Chapter One: Of the First Battle of the Wars of Beleriand and the Rising of the Moon

 But it came to pass at last that the end of bliss was at hand, and the noontide of Valinor was drawing to its twilight. For as has been told and as is known to all, being written in lore and sung in many songs, Melkor slew the Trees of the Valar with the aid of Ungoliant, and escaped, and came back to Middle-earth… Morgoth, as has before been told, returned to Angband, and built it anew, and above its doors he reared the reeking towers of Thangorodrim; and the gates of Morgoth were but one hundred and fifty leagues distant from the bridge of Menegroth: far and yet all too near.

Now the Orcs that multiplied in the darkness of the earth grew strong and fell, and their dark lord filled them with a lust of rain and death; and they issued from Angband's gates under the clouds that Morgoth sent forth, and passed silently into the highlands of the north. Thence on a sudden a great army came into Beleriand and assailed King Thingol. Now in his wide realm many Elves wandered free in the wild, or dwelt at peace in small kindreds far sundered; and only about Menegroth in the midst of the land, and along the Falas in the country of the mariners, were there numerous peoples. But the Orcs came down upon either side of Menegroth, and from camps in the east between Celon and Gelion, and west in the plains between Sirion and Narog, they plundered far and wide; and Thingol was cut off from Círdan at Eglarest. Therefore he called upon Denethor; and the Elves came in force from Region beyond Aros and from Ossiriand, and fought the first battle in the Wars of Beleriand.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sindar

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From the Long Wall in the south, a horn sounded.

Seconds later, two more calls answered it from the east and west—all signals that the troops were in position.

Elu Thingol looked out over the warriors assembled before him and felt their eyes upon him as they waited tensely for his signal. The wind on the plain whipped the white mane of the High King’s war stallion, carrying the stench of Orcs and causing the beast to dance nervously as his nostrils flared. Starlight glinted off Thingol’s bright helm and silver hair as he turned his gaze towards the sea of Orcs that his army had driven south. He paused a moment to smile coldly at their obvious confusion upon hearing the Elven horns.

The servants of Morgoth had thought to find the Elves of Beleriand defenseless when they descended on their lands, but they were gravely mistaken. The foresight of Melian and the warnings of the Dwarves and Denethor, who came from the East across the Ered Luin, assured that Thingol had anticipated the end of peace in Beleriand. He hired the Dwarves to build a stronghold and to forge arms and he raised an army commanded by the lords of his household. When war came, he was prepared. But no Elf in Middle Earth, not even the High King, had seen a battle of this scale. Indeed, few of the Sindar had been tested in battle at all.

With a last glance to Beleg, who signaled the readiness of his archers, Thingol turned to Daeron, riding to his right and carrying his dark blue and silver banner. He commanded him to sound the final horn.

At once, Beleg’s archers loosed their first volley.

Chaos erupted amongst the Orcs. Arrows flew towards them not only from Elu Thingol’s warriors to their north, but also from the south where Denethor, King of the Nandor, was hidden with a host of his people in the hills of the Andram, the Long Wall.

With high-pitched squeals, Orcs crumpled to the ground, arrows protruding from their bodies. Those that did not fall stopped short their race to the Andram, where they had expected to find shelter in the hills and the advantage of high ground. Panicked, they broke ranks. Some split off to either side of the main force in hopes of escaping to the east or west. Others fled southeast towards Ramdal, the Wall’s End, intending to skirt to the east of the mountains.

That was precisely what the High King had expected them to do.

Beleg’s archers continued to rain arrows on the Orcs that fled, reducing their numbers. At the same time, reinforcements led by Thingol’s captain, Mablung, in the West and Thingol’s youngest brother, Elmo, in the East, emerged to prevent the Orcs’ escape. The enemy once again scattered, screeching in fear.

Thingol drew his sword, Aranrúth, from its sheath and held it aloft, gleaming in the starlight. At that signal, Daeron again blew his horn and Beleg ordered the Elven force to advance against the Orcs that had despoiled their lands. With furious cries, the Elves drew their blades and charged.

The Elven warriors hit upon their enemies with a force akin to Ulmo’s waves crashing on the shore. The already disorganized Orcs were overrun. Cold fury over the invasion of his realm drove Thingol as he plunged Aranrúth between the breastplate and shoulder pauldron of the first Orc he encountered. The Orc loosed a satisfying squeal and crumpled to its knees.  Planting his foot on the Orc’s chest, Thingol dislodged his sword and allowed its momentum as it pulled free to bring the blade across the neck of another nearby enemy. This Orc also fell writhing on the ground. A third Orc charged Thingol, sword leveled at his horse’s shoulder and growling in rage. Urging his stallion forward to protect it from the Orc’s charge, Thingol parried the Orc’s blow with Aranrúth, dragging down its sword. With the knife in his other hand, Thingol slit the Orc’s throat. As that Orc fell, Thingol turned to the next, wielding his blade with deadly precision, the light of Aman blazing in his eyes.

