Last of the Edhel

Chapter 8

By CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

"I want you to impose," she replied passionately, then seemed almost as taken aback by the force of it as he was. Her blush intensified significantly, until her ears were nearly glowing. "Er."

"Ah, but I am a restless sleeper," he said lightly, taking up the bucket once more and upending the rest of its contents on a particularly large and wild bramble of roses. They were darker than pink, but yet not red—actually almost the same colour as Hermione Granger's cheeks at this moment. "I could not rest easily knowing I was disturbing you."

She only glowered at him.

He gave a tiny smile, the very picture of serenity, and stepped inside to the desk, pulling out parchment, quill, and ink. Beckoning her to be seated, he placed them before her. "Give no hint of your location, or why you are here. Simply state you are well, and will not be returning."

She nodded, and set to writing. Thranduil turned to the terrace and, standing in the doorway, let out a piercing noise like the cry of a bird. It startled her, and she knocked over the ink-bottle. Muttering angrily, she looked around for something to clean it before the ink spilled to the floor, but he shook his head.

With a wave of his hand, the ink was immediately back in its bottle as if it had never been spilt.

"Wandless magic?" Hermione Granger demanded, gaping. "How—"

"Elves have no need for wands," he interrupted, and stepped out to the terrace just as a large bird alighted on the top of the stone wall. She gaped at the sudden appearance of the eagle, to his amusement. "How fare thee, my friend?" he asked the eagle in formal Sindarin. "It has been long since I required your services; you honour me with your assistance."

The power of speech had long since evolved away from these, Gwaihir's far-distant descendants, but the ability to comprehend human language had not. The eagle nodded to Thranduil before settling in to wait for the item he was to deliver.

She was still staring at the eagle. "Write," Thranduil reminded her, and she shut her mouth with an audible click before bowing her head over the desk.

Hermione simply stared at the creamy expanse of parchment for a long moment, unable to think of what she could write that would not send them all into a raging panic. Clearly, any hint that she were here against her will would result in a frantic scouring of Scotland and England, perhaps all of Europe. And still, they would not find her.

No, that wouldn't do. Hermione couldn't bear the idea of her family and friends on a fruitless hunt. She would just have to convince them that her disappearance was by choice. As she was hardly a very impetuous person—falling in love at first sight of Alfirin notwithstanding—this would not be an easy task.

Perhaps she should just play to the women, and the men would follow? She knew her mother, Ginny, Lavender, and Mrs. Weasley would adore the idea of Hermione giving up everything to be with her handsome, mysterious lover—hadn't they been nagging her for years to take up with someone instead of devoting all her time to working and researching a cure for Ron? Possibly, just possibly, their enthusiasm for it might convince the men to go along with it.

Taking a deep breath, she began to write.

Dear Mr. And Mrs. Weasley,

Harry's gone on a mission for the next few weeks, and Mum and Dad can't ever get used to owl post, so I'm sending this to you. Please pass this message on to them.

As you all know, I've been working very hard recently. I've started to feel a bit run-down, and decided to take a little holiday. On my travels, I met Alfred. I fell in love with him immediately, and he insists I come to live with him. I have agreed. I'm not coming home, but will stay here with him.

I know it seems sudden, but sometimes you just know when something is inescapable. My parents and Harry will likely be upset by this news; please convince them that I'm happy here with Alfred. He's an excellent cook, and his home is beautiful. I shall lack for nothing.

Crookshanks is at Harry's, so I need someone to pop by and get him. If he could be brought to my parents', I would very much appreciate it. I'm sure Ginny wouldn't mind, but please don't let it be the twins, as they'll put dung-bombs over the doors and fill his bed with itching powder like they did last time.

Please give my love to everyone, and know you have my heartfelt thanks for helping me in this. And give Ron a big hug for me the next time you visit, and tell him he's always in my thoughts.

When she was done, she handed it to him and began to write a second letter, this one to her superior at the Ministry, resigning.

"Clever," he commented. "I like your use of the word 'inescapable' and how you state I insist you remain with me. They will think poorly of you, I fear."

