To Live Again: In her Hands {Lord of the Rings / Thranduil fanfic}

12. Secrets

Fear.

It is the sickness in all of us that drives us to either stand in faith, or crumble in weakness. An often insignificant emotion that niggles at the back of ones mind, growing, becoming stronger, more suspicious, until it strikes and decimates its victim with all its cruel and torturous venom. 

As a warrior, I was taught to control fear, to take it and smother it under layers of self-discipline, instinct, and mindfulness. As a Prince, I was taught that fear was something to be acknowledged or even employed as a tactic - as a superior, a certain level of fear has to come from your subordinates.  But also the acknowledgment of fear in yourself and others around a political table, this was useful to unearth undesirable behaviour or confirm suspicions.

Therefore, my exposure to my own fears was often difficult and complex. I soon came to the conclusion that a warrior cannot rule a nation, or be a parent, or friend, or lover without the presence of fear. So, I had to conclude that fear was something that would attempt to rule me and I would just have to learn to battle it.

I vividly remember times when I thought fear was about to win. The first time I felt it's crippling shame was when I stood on the threshold of my father's rooms. One more step and I was going to have to face the sea of questions or disgusted looks. Bregeth was gone, and her public departure left a sting in my chest. Not that our bond (if one could even call it that) was specifically painful to detach, on the contrary it was much too easy. It was the painful admission that I had failed, and that somehow I would be held accountable by both my peers and some higher power. I feared for my own pride, but I was most frightened of the future.

How would my son cope...how would my father? What torturous rumours would they attempt to destroy my character with? What pain would I cause in the wake of this scandal? Would I be damned forever for this? Was I wrong? Should I have fought harder? How was I supposed to be a King without a Queen to provide the stability of heirs? Was I even worthy of such a title?

Yes, I will admit to feeling physically ill with fear for the first several years of my life without Bregeth. Not because I missed her, no I was probably relieved, but because loneliness is a disabling and all-consuming fear.

I muddled through it of course. I survived the scandal, and I survived the pains of parenthood too. I firmly believed if I could survive Legolas' bedtime tantrums alone then I could survive just about any hellish torment created by Morgoth. It would appear I might have foreshadowed my own fate.

The incident with the dragon was the only time I felt I would perish with fear. I would never admit to another soul, not even my father, but I cannot even speak of the memories without being gripped with a shadow of the fear of that moment of oblivion.

My memories are so cloudy and fragmented from that day. I do not recall the mess of misguided decisions I must have made that led me to that stand-off. I only remember rage. My own hot-blooded wrath against Morgoth's abomination. That savage excitement that comes from spilling blood is glorious. I became drunk on the sadistic pleasure as an ignorant and undefeated warrior. I would kill that dragon. I would be the one to claim victory, to stand before fearful nobility as a lesser elf with scandal and disappointment attached to his name, and they would kneel before me in their gratitude. They would know that my fire was unquenchable and my reach was powerful...that I was worthy of legends.

What mindless stupidity!

To stand before a fire-drake is to place a noose around your own neck. The earth lay ablaze around me, the screams of death echoed in my ears, and the ground shook beneath my feet. The dragon approached and my courage fled. The fire in my spirit was nothing but a dull flicker in comparison to the fire within the dragon. A cruel, destructive, all-consuming, blaze that erased life...my life.