Thingol’s warriors cut a neat line through the Orcs’ main force, splitting it in half and forcing it to fight a divided battle sandwiched between the Elves’ main army led by Thingol and the High King’s reinforcements to the East and West, led by Elmo and Mablung.

Of all the Elves in the King’s army, the grandsons of Elmo and Mablung’s officers were the most vicious. Celeborn and Galathil often wandered with their cousins through the forests of Neldoreth and Region. Thus, they had known most of the Elves that had been taken at unawares and slaughtered when the Orcs first descended on Beleriand. Similarly, Mablung’s warriors, who patrolled the marches of the realm, were the only Elves that had already skirmished with wolves or Orkish scouts. They had discovered Morgoth’s Orcs as they descended from the north into Beleriand and many had died protecting the borders before the High King mustered a force sufficient to drive the Orcs to this battle.

Those unarmed, wandering friends of Celeborn and Galathil and Mablung’s warriors were the first Elves ever known to be slain in Beleriand. Their loss was bitterly grieved by all and their comrades fought fiercely now to avenge their deaths. Cries of ‘For my son, Gwaelon’ or ‘For my father, Tossion’ echoed across the battlefield as Elven swords cleaved Orc flesh. Each name rang in Thingol’s ears more loudly than the sounds of the clanging weapons and pierced his heart more painfully than Orkish blades might.

After what seemed like an Age of raging battle, Thingol brought Aranrúth down to crush the helm of a fleeing Orc, but found no new target to meet his upswing. He looked around himself swiftly. At his side was Beleg. Black blood mingled with red on his armor as he also scanned their surrounds for danger. They glanced briefly at one another and then looked over the battlefield, strewn with the bodies of Orcs, some lying still and others writhing in pain or trying to drag themselves away. Around them, a jubilant cry of victory slowly arose and gained strength as the Elves realized the battle was won.

With a grim gleam in his eyes, Beleg bowed to Thingol and turned to take inventory of their losses.

Trusting his captain to see to the aftermath of the battle, Thingol allowed himself a moment to allay his personal fears. He searched the faces of the celebrating Elves until he saw his brother and nephews to the East. Taking a deep, calming breath, his eyes then sought his friends and closest advisors, his relief building with each Elf he found. Most were wounded, but few so badly that they could not stand. Finally, he turned south, squinting in the star light towards the Andram. There, he still detected the sounds and movement of battle. Just as he was about to gather his warriors to ride towards the continuing battle, a horn sounded to the south, faint and desperate.

“That is lord Denethor’s horn!” Thingol heard a voice behind him say.

The king’s expression hardened as he turned to Daeron. “See to the wounded here, finish off the Orcs that still live and send word to Elmo and Mablung to follow me south.” His eyes shifted to Beleg. “Gather the warriors that can still fight and come with me,” he ordered, urging his horse swiftly across the plain towards the Andram.

*~*~*

But the victory of the Elves was dear-bought For those of Ossiriand were light-armed, and no match for theOrcs, who were shod with iron and iron-shielded and bore great spears with broad blades; and Denethor was cut off and surrounded upon the hill of Amon Ereb. There he fell and all his nearest kin about him, before the host of Thingol could come to his aid. Bitterly though his fall was avenged, when Thingol came upon the rear of the Orcs and slew them in heaps, his people lamented him ever after and took no king again.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sindar

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From his position hidden in the slopes of the Andram, Oropher’s stomach roiled when he first caught sight and scent of the Orcs that the High King’s forces drove south. Around him, he saw many of the Nandor grip their bows as their faces contorted with hate and rage and fear. He knew his father’s people in the East, unlike his mother’s in Beleriand, had already known too much grief fighting these hideous creatures. Seeing the Nandorin warriors now, he was reminded of the look of deep grief and anger on his father’s face while listening to the tales his cousin Denethor told of his flight across the mountains, fleeing the Orcs and seeking the aid of the High King—so many Elves, long sundered friends and kin, had been lost.

Before this battle, Oropher himself had known only a fraction of their pain—he and his brother Engwe had been with their cousins, Celeborn and Galathil, when they had happened upon the ruined camp of the friends they had sought to meet along the far northeastern banks of the Esgalduin River. He knew that if he lived until the end of all things, he would never forget the shock he had felt that day. Furious and anguished and sickened, they had followed the strange tracks of their friends’ attackers to avenge them, only to be turned back by Mablung’s warriors, who had already slaughtered the invaders.

Now, as they waited for the Orcs fleeing across the plains to come to them, Oropher’s hand shook with rage at the sight of them and he knew he could only imagine the extent of the hatred felt by the Nandor, who had long suffered in the east at the Orcs’ hands.

