Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) Title: Nightfall (#3637) Author: Jael Chapters: 2 Archive: Tolkien Category: Lord of the Rings Description: In the aftermath of Oropher's death at the Dagorlad, Thranduil takes a desperate gamble to prevent further loss of Great Greenwood's troops. Thranduil, Galion, Original characters. Drama/Angst. Rated PG-13 for battle scenes. Published: 13 Nov 2007 Updated: 14 Nov 2007 Warnings: Battle scenes Type: General Characters: Thranduil;Galion Chapter 1 - A Terrible Beauty Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. Nightfall Chapter One: A Terrible Beauty "In the casual comedy; He too has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born." William Butler Yeats, 'Easter 1916' "I must say, Sire, you are the prettiest orc I have ever seen." "Shut up, Galion, and pass the burnt cork." Thranduil stuck his hand out impatiently, palm up. "And do not think you can mock me and trick me into overlooking it merely by tacking a 'Sire' or two onto your cheeky words." Galion did as he was told and handed over the charred cork, suppressing the impulse to scratch. The orcish armor he wore stank of its late owner and he feared it harbored vermin. Over the ennin, he had become accustomed to the daft ideas of his prince -- no, his king, he reminded himself -- but this had to be the daftest of them all. Although he had been ruler of the Greenwood Realm for less than a month, Thranduil seemed to be bent on giving Oropher a run for his money in the mental instability department. "You missed a spot," Galion muttered. "Thank you, Galion," Thranduil said sweetly. A sly smile quirked his lips. "And may I say, you make a rather fetching orc yourself." Galion made a wry face. "If either of us gets fleas -- or, Elbereth forbid, lice -- from this orcish gear, I refuse to be held accountable." Even as he grumbled, Galion's heart lifted to see signs of humor returning to his master. For the first fortnight following Oropher's death in battle, Thranduil had functioned in a state of stunned misery, doing what must be done, fulfilling the role of Greenwood's king, but the easy-hearted prince of the past age had been gone utterly, and Galion had feared for a time that his friend would never return. Even if the current conversation veered into dangerous territory, it was good to see a smile on Thranduil's face once more. "I'm serious, my Lord. If that happens, you are shaving yourself. I flatly refuse to do it for you, valet or no." "I will bear that in mind, Galion," Thranduil said, putting the final touches of cork to the backs of his hands. "I've no great wish to allow a razor near my gweth, unless it is my own hand wielding it." He set the cork down and spun around on his low stool, his face turning serious again. "There is still time for you to back out, you know. I want no one with me tomorrow but those who come of their own free will." "And let my Prince go into battle without his long-time esquire at his side? Not cursed likely! Ah, . . . Sire." How hard it still was to remember he spoke to his monarch rather than his cradle-brother and that the easy camaraderie between the two of them was a thing of the past. "Besides, how would I ever explain to Nana if I let you go off and get yourself killed in some mad scheme? Better you should take me with you." "Good point, Galion," said Thranduil wryly. "Although I think she would forgive you. She always liked you best." Then he sighed, his face turning somber again in the flickering glow of the lantern that lit the sleeping section of the King's pavilion. "Always, I lead, and always, you follow, but this time it is more than into harmless mischief. I know you think me mad." "Do you wish me to give the politic reply, Sire? Or do you want the honest one, Thranduil?" "Save your breath. I know both answers." Thranduil shook his head. "Two out of three of us are dead already, Galion. We cannot afford to lose any more men -- not and have a realm left. Just this one small task for us on the part of a few volunteers, and the troops of Greenwood the Great will be used henceforth as archers. No more will we be asked to serve in the front lines. Ereinion and Elendil have agreed to this, provided we help take the gate on the morrow. Consider this my first successful negotiation as king of this realm. Adar never gave me full credit for it, but I do know how to cut a deal, you know." "That you do, Sire. I merely wonder why the 'small task' must be performed by you personally." "Because I am my father's son, Galion. I will not ask anyone to do what I dare not myself." Galion bit his lip and forbore to point out that Oropher had indeed just done himself what he asked of his own soldiers, leading two thirds of them straight to the fabled Halls of Mandos. Galion bore Greenwood's late king a grudging respect; always had, but he wished that in this regard the son would not emulate his father. "What good will it do us if you are killed, Sire?" "If I fall, Séregon is under orders to take the remainder of my army and march for home. Gil-galad knows this and has agreed to it as well. Those men, at least, will return alive to their families, and you Laegrim can carry on as you would have done before Adar and I arrived. Consider it good while it lasted, Galion." "We Laegrim? There is no 'we' about it, Sire. Whatever your fate tomorrow, I will share it, Grey-elf or Green." "Then I shall have to see to it that we all survive, won't I?" Thranduil sighed. "If my father taught me nothing else, he taught me that a king serves for the good of his people and not his own glory." "Taught?" Galion muttered. "Do you ever wonder, my Lord, if all those old tales Master Istion taught the two of us were true? Powerful beings in the West? A lord of the dead with vast halls, and a lady who weaves our fates into her tapestries? Vah-yee-ray, was it?" "Doubt is an odd sentiment to be expressing