"I'm a very clever girl," she replied tartly. "And better that than worrying I'm in a dungeon somewhere."

Alfirin stared down at her a long moment. "I will allow them to reply to you, if you wish," he said abruptly.

"Really?" She felt a huge smile bloom over her face, and he turned away.

"Did I not just say so?" he said irritably. "No, do not hug me," he then continued preemptively. "Ready your letter for delivery."

Hermione stepped back and lowered her arms, returning to the desk and signing her name, then folding the parchment into a square. Alfirin approved the letter to the Ministry as well and gave both to the eagle, who wrapped long, lethal claws securely around the parchments before nodding to the elf once more and taking flight. One, two mighty beats of his powerful wings and he was aloft, disappearing swiftly over the treetops.

"Thank you so much," she said, hating the tremble in her voice. "You don't know what it means to me."

He only said, "Alfred?" His tone was dry and his face, amused.

She grinned. "I think it suits you."

His mouth twitched, but he successfully managed to prevent the smile that threatened. "Come, there is much to do. If we complete early what needs to be accomplished, I will show you some of the tunnels." He left the room, leaving her to follow behind.

Hermione couldn't wait to see more of the labyrinthine caves that riddled the cliff, but even more than her desire to explore was her need to get back to all those lovely books. "And will you give me my first lesson in reading—what was it called?"

"Tengwar," he answered. "Yes, that too."

She practically skipped down the circular stairs beside him at the idea of an entire library of knowledge, hers for the taking as soon as she mastered this new tongue. "Tengwar," she echoed, studying the feel of the unfamiliar syllables on her lips. "Is that the name of the language, or the script? How—"

Her words were cut off by a faint thudding sound. Alfirin stopped, cocking his head in the direction of the noise and motioning for her to be silent.

"Alfirin!" boomed a familiar voice through the doors to the terrace. "Alfirin!"

"Hagrid!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes wide.

Alfirin turned to her. "You will remain here," he instructed. "You will not make your presence known, or you will live to regret it, truly." His green eyes had gone flat and hard, and she knew he was deadly serious. She nodded, and he was gone.

She waited a few moments, then crept silent in his wake down to the tunnel. At the mosaic foyer, she stopped and listened. Faint voices echoed through the stone, and she slipped into the crevice leading to the outside. She halted just before where sunlight streamed onto the cold stone, almost able to taste liberation.

"Why didn't you bring 'Ermione back this morning?" Hagrid was asking. Her heart clenched at how close rescue was, how near to freedom... should she step from the crevice? What would Alfirin do if she did?

He would kill Hagrid without a moment's compunction, whispered the rational part of her mind. And he might forget his promise not to hurt you.

But surely Hagrid would be able to defeat him, protested her desire to be free. Alfirin was tall, but still easily dwarfed by the half-giant's immense size and strength.

No, replied her rationality. He's got those knives of his, and you saw the look on his face. He'd gut Hagrid like a fish. There is no mercy in him where the Source is concerned. Hermione slumped back against the hard, damp wall of the crevice and shut her eyes in deep disappointment.

"What makes you think she was here last night?" Alfirin asked, smoothly avoiding having to respond directly.

Hagrid heaved a mighty sigh. "Because she's 'Ermione, that's why," he said. He could not disguise the pride and affection in his tone, and a lump started in her throat. "When she's got her mind set on something, nothing stops her. If she's decided to search for the Source, she'll bloody well search for it until she's found it." He exhaled heavily. "She came to the forest last night, and that's a fact."

"Ah," was Alfirin's reply. "If she were indeed here, I was not aware of it."

There was a long, tense silence. "There's not a thing 'appens in this Forest without you knowing about it, Elf," Hagrid said, and Hermione was shocked to hear the faint snarl in the voice of her gentle friend. She dug her nails into her palms, clenching them to restrain herself from running out to prove to him she was unharmed. He growled, "If you've hurt her—"

"I have not," Alfirin interrupted. "Nor shall I. You have my word."