“Our bows will not penetrate their iron armor, so your arrows must be well placed,” he heard his father, Cellon, ordering the Elves around them. “Aim for their face and neck or the spaces between the plates in their armor such as between their breastplate and shoulder pauldrons or under their arms.”

Denethor had asked Thingol to allow Cellon to fight with his warriors on the Western flank of the Andram. Though Denethor and Cellon were long sundered—since the time Cellon followed his heart and Thingol’s niece, Doroniel, instead of Lenwë when the King of the Nandor had led so many aside from the Great Journey—they were cousins, close kin, and dear friends. Besides that, Denethor knew that Cellon’s sons, Oropher and Engwe, and some other more heavily armed Sindar would join him in battle and that could only serve to strengthen his host.

Denethor’s horn sounded to the East of their position, signaling that the Orcs were within range of the army hidden in the Andram. Immediately afterward, horns blew from the Northeast and Northwest.

“Draw your bows,” Cellon ordered.

Oropher glanced quickly at his brother, Engwe, as he pulled an arrow from his quiver, fitted it against his bowstring and aimed at the throat of an approaching Orc. His brother and father did the same. As the sound of bending wood filled his ears, Oropher’s focus centered on that black target.

A moment later a final horn sounded—Thingol’s, the signal to fully join the battle.

Oropher loosed his arrow and, as he drew a second, he watched the first drive into the throat where it had been aimed. The Orc staggered back from the force of its impact and collapsed. By the time he lay writhing on the ground, Oropher loosed another arrow, felling another enemy.

Quickly the Orcs began to scatter, some turning from the mountains and others running east, to flank Denethor’s forces.

“Amdir, you and your archers keep driving the Orcs that have turned back north, but stay in the hills,” Cellon shouted. “The rest of you, with me. We need to stop as many as possible before they reach Wall’s End.”

Following Cellon with several dozen warriors, Oropher ran along the crags of the Andram, shooting at Orcs as he went. The further they pursued their enemy, the wider the Orcs swung from the hills and the harder they were to shoot. This difficulty was compounded by the fact that the Elves had a limited supply of arrows that was quickly diminishing.

As he searched for a shot that would not waste a precious arrow, Oropher growled in frustration. Beside him, his brother and several other warriors also hesitated. Finding no shot to take, Oropher turned his eyes to the slopes around him. He quickly spotted an easy path that led to the plain below and he began to descend the hills. Engwe and several of the younger warriors moved to follow him.

Eyes trained on the Orcs, focused solely on drawing within shooting range of them again, Oropher jumped when a hand closed around his upper arm. Turning, he saw Engwe. He scowled irritably at his younger brother before realizing that their father was yelling at him.

“Stay in the high ground, Oropher,” his father’s voice commanded.

Oropher’s scowl deepened. “We cannot hit them from this distance,” he shouted back, while pointing across the plain at the Orcs.

Cellon shook his head. “Too few of us are well enough armored to fight the Orcs at close range. We cannot lead unarmored warriors into the open and if those of us that are armored descend alone, our numbers will be no match for the Orcs. Stay in the hills,” he repeated firmly.

Oropher looked back at the Orcs, now fleeing well out of range towards the Wall’s End and briefly considered disobeying his father’s order. If they could not cull the number of Orcs that reached Denethor’s position, they would not be able to prevent the Orcs from escaping between the Wall’s End and Amon Ereb.

He felt Engwe’s grip tighten on his arm. “Come, muindor nin. This is no time to test adar. This is battle, not some fool adventure you have dragged us on. We do not know the full battle plan that lord Denethor and the High King are following. Adar does,” Engwe said softly.

Loosing an irate growl, Oropher continued eastward on the slope, not climbing higher, but not descending further either. They had only progressed a short distance when they heard a short, weak blast from Denethor’s horn.

Oropher turned to Cellon in time to see him look in the direction of the sound and signal the warriors with him to pick up their pace. No longer pausing to take shots at the fleeing Orcs, the Elven warriors raced over the hills of the Andram towards the Wall’s End.

By the time they reached it, Orcs were streaming between the Andram and Amon Ereb. Arrows rained down upon them from the hills, felling many, but there were not enough Elves to stop their escape. From the heights of the hills, Cellon’s warriors added their bows to those of the Elves already present. As he loosed arrow after arrow into the black river of Orcs below him, Oropher saw his father searching the hills around him.

“He led a group of archers to the plain, my lord,” Oropher heard a Nandorin Elf shout. “To try to cut off their escape.”

From the corner of his eye, Oropher saw his father frown at that. Oropher tensed as well. Orcs had overrun the shallow valley below. If Denethor was there, he was already lost.