on the eve of a battle, Galion." "Possibly, Sire, but of the two of us I am the superstitious Green-elf, after all. Shall I be rehearsing my speech to this Námo? I have a few sins to confess." Thranduil gave him a long look, then shook his head and shrugged. "In the past weeks, the idea that those who fall will be granted rest and renewed life has been a comfort to me. And yet, at other times it seems that these Belair use us for their playthings. Out of the western sea comes Lord Elendil, claiming to be long-descended kin of Elrond Peredhel as in the old tales, and telling us that his land is no more -- sunk beneath the waves in retribution for disobedience. Who else could have done it? Who is it that we fight now, other than one of those Rodyn turned to evil? All you and I can do is to trust to hope . . . and to ignore the fear." "Very well, Sire," said Galion, proffering a leather orc helm and keeping the other for himself. "I shall follow your lead." Thranduil took the helmet, taking a careful sniff and making a face as he put it on his head, obscuring his face and bright hair. "I hope you were wrong about the lice. And Galion, when we are alone, I wish you would call me Thranduil. Of all the things I have lost in the past weeks, I think I miss my given name the most." * * * "My, my, will you look at the orcs!" The tall, dark-haired Golodh rose from his seat at the fire, where he and his two fellow guards kept the night watch. "It's a good thing the Captain warned us to be on the lookout for orcs heading out of the camp tonight, rather than into it. Otherwise we might have shot you. You lot all look so very convincing. Whose idea was this, anyway?" "Mine, of course," said Thranduil, his tone outwardly affable, although Galion, with a wariness born of long familiarity with his royal master, poised himself for trouble. "I grew tired of waiting for your High King to emulate his august forbear, the noble Fingolfin, and go up and knock on the gate to call Lord Sauron out to single combat. I cannot imagine how he failed to think of it. At length, I decided to adopt the strategy of another famous Golodh, and find our way in by stealth and disguise. I am certain you wish us luck in this endeavor." He nodded curtly and made as if to continue on to the south. "Well, you have the hair to imitate Finrod Felagund, I'll give you that. Dressing up like orcs to sneak in -- now, that is a fitting tactic for a son of Oropher Turn-tail." 'Oh, nuath!' Galion thought as he saw Thranduil freeze in his tracks and turn slowly back to face the Golodhren guard. Beside him, Galion saw the other five men of Thranduil's escort pale behind their orc gear. One or two of them winced and muttered nervously. A few paces back, Magorion, Thranduil's new chief general, hurried his own group of seven forward. "Galion, will you hold my helm for me? And my bow?" said Thranduil calmly, flashing a subtle hand signal to Magorion to stand back. Galion saw the general's hand leave his sword hilt, although it still hovered close. "Someday, you and I are going to have to have a lengthy discussion about courtesy," Thranduil said, looking the Golodh in the eye. "Oropher Turn-tail indeed. I heard that name whispered among you as my father and I rode in. I knew that my father heard it too, and I saw it sting him to the quick. Perhaps he might have been more temperate in his actions without the taunts of the likes of you, but we shall never know that now, shall we?" Thranduil paused for breath and stepped forward until he stood almost chest to chest with the other elf. "My father was no coward, 'Noldo,' " he said, giving the Quenya term for 'wise-elf' a particular ironic emphasis. "Neither am I. But the hours of darkness grow short, and I will not allow you to goad me into unwisdom when I have a job to do. In that, I am not my father's son. We will finish this when I return -- if I return. Best pray to your 'Valar' that I do not, for as I told Ereinion's herald, I have not the age and wisdom of most of you, but I have a very long memory." Thranduil turned back. "My helm, please, Galion," he said. He covered his head again and motioned his men onward. Galion waited until they were out of earshot before giving his king a careful sidelong glance. Thranduil shrugged. "If ever I needed the fire of battle to flow into my veins, that just did it. I feel like killing some orcs now." Thranduil looked off to the south across the empty wastes of the Battle Plain. The Morannon could be seen only as a black mass stretching across the Cirith Gorgor, blocking the ever-present reddish glow of Mordor itself. High rocky hills rose to either side, broken by tiny points of firelight from the maggot holes that riddled them. "Magorion and his group will head to the western side of the gate," Thranduil said. "My group will go to the east. Take your position, Magorion, and await my signal. We have barely enough time to reach the heights above the gate before first morning light, otherwise I would have showed that Lachenn knave just how hard a Silvan rustic can punch when provoked." "My Lord," said Magorion, "even in the dark and wearing this foul armor, I doubt we make convincing enough orcs to march right past their defenses and up to the high ground." Thranduil smiled, and Galion could make out his teeth glittering brightly behind the leather nosepiece of the helm. "What, is my chief general afraid?" Magorion nodded. "Yes." "Good. Only a fool would not be. And only a fool or a madman would come up with this strategy." Galion snorted softly. Séregon had said the same thing. Séregon, who had been bereft when Thranduil ordered him to stay behind. Magorion bit his lip and wisely remained silent. "They won't be expecting it. That is a point in our favor," Thranduil continued. "But I have another trick up this stinking sleeve -- a little Elvish magic to emulate Prince Finrod of old." "I had not taken you for a lore-master, ah, Sire." It seemed to Galion that the general had the same problem as he himself did when it came to recalling that their prince was now their king. "I may surprise you yet, Magorion," said Thranduil with a grin. "I'll chant a song of wizardry, a song of staying, resisting, battling against power; of secrets kept, strength like a tower, and trust unbroken . . ." Thranduil paused, and put out his hand to touch Magorion's forehead. "Trust," he whispered. "If you believe, all will be well." Galion sensed his fellow soldiers relax one by one beneath the spell of Thranduil's song. It seemed to him that the diffident prince he had known over the past age had been transformed, utterly. 