Chapter Text
Grey was not an unfamiliar color to her.
Grey Annals. Grey Havens. Grey elves. The color represented liminality, the space in between, like the muted colors of dusk, a breath between this world and another.
She adjusted her grey cloak.
Mirkwood had changed in the intervening years after she had left just as the Shadow started to fall over the forest, the Year 1050 of the Third Age. Now, a century after her departure, the woods had grown more twisted, and a quiet malice lingered in its branches.
She approached the woods from the east on foot. The Wilderlands between Mirkwood and Dorwinion stretched five hundred miles of open grasslands, well-suited for horseback travel. But dangers lurked in those lands, treacherous enough that she dared not attract more attention than needed.
In fact, that was the strategy for her entire visit to Mirkwood. Inconspicuous. Discreet.
A letter rested against the spidersilk lining of her satchel.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of His Majesty Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm, and Her Ladyship Ithildis Nimriel, Chief of the Nandor
She should have been used to it when she read the letter; after all, their engagement had been announced a hundred years ago. Yet, her fingers trembled, tracing the dark green ink and golden emboss over and over again.
The letter was delivered around sunset, and she had read it beneath the sweet fruit-laden vines. She did not speak, but in the dying light, a faint layer of mist settled in her eyes, marred jade. The next day, like His Majesty’s good little diplomat, she had informed her Rhunish host of her leave, packed her satchel, and departed for the two-week journey west.
The broken, angled trees gave way to tall beeches as the kingdom gate came into view. A pair of trees formed a vaulted arch as their branches embraced each other.
“Halt,” said one of the guards, his spear glinting. “State your purpose.”
She did not speak, only letting down her hood to reveal her dark hair and Sindarin features.
The guard hesitated, then repeated, “State your purpose.”
She sighed and withdrew the letter along with an official seal of the Woodland Realm, a grand image of elk horns interwoven with leaves.
Recognition flickered in the guard’s eyes.
“Welcome back.” He stepped aside.
Silent, she pulled up her hood and continued. Behind her, a sharp whisper cut through the quiet: "I swear you’re the dumbest ellon alive on this side of the Sea. Don’t you know who that is?"
A short distance later, after crossing the stone bridge and passing by some elves who were lighting silver and blue lanterns for the evening, she arrived at the palace gate. Between tall columns of stone hewn to resembled twisted vines, tall doors of teal interlaid with silver filigree rose.
Four guards in bronze leaf-wrought armor stood in ceremony, and their faces were hidden underneath the carapace-like helmets.
Before she could remove her hood, they turned as the gates swung open.
If she was thankful, she did not show it. The doors sealed behind her, and with them, the last of sunlight. Her steps were soundless, a specter drifting into a kingdom that she had once called home, where she had once found love. Her grey cloak faded into the dark.
***
The wedding was beautiful, as expected. The great houses of Elves, Men, and even Dwarves attended, a colorful affair of rich brocades and intricate embroidery under green and silver lantern-light.
Although she mingled with the dignitaries, smiling and conversing when expected, she stood out like a pale apparition that should have long been laid to rest. She wore not the earthy colors of the Nandor, the jewel tones of Men, or the indigo hues of the Noldor. She was clad in a modest grey gown befitting of one on court business, not as an honored guest. Her dark hair remained unadorned with no silver circlet or gems. The only piece of jewelry she wore was a necklace containing a single sapphire, the stone no larger than her fingernail. It was plain and unobtrusive, a gift from her father when she had reached her fiftieth year. And now, it was the only sign of her lineage.
She clapped when the circumstances demanded it, gave her voice to song when others did, and performed the appropriate gestures when it was polite. Her behavior and expression were flawless, no cracks for the less well-intentioned to pick apart.
She told herself it was fine, really, when she saw the wedding vows exchanged, when he bound his fëa to another for all of eternity, woven into the First Music, never to be parted, never hers to claim. She had survived the persecutions in Beleriand. She had survived those long years of the War of the Last alliance, when she had worked herself to the bone to keep the kingdom whole under the sunless skies of Mordor. She would survive this too.
As the festivities began, various courtiers were presenting their gifts to the newly-wed couple seated on a raised dais.
And so, she approached the King and now-Queen, her expression carefully arranged in pleasant neutrality. She did not look at him, and instead focused her gaze on the hem of his robes.
She curtsied, not some dainty frivolous thing, but in the traditional Iathrim style, as she had done a lifetime ago in Menegroth. She dipped low, her right hand clasped over her heart, and her head tilted forward in respect, but not bent in submission.
From the folds of her grey skirt, she withdrew a small lacquered box and undid the clasps.
Her voice rang, deep and clear.
"Tatharel of Doriath, daughter of Sûlthir and of the House of Elmo, presents Your Majesties the white gems of my house, borne from the Fall of Doriath and the Kinslaying at Sirion. From the Blessed West, my father and kin send their wishes for a long and prosperous reign.
May your union be as eternal as the starlight captured in these stones."
She concluded, the image of Sindarin refinement.
A pause, perhaps too long.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. His eyes were clear, like the waters of Lanthir Lamath of her childhood, but to her, and only her, who had seen countless passings of the seasons at his side, a whisper of a fracture, nearly imperceptible, appeared. He knew. She raised her eyes and held his gaze.
“Lord Sûlthir and the House of Elmo honor us with this gift. The treasures of Doriath are not lightly given. Your house has our thanks.”
The court stirred. The Sindarin lords of the king’s council—minor nobles like Oropher in Thingol’s court—knew exactly what those stones represented. They gleamed white now, but once, they were crimson, delivered from a sea of burnt corpses and wretched despair.
Then, the next courtier stepped forward, and she disappeared into the revelry.