At that moment, a host of Sindar, led by Thingol on his white steed, descended from the north, the starlight glimmering on their Dwarven armor. Amongst the Elves were Elmo, his son, Galadhon, and Oropher’s cousins, Celeborn and Galathil. Without waiting for his father’s order, and followed by his brother and several other young Sindarin Elves of his own generation, Oropher rushed down the slopes of the hills to join them.

A growling cry of rage arose from somewhere within Oropher as he charged towards the Orcs, drowning out his father’s shouted orders. He reached the line of fleeing Orcs and drove his sword into the neck of the first one he encountered. Oropher fell suddenly silent as the Orc screamed and cursed in pain before collapsing to its knees.

In the hills, firing arrows at the distant enemy, Oropher had kept a silent count of his kills, knowing that his friend Amglaur would be doing the same. They always competed to see who could bag the most pheasants or ducks during hunts. But as he added this Orc to his count—as this Orc clutched at his throat and spent his last gurgling breaths on curses—Oropher was reduced to staring at the creature’s pointed ears. Killing something, not to eat it, but simply to eliminate it; ending the life of something that spoke with words; watching at close range as it fell at his feet, writhing in pain, and feeling a sense of grim glee to see it die—that was a much different deed than hunting pheasants, he realized with a sudden wave of nausea. The words of the Nandor who had reported to Thingol that the Orcs were Elves twisted by Morgoth’s foul crafts rang in his ears.

A spike of pain in his arm brought Oropher’s attention back to the battle. He looked to his right to see an Orc shifting its stance to drive its blade up after swinging it across Oropher’s upper arm. The blow had cut through his boiled leather jerkin, but was turned by the mail he wore underneath. Oropher blocked the Orc’s swing with the knife in his left hand as he brought his sword up into the Orc’s gut with his right. Before the Orc had hit the ground, Oropher turned to square off with another.

Soon, cries of ‘To the King’ caused Oropher and the Elves around him to look about in alarm. Oropher loosed a long breath when he caught sight of Thingol’s silver helm. A moment later, parrying another blow and stabbing another Orc, his relief fled as he realized the call had been raised to rally to Denethor. Oropher scanned the terrain for the Nandorin King. He thought he glimpsed Denethor’s green banner on Amon Ereb and his suspicion was confirmed when Thingol and the Sindar around him surged towards the hill, cutting through Orcs in their path.

Oropher followed, also slaying Orcs as he progressed. As he neared the hill, Oropher saw Thingol’s warriors pause for a moment and then redouble their efforts, tearing through the fleeing Orcs as fire would consume the dry grass of the plain. But Cellon and the Nandor with him did not follow the High King. Instead they remained on the hill, silent.

Heart racing, Oropher pulled his blade from the gut of an Orc and ran to the hill. Next to Cellon, Oropher saw his younger brother Engwe. Engwe was wounded, though not badly. He stood to Cellon’s right, supporting him. Cellon’s tunic was covered in blood and for a terrifying moment, Oropher thought his father was wounded. Then he saw the reason why Cellon required his son’s support to stand. Oropher stood, frozen and staring at the hill in silent horror as the sounds of the battle receded into the distance.

On the Amon Ereb lay the bodies of many Orcs. Amongst them lay Denethor’s green banner, still clutched in the hand of the Elf that had born it. An arrow pierced his chest. The banner partially covered the body of its King.

Cellon dropped to his knees and gathered his cousin’s body into his arms as the battle raged around him.

*~*~*

And when Thingol came again to Menegroth he learned that the Orc-host in the west was victorious, and had driven Círdan to the rim of the sea. Therefore he withdrew all his people that his summons could reach within the fastness of Neldoreth and Region, and Melian put forth her power and fenced all that dominion round about with an unseen wall of shadow and bewilderment: the Girdle of Melian, that none thereafter could pass against her will or the will of King Thingol, unless one should come with a power greater than that of Melian the Maia. And this inner land, which was long named Eglador, was after called Doriath, the guarded kingdom, Land of the Girdle. Within it there was yet a watchful peace; but without there was peril and great fear, and the servants of Morgoth roamed at will, save in the walled havens of the Falas.

But new tidings were at hand, which none in Middle-earth had foreseen, neither Morgoth in his pits nor Melian in Menegroth; for no news came out of Aman whether by messenger, or by spirit, or by vision in dream, after the death of the Trees. In this same time Fëanor came over the Sea in the white ships of the Teleri and landed in the Firth of Drengist, and there burned the ships at Losgar.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sindar

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“So Amglaur bested your count by two, is that correct, Oropher?” Galathil whispered in a teasing voice as they followed their fathers to the High King’s throne room. Beside him, Celeborn shook his head and laughed softly.