'By the stars, he can actually do it!' Galion thought. 'He brings magic and might into his words and makes us all believe with the force of his voice, as a king should do.' Thranduil turned to Galion and winked. "The benefits of a good classical education, my friend." He began again, "Softly in the gloom they heard the birds singing afar . . . the sighing of the Sea beyond . . ." But then a wind blew out of the south, chilling him despite the heat it carried from the scorched plains of Udûn. In memory, Galion heard the voice of Master Istion droning on to two small boys who would rather be outside playing than getting the good classical education King Oropher insisted upon: Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew The Foamriders, and stealing drew Their white ships with their white sails From lamplit havens . . . The wind wails, The wolf howls. The ravens flee . . . Thunder rumbles, the fires burn --- And Finrod . . . "No, Thran," Galion blurted, forgetting formality in his alarm, "not that one!" For a moment he thought Thranduil might take offense but instead the King smiled. "I suppose you are right, Galion. It didn't end well for poor Finrod. But what, then?" Galion shook his head and shivered. "I don't know. Anything but that one." For a moment Thranduil seemed at a loss, until he let out a chuckle. "I've just the thing, something more fit for a Wood-elf. A dream of home to guide our feet as we walk amongst our enemies." With a final, "Believe . . ." he motioned them onward, singing. "When summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold; When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the west . . ." Past the edges of the camp, out on the dry plain, Magorion's group split away and went off to the west, still humming softly. Thranduil, Galion and the others continued on to the southeast, toward the dark mass of the Ered Lithui. * * * When the first morning light hit the opposing cliff face of the Ephel Dúath, Thranduil sat waiting, as motionless as a stone in the midst of a living stream. Galion marveled at his apparent calm: a calm he did not share. Galion had been present to hear Thranduil's bitter words to Ereinion's herald in the King's pavilion on the night following Oropher's death. Ereinion and Elendil had held back their troops while so many Silvans had died: a necessary tactic, some said, to prevent further losses from Oropher's folly. Galion was but a simple Green-elf and did not number himself among the wise, yet he had suspected something more sinister. The 'rustic' Tawarwaith had been offered up as a sacrifice, and the weakening of the power of the Grey-elves through the deaths of two of their kings had not grieved the Golodhrim excessively. Today's mission seemed to him to be an excellent opportunity to finish the job, at least so far as Greenwood the Great was concerned. Thranduil took a terrible risk here; more than simply that of being overwhelmed by orcs. When the demarcating line between light and shadow had worked itself one-third of the way down the cliff face, Thranduil slowly stood and began to ready his bow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, although he did not yet set it to the string. On the opposing rocky heights, Galion saw Magorion's men, previously so still that they might have resembled scattered boulders, rise to their feet as well. Galion readied his own bow, and around him he sensed the other members of Thranduil's group doing the same. "Slouch, Galion," said Thranduil out of the corner of his mouth. "Their eyes are weak, but if any of the gate guards should chance to spy us, we need to look like orcs ourselves." Galion complied, doing Thranduil one better by lounging against a large rock. He could shoot sitting down if need be. The high notes of an Elven horn pierced the morning silence and echoed between the cliffs. From their position on the rocky heights above the Morannon, Thranduil's group of seven could observe the activity on both sides of the gate. Off to the north, Galion spied the armies approaching across the Dagorlad plain, with Gil-galad's blue and silver battle standard in prominent view, along with the black banner and white tree of Elendil. Galion felt a lump form in his throat. Oropher's green and silver battle standard had been lost the first day, trampled into the bloody mire of the field along with the majority of Eryn Galen's nobility, and Thranduil had so far been unable to scrounge the necessary materials to replace it. A trivial loss compared to two thirds of The Greenwood's fighting men, yet Galion knew it grieved his king. At least Oropher's body had not been left for the orcs to defile. An orcish horn blatted in reply, and the forces of Sauron began to assemble, pouring out of maggot holes and filthy tents in rough camps off to the south. 'So few!' Galion thought, amazed, as the lines began to take form. This was their first real look behind the gate, and it confirmed Thranduil's bitter, yet hopeful, prediction on the night following his father's death. 