***
She found herself lingering amongst the others, polite smile ready, engaged but never indulgent.
At the edge of the feast, Celeborn approached her.
“My lord,” she greeted him.
He regarded her for a moment, and his expression softened.
“Please, Daeradar, as you had once called me. Your mother called me Adar after Galathil passed, and I will not have any child of hers address me so formally.”
“It is good to see you, Daeradar,” she said.
“It has been many years since we last spoke, Tatharel.”
“Indeed, the East has kept me busy. Much to do, much to consider, should we want to preserve the delicate balance with them.”
Silence. Then,
“Bah, let us not speak of trade and intrigue tonight.
“Tell me, child, why those stones? Why now? Why to him when he weds another?”
She hesitated. “It felt right.”
“Those were the treasures of our house,” Celeborn said, his silver eyes narrowed, “which you carried sewn between the layers of your skirts in the ruins of that Age. Why not bring them to Aman when you sail?
“You could have kept them with you as they were intended for your own wedding,” the lord said.
“Would that not be wasteful? Our kin there are in the care of the Valar and have no need for such things.”
“Neither does Thranduil.”
A sharp truth. She said nothing.
A stillness settled, and the sharpness melted away.
“Before he departed, your father entrusted you to my care. But you are now far beyond the age of an elfling needing guidance, and I know no words of mine will stay your journey. May you have a safe passage east. Lothlórien will always be welcome to you.”
She curtsied. “And safe travels to you as well, Daeradar.”
***
Despite the revelry, the king briefly retired to his study with his advisor Lord Faeron, a stately elf also of Doriath, for they both wanted to hear of the news of Dorwinion and Rhûn.
Tatharel entered the king’s study. Nothing in her expression or demeanor betrayed her although she had once spent countless hours reading proposals by his side in this room. She remembered the way he would press his lips to her temple when she was too focused on the text, the way his fingers traced idle circles over her wrist, and the steady beat of his heart as they debated the fate of the kingdom.
Yes, she remembered it all, but so what? Now, they were merely king and subject.
“Your Majesty,” she greeted him, who was seated at his desk. He inclined his head slightly in return. “My lord,” she greeted Lord Faeron, who lounged on the divan she had shared with Thranduil in the past. The councilor’s eyes were bright, and he had an easy smile of feigned relaxation.
She stood on ceremony, as befitting of a courtier.
The councilor spoke, “Sit, Tatharel. We’re all old friends here. The journey from the east is not an easy one, and I heard you traveled on foot.” He looked at Thranduil. “With your permission, of course, Your Majesty.”
He gave a small nod.
“What are the news from the East?” asked the king.
“Since my last missive, the wine still flows from Dorwinion, and the roads remain open for now,” she said. “Yet, the Rhûnish lords grow restless. They remain cautious, but their motives are beginning to surface. Some seek to expand their dominion, either through consolidation of their internal city-states or expansion westwards.”
“To fund these designs, they are in need of gold. Which is why,” she paused, “I recommend reconsideration of the current trade negotiations. Their eagerness for gold will drive them to find other trading partners. Dorwinion wine and other luxuries are restricted imports. Should they find others desiring of these things, it is not inconceivable that they would accept a lower gold payment in exchange for greater quantities sold. Our realm would lose its economic leverage.”
“Interesting,” Lord Faeron had a knowing smile, “excellent work, as expected of Tatharel. What do you think, my lord?”
He leaned back into his chair, his eyes thoughtful.
“Of course, the Woodland Realm has some of the finest diplomats in Arda.”
The corners of her mouth lifted into a standard diplomatic smile.
“it appears we ought to act with some haste. What do you propose, Tatharel?”
There. He had said her name, which he had once breathed with utter devotion under the stars of Beleriand. Now, it was just another name. Something in her chest curled, drawing tighter and tighter tension.
They spent the next hour discussing strategy, of adjusting tariff policies, fostering Rhunish demand for luxuries, and exploiting information asymmetries.
As the conversation lulled, Faeron rose and said, “Well, it would be remiss of us to keep Your Majesty away from his bride on his wedding night.”
She stood as well. “I must return east. The situation is precarious, and there is much to do. I will write as events develop.”
“Stay awhile, Tatharel,” the councilor smiled. “It has been a hundred years since we had last spoken, and with your early return to Dorwinion, who can say when the next time we speak again will be?”
“Indeed,” the king agreed, “the road eastwards is perilous, and it would please me to see you find sojourn in these halls before departing.”
He spoke to her not with the care had for an elleth whom he had once cherished beyond the high heavens, but instead, with the paternal concern a king had for his dutiful subject. They were ghosts now, suspended in grey: too far from love, too close for indifference, drifting between the past of starcrossed lovers and the future of distant strangers bound only by duty and etiquette.
She curtsied, neither accepting nor rejecting.
“Good evening,” she said. Then, she looked at both, and said,
“It was good to see you, my lord.”
It was unclear whom she was addressing.
***
The following morning, from his balcony, he watched her don her grey cloak, melting into the colors of neither day nor night, neither fully there nor fully gone, but of something in-between.
He had prepared for this moment, known from the very moment she curtsied the prior evening, that she would not stay. Yet, there was still a part of him, a part that he could not bring himself to face, that wanted to reach through the morning haze to find the elleth who had followed him east all those years ago and ask her to stay.
She turned and met his eyes, endless summer green against desolate winter steel. She stilled.
A breath.
Memories of Menegroth, Sirion, Lindon, Amon Lanc, and Greenwood the Great flickered through them, like silver fish-scales glittering in a clear stream before fading into the haze.
As she disappeared into the pale dawn, she felt his gaze linger and drew her cloak tighter.