Oropher did not so much as look at his cousins in acknowledgement, but the corners of his mouth did turn down in a scowl, eliciting a snort from both Amdir and his younger brother Amglaur.

Oropher’s spine stiffened. That sound demanded a response.

“Amdir and Amglaur remained in a stationary position during the entire battle,” Oropher contested coolly. “While Engwe and I covered the eastern length of the Andram. Shooting while moving is a much more difficult skill...”

“As usual, Oropher cannot bear to admit he was bested,” Amglaur interrupted haughtily.

Pausing outside the doors to the Great Hall, and thereby forcing his grandsons to stop as well to avoid running into him, Elmo faced the younger Elves with a stern glare. “It is unimaginably insensitive and ill-mannered to make sport of the battle in which so many of your people, not to mention your own cousin, died. If you have no better sense, hold your tongues,” Elmo whispered angrily before turning and entering the hall.

The younger Elves looked guiltily at Elmo and lowered their eyes to the floor silently when they saw their fathers glaring at them as well.

“I fear it does not matter how many Orcs we all killed,” Celeborn said quietly as they took their seats a moment later. “We did not kill them all, nor did we eliminate their master.” He looked at Oropher. “I think we have done the last of the wandering that we will do for a long while, at least outside the forests. It is too dangerous. Luthien mentioned to me that the High King is considering enclosing the realm somehow to keep it safe.”

Oropher’s brother, Engwe, nodded. “I was speaking to one of Mablung’s officers. The king has sent messengers to encourage everyone to move within the forests. Most are heeding his call, I heard.”

“They would be fools not to after what we have seen,” Oropher said softly, though with a bitter tone.

Their conversation was cut short when Thingol and Melian entered the hall. Everyone present came to their feet as the High King and his Queen proceeded down the corridor formed by the benches where the nobles were seated to climb the stairs of the raised dais and stand before their thrones. Thingol seated his wife and then himself, gesturing for his courtiers to sit as well.

“I have assembled you to hear reports regarding how we have fared in our battles against the Orcs and to inform you of how I intend to protect our people from future attacks,” he began in a clear voice. “Let us begin by hearing from our captains regarding the success of our battles in the east and west.” He turned to Mablung, who was standing to the side of the assembled nobles. “Have we eliminated the enemy in the east?”

“Yes, my lord King,” Mablung replied, stepping forward and bowing at the waist. “Some of our warriors pursued the remaining Orcs into the mountains, where they met with the dwarves. Others were driven north, but very few Orcs returned whence they came. We believe that the lands between the Celon and the Gelion are once again safe.”

“Good,” Thingol replied, smiling grimly. Then he focused on Beleg, who stood with Mablung. “What of the lands west of the Sirion? Were you able to finally reach lord Cirdan in the Havens?”

Beleg nodded. “Yes, my lord King. The force that besieged the Falas has been broken. But when I spoke with lord Cirdan’s warriors, they told me that the host of Orcs withdrew northwards of their own accord—the Falathrim did not drive them back. That news concerned me. Fearing they might intend to assail some new target, my warriors and I followed their tracks as swiftly as possible. They go north towards Mithrim. I sent scouts in that direction to determine if our kin there need our aid. I expect their return within the week, my lord King.”

“Well done, Beleg,” Thingol replied. “And I am pleased to hear that Cirdan’s Havens are once again safe.”

Beleg frowned. “Forgive me, my lord King, but I am not certain that we can call the lands between the Narog and the Sirion safe. Returning from the Falas, we did skirmish with several bands of Orcs. And until we determine the fate of those that withdrew, we cannot know that the western lands are secure.”

Thingol nodded once in agreement. “Indeed that is true. And even after we are certain those Orcs have been destroyed, we can no longer be confident that more will not come in their place. I have no intention of leaving the safety of this realm to chance. Therefore, I have requested that all our people withdraw to the forests of Brethil, Neldoreth and Region.” He laid his hand over Melian’s, where it rested on the arm of her throne. “This will be the area that I will protect, with our Lady’s aid.”

Oropher and his cousins exchanged a curious glance upon learning the rumors that they had heard were true. Any whispers between them however were forestalled when Melian spoke.

“From this moment forth,” she declared, “I set around the forests of Brethil, Neldoreth, Region and Nivrim a mist of enchantment. All who try to cross the borders of this realm against the will of my lord will wander lost in shadow and confusion, failing to find entrance,” she said simply. And then she raised her voice in song. Her song was soft and clear as the nightingale, yet powerful and all who heard it listened in silent awe.

When she stopped singing, a soft murmur arose from the nobles in the hall, expressing amazement that such an enchantment could be achieved so effortlessly, but all remembered how Melian had stopped Ungoliant’s descent into Neldoreth, so they harbored no doubts that she was equal to this task.