'You were right, my Prince -- no, my King! We did soften them up, and I shall never let those supercilious Golodhrim tell me otherwise!' The odds that the forces of Elendil and Gil-galad might actually be able to take the gate today, up until now a faint hope in Galion's mind, now seemed much better. Orc captains shouted orders and cracked whips. A gang of orc slaveys began to grunt and strain, turning the arms of a giant windlass set into the top of the stone wall that spanned the valley. A series of gears transferred the motion to the three huge iron doors below. Slowly, they ground open. Sauron's army marched forth to meet the allied forces arrayed on the plain outside. Galion set an arrow to his bowstring, but Thranduil held up a staying hand. "Not yet. Wait until the time is right." Galion held firm, the tension gnawing at him, until roughly one half of the orc troops has passed through the gates. Thranduil slowly drew his bow. "Now," he said, letting fly. "Target the captains!" The archers of Eryn Galen often bragged that they could hit a bird's eye in the dark. An exaggeration, but there were none that could surpass them, and Thranduil had assembled some of the best. The range was long, but Galion exulted to see that few of the arrows missed their mark. Three orc officers immediately fell dead, followed swiftly by several more as Magorion's men began firing from the other side of the canyon. Orcs, who had thought themselves yet safe behind the gates, began to whirl and look about in confusion, seeking the source of the deadly volley. "Steady. Aim carefully. Make your shots count." Thranduil's voice was calm as he continued to pull and fire. Dimly, Galion noted that outside the gates, Gil-galad had sounded the charge and the melee had begun. Bereft of the direction of their officers and startled by the inexplicable rain of death from above, the orcish foot troops within the gate began to falter. Some broke ranks and sought cover, or fled off to the safety of the south. Out on the plain another horn blew, and the main mass of the Alliance army parted, as a group of warriors charged forward. Dwarves, Galion thought, as he sighted carefully and took down another orc: Durin's Folk from Moria. Galion had snorted and shaken his head when first the Naugrim had marched in on the tail of Ereinion's army, thinking people of that size would be little use in a battle. Thranduil had chided him, though, telling him not to underestimate the stunted ones. "They are doughty warriors," he had said with an odd look in his eye, "and vicious fighters when put to it." Galion supposed Thranduil knew what he was talking about, having recently returned from Moria with a bitterly won victory and a remade necklace, although he said little of what he had done to accomplish this and shrugged off all questions. The Dwarves pressed forward, bright axes swinging, parting the orc troops like a battering ram of living flesh. In their wake, Galion could make out the blue and grey plumed helm of Elrond Peredhel, leading a group of Golodhren warriors from Imladris. He smiled grimly, feeling much reassured. There was no chance now of Ereinion retreating and leaving them all high and dry, not with his herald and protégé in jeopardy. The phalanx of Dwarves had almost gained the gates. Seeing their inexorable progress, the orc captain commanding the windlass gestured and shouted an order. The orc slaveys reversed direction, and the gates began to grind slowly shut, shutting off retreat to their own troops but preventing entrance by the Alliance forces. "Aim for the orcs turning the windlass!" Thranduil cried. "Keep those gates open!" Galion and the other Wood-elves now directed their fire toward the top of the wall. Here and there the orcs began to fall dead over the arms of the windlass. Others made as if to flee but were held to their task by the whip of their captain. Out of the corner of his eye, Galion saw Thranduil draw his bow, so tightly that the cords of his neck stood out, sighting grimly. The bow sang, the arrow flew, and suddenly the orc captain clutched his hands to his throat. He staggered a few paces, clawing helplessly at Thranduil's arrow protruding from his neck, and pitched forward into the mechanism. The continued momentum of the windlass dragged his body down into the gears, jamming them firmly and bringing the whole thing to a grinding halt. In the first few moments following the lucky shot, Galion watched a parade of emotions flit over his king's face, from a grimace of disgust, to surprise, to a grin of unabashed delight. Thranduil let out a war whoop and punched his right fist high into the air. "For Oropher!" The braver among the gate orcs attempted to tug at the mangled limbs of their captain, whose crushed body was now in several pieces, in a vain attempt to free the gears. But as more of them fell to the continued rain of arrows, they seemed to give it up as a lost cause. With no officer to stop them, they deserted their post and ran for cover, leaving the great gates ajar. However, more ominously, Galion saw the few remaining gate guards looking upward and pointing in their direction. "We haven't long now," Thranduil said. "Keep firing. Pick off as many as you can, while you can." Durin's Folk had now fought their way inside, with Elrond's warriors hard on their heels. Although many of the orcs had fled off south in the general confusion, other were still putting up a heavy resistance while more and more Men and Elves poured in through the open gates. Thranduil ripped off his orc helm and waved it high above his head, giving the signal for Magorion and his men to cease their fire. "Leave off," he shouted. "We dare not risk hitting our own." Uncovered, his bright gold hair blew out around him like a banner in the hot breeze off the plain of Udûn. "Better than any battle standard, eh, Galion?" he said with a wild grin. "Here I am. Here is Greenwood's king. Let them come!" He drew his sword and let out a high-pitched battle scream of defiance. 'He is beautiful,' Galion told himself, even as his own throat echoed the cry. 