tatharel-of-doriath

[tatharel-of-doriath]

palimpsest | An Envoy's Elegy, Chapter 2

layers upon layers, rewritten but never erased—his name, traced in silver

Story Summary: She was meant to stand at his side, not watch from afar. But such were the grey threads Vairë wove. Not a queen, but an envoy. Not beloved, but necessary. So she left, half sent, half willing, to lands where distance might dull the ache and silence could be kinder than remembrance.

Still, memory lingers, and duty binds. Sometimes, leaving is the only mercy left.

This is the lamentation of Tatharel, Envoy of the Woodland Realm to Dorwinion and Rhûn, for all the things that cannot be.

Words: 5,888

Pairing: Thranduil x OC

AO3 Link

[tatharel-of-doriath]

Tatharel's Ledgers | Fic Masterlist

An Envoy's Elegy

She was meant to stand at his side, not watch from afar. But such were the grey threads Vairë wove. Not a queen, but an envoy. Not beloved, but necessary. So she left, half sent, half willing, to lands where distance might dull the ache and silence could be kinder than remembrance.

Still, memory lingers, and duty binds. Sometimes, leaving is the only mercy left.

This is the lamentation of Tatharel, Envoy of the Woodland Realm to Dorwinion and Rhûn, for all the things that cannot be.

greycloak palimpsest

Meditations on the Deaths of Kingdoms

Stone and starlight, river and ruin—how easily kingdoms fall, their pale bones laid bare. In the hazy dusk of the First Age, as Menegroth crumbles and Sirion drowns in blood, Tatharel of Doriath learns the bitter cost of betrayal, exile, and survival in a world turned to ash. At her side stands a young noble from the Forests of Neldoreth, the only constant in an Age of endings.

Some things endure. Most do not.

menegroth

One-Shots and Drabbles

Palladium

Silver like the divine starlight woven by Elbereth Gilthoniel, silver like the steel bars of her prison. When Tatharel's Sindarin heritage becomes both a crown and a chain, wielded against her in the cruelest of ways. AU.

[tatharel-of-doriath]

greycloak | An Envoy's Elegy, Chapter 1

not night, not dawn—caught at the threshold, draped in the color of things left behind

Story Summary: She was meant to stand at his side, not watch from afar. But such were the grey threads Vairë wove. Not a queen, but an envoy. Not beloved, but necessary. So she left, half sent, half willing, to lands where distance might dull the ache and silence could be kinder than remembrance.

Still, memory lingers, and duty binds. Sometimes, leaving is the only mercy left.

This is the lamentation of Tatharel, Envoy of the Woodland Realm to Dorwinion and Rhûn, for all the things that cannot be.

Words: 2,307

Pairing: Thranduil x OC

AO3 Link

Grey was not an unfamiliar color to her.

Grey Annals. Grey Haven.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 Rhûnish 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 in his absence. 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 Rhûnish 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 or fully gone, but of something in-between.

He had prepared for this, had 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 to Rhovanion 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.

[tatharel-of-doriath]

menegroth | Meditations on the Deaths of Kingdoms, Chapter 1

in another life, in the City of One Thousand Caves, in the twilight of the First Age

Story Summary: Stone and starlight, river and ruin—how easily kingdoms fall, their pale bones laid bare. In the hazy dusk of the First Age, as Menegroth crumbles and Sirion drowns in blood, Tatharel of Doriath learns the bitter cost of betrayal, exile, and survival in a world turned to ash. At her side stands a young noble from the Forests of Neldoreth, the only constant in an Age of endings.

Some things endure. Most do not.

Words: 449

Pairing: Thranduil x OC

AO3 Link

In another life, she and Thranduil were lovers.

When the Sun and Moon, the fruit and flower of Laurelin and Telperion, were still young, he had come to Menegroth, the City of One Thousand Caves. His father Oropher was a minor courtier of Doriath. And it was there, at the court of Elu Thingol where she met that bright-eyed youth who would enchant her through the next Ages.

It had been several years since Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Although Thingol swore to never draw his sword alongside sons of kinslaying Feanor, Doriath mourned the loss of Mablung and Beleg. As foulness spread, the forest grew dark, and the Sindar who once dwelled in the surrounding woods moved to Menegroth.

“You must be Lúthien.”

She stopped, her green eyes piqued in curiosity.

Before her stood a young ellon, his hair the color of winter wheat, glowing like sunfire by the lamplight. His eyes, like piercing steel, met hers in open admiration. He had fine aristocratic features, although his garb was modest: only a simple tunic, a scabbard at his waist.

She laughed, her eyes glinting in the low light.

“You must be one of the elves who recently moved here. But,” she added wryly, “thank you for the flattery.”

Pink bloomed across his cheeks.