Thingol silenced his nobles’ whisperings when he resumed speaking. “I have heard from most of my messengers that our people will heed my summons. The group that has offered the most resistance is the Nandor. They are reluctant to leave Ossiriand, though I still hope to persuade who ever they chose to succeed lord Denethor to lead them to Region.”

Oropher raised his eyebrows when his father stood, looking to Thingol for permission to speak. Thingol granted it with a nod of his head. “As you know, my lord King, Denethor, his sons and brother were all killed on Amon Ereb. I have spoken with my cousins that still live amongst the Nandor. It seems they have no intention of accepting another king. Their grief over the loss of Denethor is too great. And they dearly love the lands of Ossiriand. I doubt they will be persuaded to give up their homes after losing their king. They have suffered enough losses already.”

Thingol nodded gravely. “I certainly will not force them to move,” he said reassuringly. “And I will do what I can to protect them, but I can only guarantee the safety of those that live within the forests.”

As Cellon bowed and reseated himself, another of Thingol’s kinsmen, Ëol, made to stand. He wore an agitated expression. Before Thingol could acknowledge him, however, a page burst through the closed doors and ran into the Hall.

“Forgive me, my lord King,” he said breathlessly, not even bothering to bow. “You must come immediately. To see…the…I am not sure what it is, but you can see it from the Gates.”

Thingol looked at the page for a long moment, his courtiers silently awaiting his response to this strange interruption.

“I will come see it, whatever it may be,” he said finally, leading Melian from the dais.

*~*~*

Isil was first wrought and made ready, and first rose into the realm of the stars, and was the elder of the new lights, as was Telperion of the Trees. Then for a while the world had moonlight, and many things stirred and woke that had waited long in the sleep of Yavanna. The servants of Morgoth were filled with amazement, but the Elves of the Outer Lands looked up in delight; and even as the Moon rose above the darkness in the west, Fingolfin let blow his silver trumpets and began his march into Middle-earth, and the shadows of his host went long and black before them.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor

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Thingol strode out through the gates of Menegroth, pausing on the landing before stepping onto the bridge. A strange light, like that of many lanterns, made shadows dance on the ground before him. Groups of Elves stood in the clearings on the near and far sides of the bridge looking up silently, their eyes wide—some with amazement and delight and others with a hint of fear. Thingol could not help but follow their gaze.

When he turned, he saw a large, silver, gem-like disc rising in the western sky. Its light outshone the stars. Beams of silver illuminated the river below and it sparkled beneath him. All around him in the forest, tiny white flowers opened in the new light and birds began to sing as if in celebration of spring. Even the trees seemed to turn their branches towards the new silver glow.

“Is this some new evil sent from the north?” he heard one of his courtiers whisper as they joined him in staring at the mysterious object in the western sky.

“I do not believe that,” Elmo replied, awe in his voice. “It is magnificent, not evil.”

“Something evil would not bring the forest to life so,” Celeborn agreed.

The whispering continued around the High King as he studied the sky until Melian gasped. All present looked at her, but she was focused solely on the new light.

“That is Tilion,” she declared, pointing at the disk. “One of Oromë’s hunters. I knew him once.”

The Elves around her remained silent, staring between her, the High King and the light. Thingol was also fixed upon it and the light in his eyes resembled that in the sky.

“And the light itself is that of Telperion, unless I am very much mistaken,” he said softly.

Melian’s eyes widened but she nodded, gazing in wonder at the light. “This is no evil. It is sent by the Valar, but for what purpose, I do not know.”

The Elves that heard that pronouncement all turned back to gaze at the sky as a murmur rose and spread through the people standing in the forest. That the Light of the Two Trees would now be shared with all of Arda was a momentous event—what it signified, they dared not speculate.

*~*~*

Miles to the west and to the north, the light of the Moon glistened off the ice and the silver trumpet of the Elf that led them. The Noldor host struggled forward. Manarindë glared back at the light coldly. It offered no warmth for their journey. It was only a pale shadow of the glory of the Tree that bore it—all the Valar could muster in the face of their defeat. She turned her back on the west and trudged forward towards the promise of a new life.

*~*~*

Adar--Father

Muindor nin--My brother

*~*~*

AN: Some of the same OCs that appear in Interrupted Journeys will also appear in this story. It is not necessary to read that story to understand this one at all.