'And he is twice as mad as his father ever was, when the spirit takes him. I would die for Thranduil.' As orcs came pouring out of the maggot holes and swarming up the rocks toward them, Galion realized he might soon have the opportunity to do that very thing. * * * * * * * To be continued . . . Author's Notes: The first song Thranduil quotes is from The Lay of Leithian, JRR Tolkien The second song is Thranduil's favorite, The Song of the Ent and the Entwife, JRR Tolkien, The Two Towers. Translations: ennin: long-years, Sindarin equivalent of yéni gweth: manhood Nana: familiar for Mother -- Mama Adar: Father Laegrim: Green-elves, Nandor Belair: Sindarin for Valar Rodyn: Valar Golodh; Golodhrim; Golodhren: Noldo; Noldor; Noldorin nuath: shadows -- a curse Lachenn: Flame-eyed -- an insulting term for the Noldor Tawarwaith: Wood-elves Naugrim: Dwarves Chapter 2 - O When May It Suffice? Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard. Chapter Two: O When May It Suffice? "When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all?" William Butler Yeats, 'Easter 1916' 'The Belair must love me,' Thranduil congratulated himself as he and his remaining men limped back into the camp later that afternoon. He had not thought their chances of survival to be very good when orcs from the maggot holes assailed them in waves, but he had managed to hold his own, picking off the orcs that rushed up the rocky slopes at him and his men one by one, until Sauron's forces had called the retreat. His attackers had left off then and fled away to the south with the rest of their fellows. Two men from Thranduil's group had been killed: one by a black-fletched crossbow bolt early on, and one by the slash of a scimitar once the fighting had reached the hand-to-hand stage. Magorion's group had fared better, losing only one. Three men, three lives, balanced against the entire rest of his army. Thranduil grieved them, but it seemed a fair trade under the circumstances, and truly, he had expected to lose more, himself included. Thranduil was not entirely unscathed. An arrow had passed close enough to his head to nick the edge of his ear, leaving a deep notch that would take at least a year to heal back in. He had barely felt it in the heat of battle, but now it stung like a demon and he had bled torrents down his right shoulder. Galion would be sure to have some sour remark tonight about the idiocy of fighting without a helm while he applied salve to the wound and tried to comb the blood out of Thranduil's hair. At least the bloodstained orcish garb could simply go onto a nearby midden rather than requiring washing in this land of precious little water. Thranduil, of course, pushed aside the thought of where Eryn Galen would be if that arrow had been just a finger's length closer in. Yes, he had been very lucky today. The Belair indeed must love him. Near the outskirts of the camp, Thranduil's group overtook three very familiar looking Golodhren soldiers, also heading north. Thranduil felt a grim satisfaction upon seeing that the dark-haired one was cradling a wounded left arm. Thranduil smiled a wicked grin. "Well, I see your High King Gil-galad has finally sunk that oversized spear of his in a place where it will do some actual good." The dark-haired Golodh whirled, his expression turning from anger to conciliation when he saw whom he faced. "My Lord. Thranduil, I . . ." Thranduil continued to regard him placidly, arms crossed over his chest, well aware of how, even now, the title of 'king' seemed to stick in the elf's throat. "You and I have a conversation to finish," he said. "I . . . I saw how you and your men kept the gates open today while Elrond led us in. That took . . ." "Bollocks," Thranduil heard Galion mutter helpfully. How touching, he thought. He had rather expected Galion to come forth with a remark concerning his sanity. "Yes, rather surprising for the son of Oropher Turn-tail," Thranduil said with a bitter smile. "Explain yourself, 'Noldo,' while I decide whether to use my fists or my sword on you." The elf took a long, careful pause before answering. "I knew your father when he had barely a pot to mix his ink in and a window to light his work. The two of us were scribes in Lindon, in the service of Ereinion Gil-galad, back in the days when Eärendil was newly risen and Beleriand newly sunk. He came down out of the Ered Luin with nothing but the clothes on his back. And that clothing was of animal skins." Thranduil frowned. Ereinion's very name meant 'scion of kings,' while Thranduil was all too aware that he, himself, was nothing but the son of a self-made man, a minor functionary in Thingol's court, even though he bore a vanishingly distant kinship to the late king of the Grey-elves. He bit his lip but listened closely, drinking the details in as a parched plant soaks up rain. Aside from a few salient incidents, Oropher had rarely discussed his life before coming to the Greenwood, and Thranduil was hearing a hitherto unsuspected side to his father's nature. "That does not explain why you felt the need to call me coward to my face and my father the same behind his back." The Golodh squirmed as if to justify himself. "We both of us vied for King Ereinion's favor, and Oropher got the greater share of that, or so it seemed to me. I suppose it was inevitable that we should become enemies. I began to whisper that he could not be trusted; that anyone who had survived the fall of Doriath must be better at fleeing to safety than at fighting. In time, the whispers spread, and Oropher became secretly known as 'Turn-tail' throughout all of Lindon. Yet, he prospered, while I fell in Ereinion's favor. When he decided to leave, I was more than glad to see the back of him. Even so, as his group set out for the east, I could not resist calling out that one last jab at him, for it seemed to me he was fleeing again. He never even turned his head." 