and young as Thranduil looks, his air is one of a harassed old person who has no qualms about smacking people with a proverbial walking stick if they get in his way, not exactly harming them but neither crying over doling out a bit of rough handling if needs be. To the point, however; ]
Providing the greater part of the Halls are completed, there will be a midwinter feast for selected individuals, a celebration of the holiday of Yule that a number of the native Elves wish to implement. [ Because Middle-Earth Elves just sort of stick it out until Spring without that particular holiday, but Thranduil rather likes the idea of integrating cultures. ] If you are welcome you will be notified in due course, some time in Girithron. [ Oh. What do people tend to call that month here? ] December.
[Also, on Orithils we wear green. ]
My Lord, three more poachers have been apprehended close to the foot of the mountain.
[ Anyone can see, by Thranduil's pursed lips, that the interruption isn't a source of irritation so much as the news it brings. He doesn't bother initially turning around, sifting through books on his desk. ]
Escort them over the river with the rest.
[ The Galatath, knowing less of his Sindarin king, speaks up as the Silvan immediately lowers his eyes. ]
That is a day's march for them. They are weary and in no mood to follow our orders, they do not recognise you as the lord of these lands.
[ Thranduil's gaze flickers sideways, slowly followed by his head and a cool, measured tone that makes the Galatath Elf straighten. ]
Then give them bread and water, allow them to cook whatever they killed prior to your intervention, and slow the pace of your marchwardens to that of the fastest Man. The others will keep time with their companion. [ He arches a brow. ] Are these not once again Elven lands, rightfully reclaimed?
Yes, Sire.
Then get them out of the Maechenibryth. Throw them across the river if you must or if you prefer, Captain, they may languish on just as hearty fare in the dungeons until winter's chill consents to better their manners and educate them on the situation. Have the guards exchanged hours?
Not yet, Sire.
Have them do it. Ensure all the mountain's sentries are well-rested on your rounds before continuing the combing of the forest.
[ Wood-Elves may not be as sweet and may be less wise, but they are dangerous and clearly, when pushed, Thranduil is not hesitant about making a point of it (he has too much shit going on to care about some dissenting troublemakers). The messengers come to attention after exchanging an uneasy glance. As Thranduil turns back to the locket, the Silvan gives the chastised Galatath a wide-eyed look of What is actually wrong with you? as the messengers leave, and then the door shuts and the lockets have one exasperated Elvenking to themselves. ]
That says quite enough, I should think, and far more succinctly than I intended to put it. The Maechenibryth is being cleared while the mountain's delving is in progress. If you wish to make yourself useful, do not venture south of the forest river in Glaschu or you will be escorted safely across its newly enchanted waters by marchwardens of the Eldar, who have better things to do with their time than ensure trespassers are not falling asleep under its spell on the way out.
[ Kicked out, when not in polite society. As fair and young as Thranduil looks, his air is one of a harassed old person who has no qualms about smacking people with a proverbial walking stick if they get in his way, not exactly harming them but neither crying over doling out a bit of rough handling if needs be. To the point, however; ]
Providing the greater part of the Halls are completed, there will be a midwinter feast for selected individuals, a celebration of the holiday of Yule that a number of the native Elves wish to implement. [ Because Middle-Earth Elves just sort of stick it out until Spring without that particular holiday, but Thranduil rather likes the idea of integrating cultures. ] If you are welcome you will be notified in due course, some time in Girithron. [ Oh. What do people tend to call that month here? ] December.
[
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Tilting his head in macabre fascination after a pregnant pause, Thranduil's voice is softer as he asks the only question that matters. ]
Why?
[ Why did you harm us? Differences aside, their peoples are more similar than not and he does feel the sting of betrayal even from an acquaintance. ]
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Because there was no other choice. [ Golden eyes open; anger and grief prominent among the emotions displayed there, even if his face is eerily calm. ] Not for me. When King Balor forged the truce, I was angry. Furious, even, that he would put our murderers above his own people. I felt that every human should be slaughtered. So I left court, left my father and my sister and my people, and lived in exile for twenty centuries.
And I watched my people die, our homes appropriated for human cities and parking lots and shopping malls. Clearly, they did not hold to their side of the agreement, and leave the wild places to us. No, they wanted more. Always more. Land, gold, power. My father did nothing. Nothing. Neither he nor his court raised a finger to stop any of it.
So I thought to reawaken our greatest weapon and save what remained of our people. All of our people. I went to my father and I begged him to join me, to do something. But he would not. Instead, he put me under a sentence of death. [ And Nuala. That is one thing he will never forgive his father for, knowing both would die as soon as he uttered the pronouncement. Nuada slew his own father, and will never forgive himself for it. Or knowing there was no other choice for his people's very survival. ]
I delivered that sentence to him instead.