I have added very few OCs to canon family trees for this story--primarily to explain Oropher's relation to Elu Thingol and Denethor as I want to portray it. That is purely fiction on my part, but since Tolkien does not make those family trees entirely explicit, I have taken some license with them. Otherwise, I will stick to canon--feel free to let me know if I make a mistake. :-)

This story is not entirely complete, but I have it finished through the end of the First Age, so I think I am ready to start posting. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 2: Of the Rising of the Winged Sun over Beleriand

Anar the Fire-golden, fruit of Laurelin, the Valar named the Sun. But the Noldor named it also Vása, the Heart of Fire, that awakens and consumes; for the Sun was set as a sign for the awakening of Men and the waning of the Elves… The maiden whom the Valar chose from among the Maiar to guide the vessel of the Sun was named Arien…and she was chosen because she had not feared the heats of Laurelin, and was unhurt by them, being from the beginning a spirit of fire, whom Melkor had not deceived nor drawn to his service. Too bright were the eyes of Arien for even the Eldar to look on, and leaving Valinor she forsook the form and raiment, which like the Valar she had worn there, and she was as a naked flame, terrible in the fullness of her splendour.

Tilion had traversed the heavens seven times, and thus was in the furthest east, when the vessel of Arien was made ready. Then Anar arose in glory, and the first dawn of the Sun was like a great fire upon the towers of the Pelóri: the clouds of Middle-earth were kindled, and there was heard the sound of many waterfalls. Then indeed Morgoth was dismayed, and he descended into the uttermost depths of Angband, and withdrew his servants, sending forth great reek and dark cloud to hide his land from the light of the Day-star. The Silmarillion: Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor

“It is a beautiful thing,” Amdir said as he settled himself on the broad branch of an oak where the golden shafts of light that danced amongst the leaves could fall on his upturned face. He squinted skyward, admiring the wisps of soft pink that floated above them and the fiery orange that burned on the horizon.  “And it paints the sky with the most marvelous colors.”

A derisive snort sounded below him. Clearly, not all of his four companions, who had climbed into the oak for a clearer view of the sky, agreed with Amdir’s assessment of this new wonder.

“It hurts the eyes,” his younger brother Amglaur replied while turning his back to the bright disk that blazed above them. He leaned against the trunk of the tree, sheltering in its shadows.

“And it hides the stars,” Engwe added, joining Amglaur in the shade.

Oropher scowled at Engwe as Amdir’s smile faded. “I agree with Amdir,” he said firmly. “The colors that this light has revealed are some of the most vibrant I have ever seen. My friend Celonhael—the one who paints,” he paused until the others nodded in recognition of the name. “He has spent hours already just studying the fine variations in the shades of blue in the sky—not to mention the pinks and purples in the clouds and the way the light sparkles from behind the clouds when they pass in front of it. He is busy developing new techniques to mix paints so that their hues are true to the vibrancy of the colors we now see and he is developing new ways to capture the light in his paintings. Lord Thingol was very impressed by what he has done so far and has promised to hang the first piece he completes using his new style in the Great Hall when it is finished.”  He paused and peered through the branches at the heavens. “The Lady says that, just as Tilion steers a flower of Telperion across the sky, this is Arien and a fruit of Laurelin,” he continued with a softer tone.

Amglaur made a sour face. “If a mere flower or fruit from Telperion and Laurelin casts this much light,” he said with a dry tone, “I am glad to have never seen the whole of the Two Trees. Aman must be a very uncomfortable place,” he concluded, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the light.

Amdir laughed lightly, shook his head and looked away from his brother, abandoning the argument. He turned his face back towards the sky.

Oropher, on the other hand, scowled. “My point is: these gifts—I wonder why the Valar have chosen to share them with us now. They have never before bestowed any such boons on the Elves remaining in Middle Earth.”

Engwe shrugged, also bored with the argument and his brother’s typical bickering with Amglaur. “Perhaps to help drive away the evil creatures. Apparently the Orcs flee from the light as if it burns them.”

“It does burn,” Amglaur muttered.

Galathil, who was highest in the tree in order to best escape the debate, sighed loudly. “The trees like the light,” he said as a fresh, green leaf caressed his cheek. “They turn towards its warmth and their song is joyful. Indeed the whole world is in bloom. Such a thing can only be good and that is all that matters.”

“Well said, muindor nin,” declared a voice below them.

All eyes to turned downward to where Celeborn stood looking up at them from the base of the tree. They had not been able to find him when they decided to forgo breakfast to further investigate the new light. Galathil smiled, clearly pleased his brother had found them, and motioned for him to join them in the tree’s embrace. Celeborn complied, leaping into the branches.

“And if you are wise,” the silver elf continued while climbing towards them and looking at each of his friends in turn, “you will maintain an equally respectful attitude in lord Thingol’s presence.” He reached their height in the tree and straddled a branch. “Does that remind any of you of anything? Are we not all supposed to be somewhere?” he asked with a meaningful, if slightly teasing tone.

Galathil tensed. “Is it already time for us to be in court? It is impossible to keep track of the time without the stars.”

Celeborn smiled. “I think it is the song of the trees that is distracting you, little brother. But yes, adar sent me to find all of you. Lord Thingol has already arrived in the Great Hall, but fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your point of view—Eöl waylaid him as he entered. If we hurry, our tardiness may go unnoticed by everyone but our adars.”