'Oh, Ada,' Thranduil sighed inwardly. 'To let such a one as this goad you!' Yet he supposed the oldest slights cut the deepest. Had there been a kernel of truth in it? Had his father, always so strong and self-assured in Thranduil's eyes, secretly doubted his own valor? "Well, he certainly proved you all wrong, did he not?" he said quietly. "What you did today took great courage," the Golodh replied. "Your bravery shames me. I spoke wrongly of you . . . and of your father. I ask your pardon, King Thranduil." King. Never had Thranduil expected that title, now coming so painfully out of the Golodh's lips; never had he wanted it. And never less than now, for with his new position came the duty to be gracious under all provocation. Thranduil felt sick at heart to think of all the Silvan dead, led to their slaughter out of an ancient quarrel and a careless slur to manhood. He wanted nothing more than to lash out and knock this fool into the next fortnight, but a king had not the luxury of brawling in the dust like a common soldier before the eyes of all. Thranduil took a deep breath, carefully unfolding his arms. As his hands dropped to his sides near his sword pommel, he heard Galion's breath quicken and sensed his men tensing for action around him. Slowly, he forced his fists to unclench. "Pardon is given." But even as Greenwood's king spoke the generous words, Oropher's still-grieving son could not resist reaching out to clap the Golodh on his left shoulder in gesture seemingly friendly, yet just a little more hearty than necessary. "Ai!" The elf grimaced and clasped his wounded arm to his chest. Thranduil offered a courtly bow. "I bid you good day." As he turned to walk away, Thranduil saw one of the Golodh's companions remove his plumed helmet, revealing golden hair the color of which Thranduil had rarely seen, save on himself and on Celeborn's wife the few times he had met her. "I always told you that tongue of yours would get you into trouble one day," this second elf said. "You deserved that, Erestor." * * * Thranduil ducked through the canvas flap that divided the public section of the King's pavilion from the sleeping area and let his shoulders sag at last. Even though it had been weeks, he still felt vaguely uneasy in that area, halfway expecting Oropher to show up and chide him for trespassing upon his private space. That feeling faded more and more as time passed, as did the clarity of the vision when he attempted to call his father's voice and face to mind. Stars above, but he felt weary, now that the fever of battle had left him! He wanted nothing more than to be out of that stinking orcish armor the minute Galion could loose the straps. Thranduil looked about in irritation. Where was his esquire anyway? Galion had been hard on his heels as they entered the Silvan section of the camp, but now he was nowhere to be seen. "Curse it, Galion, what is taking you so long?" he muttered. No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard a wail from outside the tent. His heart beginning to race, Thranduil thrust aside the canvas and hurried out into the daylight. Down at the end of the row, in front of the Healers' tent, he spied Galion crouched over the form of a prostrate elf. Past Galion's shoulder, he could just make out the silhouette of an arrow protruding from the fallen elf's chest. Thranduil broke into a run, forgetting his kingly dignity altogether. He skidded to a stop at the outskirts of the assembled group of soldiers and healers. "Oh, no!" he moaned low in his throat, as he made out the elf's features. "Sweet Elbereth, please no . . ." Galion turned stricken, tear filled eyes to him, and Thranduil had a moment to reflect that in all the years they had spent together, his esquire had always been the steady, unflappable one. Through all the troubles Thranduil had led the two of them into, and those had sometimes been considerable, Galion rarely turned a hair. Until today. "My son . . ." Galion choked out. Thranduil had first seen Galion's son as a blanket-wrapped bundle in his valet's arms, red-faced, half-formed and odd-smelling. or so it seemed to one who had no children of his own. "He is, ah . . . very pretty," he had struggled to say, trying very hard to make the right comments in the face of Galion's all too obvious pride in his firstborn. "His name is Haldhoron," Galion had said with a covert glance at Thranduil's Prince's signet ring, a stylized oak leaf, "after an old friend." Thranduil had of course warmed to the child then. Having a namesake was a solemn business. Thus, he had bitten his tongue and smiled when the earnest little fellow had trotted about his bedchamber in Galion's wake, 'helping' his ada put away the clothing, managing to drop at least half of them on the floor in the process. And when the lad had accidentally spilled an entire phial of pine-scented hair oil over a pair of brand new doeskin trousers, Thranduil had taken a deep, deep breath and said, very convincingly he thought, that it was no great matter; he would simply have another pair made. When Haldhoron grew, Oropher placed him under the tutelage of his paternal grandfather, where he proved equally inept at the art of forestry. Yet it was impossible to dislike the lad, always ready with a merry smile and a joke, having inherited his father's sly wit. In time, Haldhoron took his fate into his own hands and found his one true talent in life, becoming a skilled worker in leather, making buckets that did not leak, and saddles that chafed neither horse nor rider. He most likely had fashioned the same armor that had failed to protect him today. Thranduil could not help feeling slightly queasy at the utter wrongness of the sight before him. Haldhoron's features, always so gay and animated, lay slack in death, the faer having fled the flesh. He whirled on Séregon, who stood close by. "How did this happen? He was supposed to be here in the camp, with you!" Séregon flinched and Thranduil realized that he had spoken far more roughly than he had intended. "Haldhoron did remain by my side, Sire, as you ordered" he replied. "As we watched the battle unfold, a group of orcs broke through the lines. A stray arrow came out of nowhere, it seemed, and . . . It was quick, my Lord, if that is any comfort. He died instantly." "Den rhacho!" Thranduil muttered. It was no comfort at all. "He was supposed to be safe. You all were supposed to be safe." He shook his head and fell silent, aware that a plaintive tone had crept into his voice. He felt sick at heart, impotent. Why else had he taken such a risk today, save to prevent such tragic waste? 