Another menacing silence, and then, "I'll hold you to that, Elf." Then Hagrid's heavy footsteps crunched in the leaves, fading slowly into the distance. Hermione hurried back to the solar, sitting on the divan and appearing for all the world, when Alfirin returned, as if she'd been ensconced there the entire time.

His smirk, however, told her he knew perfectly well she'd been observing his interaction with Hagrid. "Your friend seems under the impression that you are stubborn," he commented.

Hermione sniffed. "You know once the Weasleys receive my letter, he'll know I'm here." She stood and went to him, staring up at his beautiful face. "What will you do then?"

He was unconcerned. "What I have always done," he replied. "My duty." Not the most helpful answer in the world, but clearly all she'd get out of him. She frowned, but he ignored her, and left the solar for the workroom. "Come, you will help me. 'Tis your fault I am evicted from my bed, after all."

Hermione fumed, but she pushed aside her disappointment at not being discovered by Hagrid to focus instead on her indignation that he would insist on this bed thing. After she'd all but begged him to share with her! Stomping after him, she was brought up short by his mischievous smile—he'd been teasing her. The sight struck her speechless, so he merely tossed a bolt of canvas in her direction. "When you are able to function again, unroll that," he directed.

She unrolled it, her mind already whirling with ideas for how to sidestep his insistence on sleeping apart. A mattress they might make this day, but she was determined to convince him that using his very own bed—with her in it—was vastly preferable. If she was stuck here with him—until she found a way to get the Source and escape—she was determined to make the best of the situation.

She wanted him. Desperately, even. And his actions had indicated that he was not immune to her, as well. Even now, as she handed him the heap of fabric and their eyes met, she could see the need simmering under his calm surface. It would not take much prodding, she felt sure, to turn him into the uninhibited lover of the previous night. She remembered the sinuous motion of his body against hers and felt a hot flush roll slowly through her as she stared at him.

Alfirin had smoothed out the bolt of canvas and cut it onto four long strips, and now began to sew two of them together to make a large, square panel. Hermione wasn't sure what alerted him to her change in mood, but his hands stilled their motion with needle and thread. Slowly, so slowly, he lifted his gaze, and she felt pierced by it.

The fingers of his left hand twitched in her direction before he stilled them. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice barely a breath in the still air of the room. "Why can you not simply let it be?"

"Because I have to," she replied, just as softly. "You've taken everything from me—my friends, my family, my job, my research. I have to have something, don't you see?"

"A union between us can end only in despair," he said, and rubbed his hand over his face. "Do you not understand what is at stake here?" There was anguish in his eyes, and a fear that startled her. They were not talking about the Source this time, she realized.

"Explain it to me," Hermione challenged.

Thranduil felt anger eclipse all other emotions he might have felt at that moment. "I will not lay bare my heart and soul to you," he snapped. "You say you love me—"

"I do!" she protested

"—but you know nothing of me," he continued, as if she'd said nothing. "You see my face and form, and desire me, but know nothing of who I am." Needing something to focus on, he took up the needle again and began sewing once more, tiny even stitches that he pulled tight with swift, jerky movements. "You know nothing of who I was, of the world I helped to rule. The battles I fought, the enemies I conquered. You know nothing."

He finished the seam with startling speed and tied it off before stabbing the needle rather ferociously into a pincushion. "You insinuate yourself into my life, and make my body betray me, and I will not have it, do you hear?"

Thranduil turned to glare at Hermione, and found her staring at him with wide, startled eyes. "I… I'm sorry," she stammered softly, and slipped around the table to embrace him. He felt the action almost in increments—first her arms came around him, sliding around his ribs until her hands splayed flat on his back, then her body came into full contact with his, aligned all down the front, and her warmth soaked into him.

Finally, her forehead came to rest on his chest, and he felt her shudder. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I didn't know that I was being so demanding to you. I don't want to do anything to trouble you, you know. It's just that I've never met a man who wasn't thrilled to have a woman fling herself at him."