“Apologies,” he said quickly, “I’m Thranduil, son of Oropher.”

She curtsied in the formal Iathrim style.

“Tatharel, daughter of Sûlthir, and of the House of Elmo.”

Ah.

By conventional reckoning of the court, she was far above him in station. Her father Sûlthir, born on the Great Journey for whom Cuivienen was a backwards glance, was High Councilor to Thingol, brother in all but blood. When their king was lost to them in Nan Elmoth, and Olwë’s patience wore thin, it was Sûlthir who refused to abandon the search. And through her mother, sister to Nimloth, she was descended from Thingol’s youngest brother.

Heat prickled at his collar. Here he was, fumbling like an uncouth country bumpkin, before one of Menegroth’s most distinguished elleths. If the rumors held any truth, had she asked for the stars, Sûlthir would have entreated Elbereth herself!

He started to bow—

She stopped him.

“None of that.” Her voice was teasing, but firm. “Since you’re new here, I’ll show you around the halls. Consider me your first friend in Menegroth.”

She smiled at him and headed down the corridor, the golden light of the lanterns catching in her umber hair.

For a moment, he watched her go. There was an ease to her, a quiet assurance that made her seem as much a part of Menegroth as the stone beneath their feet.

By the Valar, she was beautiful.

[tatharel-of-doriath]

Palladium

Silver like the divine starlight woven by Elbereth Gilthoniel, silver like the steel bars of her prison.

When Tatharel's Sindarin heritage becomes both a crown and a chain, wielded against her in the cruelest of ways. AU.

Words: 626

Pairing: Thranduil x OC

AO3 Link

Content warnings: implied/referenced non/con and rape, domestic violence

The light glinted from their rings as their fingers brushed. She suppressed the acrid bitterness roiling from within. The figure in front of her, draped in lustrous palladium, was a sight that no longer inspired anything but a deep longing for distant shores and dreams of foreign lands.

Her expression, it seemed, to be forever arranged in perfect tranquility, as befitting of a queen, an image of boundless magnanimity and radiant benevolence, like the porcelain dolls ferried on camelbacks from the Utter East.

He said he hated it (her, really), when their earthly facades of king and queen would crack, when the swarthy vassals of Lorien would alight upon Arda with incantations of sleep. When he would win arguments against her in the only way he knew how—after a battle drenched in tears and blood, crimson against her pale skin and umber locks, he submitted her to the yoke, as she lay amidst the sheets as if it were her wedding night, her eyes vacant and mouth open in silent prayers, supplications offered at deserted altars and fallen on unhearing ears. 

Once, a soft whisper, the quietest exhalation of air, had escaped her, subjugated and enslaved yet again,

“Why?”

Why did you ask for my hand if you felt nothing?

He paused in tying his trousers.

“Because this is an exchange, your Sindarin prestige and diplomacy for queenship, nothing more.”

Cool metal met her flesh, but every gold coin burned like a scorching brand, marking her as chattel.

She wanted to bite her tongue off out of spite (see how he would like that!), but all she did was lay there, pale skin among rich gold and crimson, not unlike the whores that were brought to Laketown to be sold every other season.

Yes, a queen and a whore—what is the difference but the former serves one and the latter, many.

Even the most vicious beasts of the night retreat at the oncoming dawn. The night ends, eventually, as it always does, and it is these quiet moments of the morning that she cherishes the most. Those few spaces between heartbeats that truly belonged to her—not the kingdom, not the queenship, and certainly not him.

But as her handmaids and dressmaker enter, those moments slip away, and the titters of her handmaids at the marks of the recent conquest and the seamstress’s remark about high-necked dresses bring her into the world of the living—of billowing dust and curling smoke, validating the present and dismissing the night as a mere dream.

They never seem to notice the depths of her wounds, the bite marks, the scratches, the lacerations that ripped from her any shred of dignity and crushed her beneath his heel. Or if they did, they chose to remain silent in respect and fear of their liege’s wishes.

Before leaving her chambers, she would stop by the mirror to carefully arrange her features into that mask of masterly serenity and gentle clemency, despite the angry, weltering tears beneath her silk gowns (when was the last time she wore a low-necked gown?).

He joined her in the antechamber to the throne room, his pale, steel-gray eyes flickering a brief glance to her before taking her arm with a gentleness completely absent from the night’s campaigns, and entering the throne room, arm-in-arm.

As they turned to brush their fingers as a gesture of pious harmony, the corners of her mouth lifted past their usual position into a radiant smile. Illuminated by the metallic light—silver like the starlight their forefathers had witnessed upon waking on the shores of Cuivienen, silver to symbolize the eternity of marriage—she paid homage to the perpetual consummate perfection of the day and the utter depravity of the night.