'The Belair must hate me,' he told himself. Tentatively, he approached to stand at his stricken esquire's side. "Galion . . .?" "Oh, Thran," Galion sobbed, past remembering any decorum in his grief, "how am I going to tell his mother that I lost him?" Thranduil set his jaw, fighting back the burning prickle in his eyes. The King must not be seen to weep before the eyes of his soldiers. How was he going to tell the wives, mothers, and sweethearts of the Greenwood that he had lost two out of three of their men? He stank of orc, blood and the sour sweat of his own fear. His muscles trembled with exhaustion from the effort of swinging his sword, and he wanted nothing but to wash himself clean and collapse onto his cot to sleep the next day round. Yet his duty both as king and friend lay plain. "Galion, come with me. We need to get you out of that foul gear while the Healers do what they must." Galion stood up slowly, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. "Yes. I don't want to say goodbye to him dressed this way. Already, his last memory of me is looking like an orc." Thranduil cleared his throat to banish the catch from his voice. "His last memory of his father is as a hero, Galion. Never think anything different." He turned his attention to the Healers, his tone all business. "Make Haldhoron ready for burial. We will lay him to rest beside my father." "Thranduil -- my Lord," Galion said, turning to him in shock. "Beside the King? That is not proper." "You and I suckled from the same breast, Galion," Thranduil said gently. "Who has a better right than your son to lie next to my father? He is family to me." * * * Two hours later, Thranduil stood near the marshes dressed in light trousers and shirtsleeves. He had wiped the majority of the smut from his exposed skin with a rough cloth, but he could see that the back of his hands still bore dark smudges and he was certain his face did as well. Galion's face looked grey even beneath the faint remnants of the burnt cork and in the pale tracks where his tears had washed him clean. "Leave us," Thranduil told the soldiers who had helped them carry Haldhoron's body from the camp to the burying ground. The healers had washed and stitched him into his own cloak for a makeshift shroud. The soldiers set their burden down, bowed, and turned to depart. "Leave us two shovels and a pick," Thranduil directed. "Two, Sire?" Galion regarded him with one dark eyebrow raised. "And you have just dismissed the diggers." Thranduil nodded. "My dear wife tells me that among her people, if one should chance to die, the custom is for the closest kin to dig a grave with their own hands. At first, I thought it cruel, but now I come to see the wisdom of it. I wish I had done it for Oropher. Perhaps if I had, the grief that tears at my heart might now be lessened." Galion shook his head as if he doubted that. "Are you sure, my Lord?" Thranduil tried to smile reassuringly. "You and I have dug together before, and two hands halve the job. We'll make short work of this too." "Whatever you say." Galion nodded wearily and took one of the shovels in hand. Thranduil fell to it beside him, doing his best to ignore the sight of Oropher's fresh grave near to hand. He had not been to this spot since he had seen his father lowered into the earth, the morning following his death. The pickaxe proved to be unnecessary, since unlike the hard rocky soil of Amon Lanc, this dirt was soft and gave little resistance, although it was heavy with moisture from the nearby marshes. The two of them dug until the bottom of the hole began to fill with ground-water seepage. How could a surfeit of water trouble them here, when there was so precious little of it on the plain where they camped? The hole was not as deep as Thranduil would have liked, but truly, there were no wild beasts to disturb a grave in this accursed land. There seemed to be no animal life at all save the occasional carrion craban seen flying overhead. He quickly tossed a few shovelfulls back to fill in the puddle of water at the bottom, shaking his head. Had his own father been buried in such foul ground? Thranduil turned to face Galion, who stood frozen with indecision, and he realized to his dismay that he had not been quick enough to hide the seepage from his friend's eyes. "Galion . . ." he prompted. "East or west?" "Sire?" "Towards Aman, or towards Cuiviénen? And it is Thranduil to you. We are alone, I am covered in dirt, and I am sick of ceremony." Galion seemed to swallow hard at the understanding that the moment had come when he must put his son into the ground. "Point his head toward the west, and make of that what you will, Thranduil." Together, the two of them lowered Haldhoron's shrouded body into the shallow hole, only an arm's length deep. Galion knelt at the graveside, taking a final look before carefully folding the hood of the cloak over his son's face. He remained, hunched over and kneeling. Thranduil turned away to stare at Oropher's grave, trying his best to ignore the soft sounds of muffled grief. Let his old friend take all the time her wanted; Thranduil would be cursed if he'd be the first one to shovel clods of dirt over Galion's son. Although it had been little more than a fortnight, the mound of earth over the King's grave had already begun to collapse in the middle, settling in upon itself. Thranduil did his best to keep his mind away from the thought of his father's body, moldering down there in the dank soil. It made no difference, he told himself firmly. The rhaw was a husk merely; a vessel for the faer, which Thranduil had been taught was indestructible until the ending of the world. Thranduil cast his thoughts out in hope to whatever plane his father's spirit might inhabit. 