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Sitting there as he stares unblinkingly, he looks like he might have lost all his breath and has to remember how to speak again. Even Feanor, whom he hates so ferociously along with all the forsaken Elf's family, would not have wished harm on his own children.
How is that possible?
He lowers his gaze as he collects his thoughts, swallowing in silence. The matter is a delicate one, for all the resigned anger Nuada obviously still carries. ]
I do not understand how your father could condemn you. Kinslaying is the greatest tragedy that Elves have been known to commit, but to do so against family. Against a son. I ... do not condone your actions, Nuada, yet I think your grief must be twice as deep because of the cruel way it was orchestrated to come about.
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Balor condemned me because I would not stand aside, let myself fade like the whole useless council. To do so would have left our -- my people without anyone to defend them. I am a warrior, Thranduil. Raised from birth in all arts martial, trained as my father's heir to be his vengeance against those who oppose us. To lay down my sword, my lance, and allow humanity to exterminate us? I could not. I will not.
[ He pauses, looking down at the book in his lap without really seeing it, and then lifts his gaze to Thranduil. ]
I have caused you pain, and for that I am sorry.
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[ Bright eyes regard Nuada without condemnation, only regret. Warier than before, but that is to be expected. ]
You would not harm another Elf in the days after such a crime. Would you, Nuada? I have a son, I must ask.
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[ says the son who just committed patricide. ]
No. I shall defend myself, should such a need arise. But I would not go out of my way to hurt another elf. You know my crime, your Majesty. I will avoid you and yours, if that is your wish.
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... No. [ He exhales as he leans on the arm of his chair, fingertips rubbing at a temple. ] I am weary of kinslayings, of fearing my own kind. I think you are a match for my son's skill, perhaps keener, and a fierce warrior as you say, but you are not malicious when it comes to your own. Who willingly accepts an execution sentence? Your father's judgement was flawed. More than that ... I sympathise with your cause.
Legolas is my life. Do not give me cause to question his safety around you for a second time.
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I understand. [ He is loath to say anything else, but the elven king is not withdrawing this chance for communication with others so similar to his kind, and ignoring such a gift would be sheer folly. As one royal to another: ] You have my word.
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The death of that sorry creature helped me to build this sanctuary, and in it no Elf will spill the blood of another. I will not stand for it. I detest the sight of it.
[ More than that, it reminds him of a battle that scars his memory like a shortening of breath, only entirely internal.
A lowering of his gaze, just a flicker of his lashes, is all the acceptance of Nuada's word being given that Thranduil shows. He takes it on board and that is the important thing; to mend hurts and weave together the strength of the roaming members of Elvenkind from all walks of life, to have them come together and be stronger for it. To never harm even their most distant of kin, not for any reason. Their enemies are rife enough. ]
You have a home here, Nuada. If the Men you loathe set a fire in your blood, come away to us and find the better half of yourself again.
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Just the thought makes him gag, and the prince forces down his reaction so that it will not disturb his sister's thoughts. ] I would not stay my hand to avenge such a thing, either, doubly so were I so blessed as to have a child - a son - of my own. Your fears are reasonable.
The better half of myself is here, Thranduil. Her name is Nuala, and I think you would like her. [ The princess, at least, has never murdered anyone. ] I know not how to react to such a generous offer. It has been a long time since ...
Thank you.
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[ An incline of his head, a brief touch of his heart gestured toward the locket, and he sits up with a shift that transfers to his tone too. ]
You have a grand library about you. I urge you to devour as much of it as you can, while peace lingers there.
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Indeed, the sheer amount of stories alone is enough to keep me occupied for a decade. Thranduil .. [ he quiets, searching for the right words. Then: ] Tell your son to seek me out, here in the castle, if he happens by - and if he chooses to. I would like to meet him.
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You will not meet him; you will find yourself thoroughly adopted by him, possibly dragged into several trees and challenged to a shooting contest, all within the first hour of his happening upon you. He already knows your name. Once he has recuperated from his most recent travels, you would be wise to beware the fell beast known as Greenleaf.
[ Arching an ominous brow over a mildly tired, amused look, he glances aside when a knock comes at his door. ]
I shall leave you to your books, as I am to be shortly torn from mine. Try the bestiary aisles, I found them fascinating.
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[ Nuada tilts his head. ]
Good day, my lord. I will seek them out in due time on your suggestion.
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[ With a certain Look, he closes his locket. Have fun. ]