Thranduil closed his eyes and held himself as still as he could. "I am not a man." His fists clenched at his sides in an effort to still his arms from clasping around her. "You would do well to remember that."

"I don't know how else to think of you," she said, and snuggled still deeper against him. This was far more dangerous than mere sex, Thranduil thought, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "And if you won't explain it to me…"

He sighed. "Elves do not make casual joinings. To merge one's body with another, to share pleasure, is a gift from Ilúvatar that must not be dishonored by its squandering. To join without deep sentiment is a slur against such beauty."

"So, having sex without love is bad?" Hermione simplified, and he allowed a tiny smile at her directness.

"Yes," he replied. "You believe you love me, but you cannot. You love what you see, not what you know. And I do not love you."

"What if you did?" she asked, unperturbed by the bluntness of his statement, and smoothed her palms over the expanse of his back. "What if you came to love me?"

Thranduil took a deep breath, feeling the tension seep from him at her ministrations in spite of himself. He had not wanted to reveal anything of himself to her, if it could be helped, but clearly she would persist until she was aware of how her quest to be with him was impossible.

"I am married," he said slowly, and she stiffened before pulling back. He was unprepared for the jolt of regret he felt at the loss of her softness and warmth against him. "Elves are wed forever, past separation and time and even… death."

Her face, for the first time, bore traces of pain and he hurt on her behalf, knowing he had dashed her hopes. "Your wife is dead?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "Our fëar, or souls, never perish. Eventually, they are reborn into fresh bodies." Thranduil sighed. "Somewhere on the Blessed Isle, my wife walks the earth again, most likely with our son."

Hermione was silent a moment as she pondered this. Then, "But if you are here forever, and there's no hope of you being together again, what's the point?"

She was nothing if not persistent, he thought… how his kingdom would have benefited from one such as she, so fired by determination and commitment, once she had decided upon a course of action!

"The point?" He was not sure what she meant.

"Yes, the point." Her tone was a trifle impatient now. "What's the point of keeping to vows like that if there's no hope of being together?"

"Marriage between the Edhel is not a matter of mere vows, Hermione Granger," he told her with a frown. " 'Tis a bonding of essence, a perpetual connection. Husband and wife are always aligned, always linked. It is common for each to hear the other's thoughts, to know the other's emotions."

"Did you have that with your wife?" she asked, curiosity warring with disappointment on her face.

"At first," he replied automatically. Many were the times he had thought back to those first few millennia with his Bellasiel, how in accord they had been. Even after her death, even after he had accepted the role of guardian of the Source, he had felt her through their bond, though it had gradually weakened.

He realized with a start that it had been many years—thousands of years—since the last familiar brush of her mind against his. Not since the end of the Fourth Age had he experienced the peculiar yet comforting sensation of her presence within his head.

They were now at the dawn of the Seventh Age.

Beginning to shake, he wondered at how he could have missed it until now. How could he not have realized before this point? How could he have forgotten her? How—

"Alfirin, what's wrong?" Hermione's voice cut into his despair, and he look up from where he'd been staring at his quaking hands to find her grasping his forearms, face very concerned, but he was incapable of speech. "Alfirin, you're frightening me."

Suddenly, he hated her. Hated that she had disrupted his life, the she had reminded him of how the body's passions burned brightly.

But most of all, he hated her for reminding him of all the things he had been able to forget over the centuries. Now they rushed up to choke him. Anguish at the loss of connection with Bellasiel, grief at the death of his kingdom, sorrow at the passing of the Edhel from these shores, and a stark agony at being parted from Legolas. It had taken him long to deaden himself against the yearning that lived within him for what he had lost.

And she had brought that yearning back.

Rage flared to life within him, threatening to overwhelm him. For a moment, he feared he might lose control and harm her. "Go," he said tightly. "Go to your room, shut the door, and do not come out until I bid you."

Slowly, her startled gaze never wavering from his face, she stepped back. "Alfir-" she began, but he held up a hand for silence.

"Do not speak," he commanded, voice trembling, and she blinked, then left quickly.

And he was left alone, once more.