'Oh, Father, if you can hear me, some wisdom please? I'm in sore need of it. I was not ready for this burden, and I am failing miserably.' No answer came, only silence. He was on his own. The metallic singing of a shovel cutting into soil and the muffled thump of dropping dirt pulled him from his ruminations. Without a word, Thranduil took up his own shovel and commenced to help Galion fill in the hole. He had not stayed for this part with Oropher; well-meaning, his men had sought to spare him the sight and sound of his father being covered over. There was no sadder sound in all of Arda, he now realized, than that of earth falling into a grave. It did not take them long. The slightly-mounded dirt lay fresh and neat; no more to go back in. So little left to mark where Haldoron had been. "Do you think it's true, Thran?" Galion said dully. "What?" "What Master Istion and the others told us. That the spirits of the dead are called west to a silent Hall of Waiting where, in time, they are granted new bodies? Will my son live again, or is it nothing but fable and fancy?" Thranduil looked to the west, whence he had heard nothing but silence. He felt the loss of faith in his very soul. But how could he express that doubt to his grieving friend? 'You're a king now, like it or not,' he told himself. 'Time to act like a king.' "I doubt it not, Galion," he said firmly. "I have just had a vision that Oropher tarried, waiting for this last one, and that my father and your son will journey on together into the west, there to find the Blessed Realm." "A pretty thought," Galion said. "I want so very much to believe it." A pretty lie, Thranduil thought, but a needful one. He had just told the first real falsehood of his royal career. How many more before the end? "Believe it, Galion," he said, with as much confidence as he could muster. Who knew? Perhaps in time, if he repeated it enough, Thranduil might even come to believe it himself. "If you say so, Thranduil. But my heart tells me I'll never see him again." Thranduil had no answer for that; his wellspring of comfort run dry for the day. The physical exertion and the play of emotions from stark fear to triumphant elation to despair had left him exhausted and numb. But nowhere near numb enough. Tentatively, he put out his hand to grasp Galion's shoulder, feeling it quiver with suppressed sorrow. He had not touched his old friend, he realized, except in passing during the donning of armor or in dressing since . . . "We should go from here now, Galion. You shall rest tonight. We'll have a bath to wash the filth of this day from us, and this time, you will go first." Galion turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Is that so, Thranduil? And who is going to fetch that water and heat it?" "I will, of course," Thranduil huffed. "I'm not entirely helpless, you know." Galion let out a little bark of laughter, wild for the grief. "You carrying water? That will be the day." Then he subsided. "Thranduil, my Lord, please. The mindless tasks will soothe me, tonight of all nights. Do not deny me the comfort of routine out of misplaced kindness." The sun had sunk down fully into the west and twilight was upon them. To the south, the watch fires of the Alliance camp were springing to life like so many little stars. This would be the last time for them, Thranduil thought. Tomorrow the armies would move inside the Gates, and the siege of Mordor would begin in proper. How much time would it take to prise Sauron the Accursed from his dark tower and make a final end to him? How long before Thranduil could return to the loving arms of his young wife and the inevitable sad reckoning when he had to face his people? That is, assuming there were a victory and he would be going home at all. Thranduil spared one last glance back at the masses of Silvan graves, row upon row. So many. Too many. If only he had said one word, spoken his reservations to his father! Would it have tempered Oropher's judgment? Would it have made a difference? If only . . . Had today been an expiation or merely a continuation of Oropher's folly -- the need to prove manhood in the face of ignorant scorn? Thranduil knew he would be asking himself that question until Ardhon Meth, and, again, in the privacy of his own soul, from the faer of the dead and the Belair themselves, he heard nothing but silence. Thranduil nodded and clasped Galion's shoulder firmly, feeling his valet's tense muscles relax beneath the warmth of his touch. "Very well, Galion. You can undo these braids for me when we get back to the camp. They've begun to give me a headache. As for the water, we'll do that together. We'll do all of it together." And together, the two of them walked southward toward the darkening plain of Mordor. "For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know that they dreamed and are dead. . . . Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born." William Butler Yeats, 'Easter 1916' * * * * * * * Translations: Haldhoron: Sindarin for 'Tall Oak.' Thranduil's royal symbol is the oak tree faer: the Sindarin equivalent of fëa, the Elven spirit Den rhacho!: Curse it! craban: crow rhaw: Sindarin equivalent of hroä, the body Ardhon Meth: World's End ------------------------------------------------------------------ Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sun Nov 15, 2026 2:33 am