Oropher looked at Celeborn sharply. “Eöl is in court today?” he asked, voice rising with amusement.

Celeborn shook his head and leveled a forbidding glare on his friend. “Do not think to jest about this situation, Oropher,” he warned. “Lord Thingol had already heard more from Eöl than he cared to hear when I slipped out to look for you.”

Oropher simply smiled at Celeborn. “I only intend to watch,” he said with a mischievous grin as he began his descent from the tree.

But now the trees of Nan Elmoth were the tallest and darkest in all Beleriand, and there the sun never came; and there Eöl dwelt, who was named the Dark Elf. Of old he was of the kin of Thingol, but he was restless and ill at ease in Doriath, and when the Girdle of Melian was set about the Forest of Region where he dwelt, he fled thence to Nan Elmoth. There he lived in deep shadow, loving the night and the twilight under the stars. The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin

Eöl gave Anglachel to Thingol as fee, which he begrudged, for leave to dwell in Nan Elmoth; but its mate Anguirel he kept, until it was stolen from him by Maeglin, his son… that was a sword of great worth, and it was so named because it was made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star; it would cleave all earth-delved iron. The Silmarillion: Of Túrin Turambar

When Oropher and his cousins approached the High King’s throne room, the guards at its doors stood aside to allow them entrance, and as they passed, the guards bowed. Oropher did not acknowledge the courtesy—he was too busy scanning the room for the king and his cousin. Next to their places around the table at the foot of the dais stood Cellon, Oropher and Engwe’s father, along with Galadhon, Elmo and Tathron, the parents of his cousins. Oropher glanced at his father as his gaze swept over the room, taking in the other nobles also gathered in the Hall. Cellon’s expression was impassive. Nonetheless, Oropher could feel its intensity and it was that warning that prevented him from allowing amusement to show in his own features when he finally spotted Thingol and Eöl.

They stood in a corner at the back of the throne room, Thingol with his back to one of the pillars that supported the high ceiling. Eöl had clearly herded and trapped the king there as he entered the Hall. Eöl stood nearly toe-to-toe with him, whispering and gesticulating in an animated fashion. Thingol’s eyes were closed. As Eöl continued to speak, Thingol rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“It burns the eyes and hides the stars,” Oropher heard Eöl whisper. Thingol’s brows drew together and Oropher could not repress a snort in response to the High King’s reaction to Eöl’s statement—the exact observation that Amglaur and Engwe had made earlier. Oropher looked at his brother and cousin to make sure they had seen the king’s scowl. Their frowns indicated that they had. Before Oropher could gloat, Celeborn pushed him further into the room, past where Thingol stood with Eöl and towards the table where their fathers awaited them. Even if he could no longer see the king, Oropher along with everyone else in the room heard Thingol’s response.

“And that is where this discussion began, if I recall correctly, Eöl. You have made your complaints abundantly clear. Less clear is what you expect me to do about them. I cannot undo what the Valar themselves have done,” he said in an overly patient tone.

“Well, what about her?” Eöl asked. “She is one of them. Can she not do something?”

As Oropher took his place at the table next to his father, he turned just enough to peer at Eöl. He was pointing behind himself in the general direction of the throne where Melian stood awaiting her husband. Oropher’s eyes widened slightly in response to Eöl’s tone as he referred to the Queen. They widened further when he saw the King’s response--Thingol’s expression had turned as cold as the stone that surrounded him, but the heat of his anger was clearly evident in the intense glare he leveled on Eöl.

Before Thingol could speak, Melian answered in a soft voice that echoed throughout the Hall. “Neither can I undo what the Valar themselves have done, Eöl,” she said, walking towards her husband.

Eöl turned towards her sharply. “You can imprison our people with these mists that you have caused to swirl about the forest, but you cannot use them to protect us from this burning light? What good is that?” he demanded.

“It is precisely the ‘protection’ that I, your king, commanded,” Thingol answered. “And the light is the protection bestowed upon us by the Valar. The evil creatures cannot abide it. I would not order it extinguished or hidden even if the Queen had the power to do so.”

“Nor would I choose to extinguish it if I could,” Melian agreed, coming to stand next to Thingol. “The light that now shines over Middle Earth gives life to all that has, until now, laid under the Sleep of Yavanna. I am Yavanna’s servant and I rejoice that finally the beauty of her works may delight Middle Earth as they have long brought joy and solace to the Gardens of Lorien.”

Eöl loosed a short, scoffing laugh. “Well this light brings me neither joy nor solace. I love the stars and I miss their beauty. I will not accept this ‘gift,’ nor will I be held prisoner by you in this forest.” He focused on Thingol. “If you can do nothing, I am going to Nan Elmoth. It is ancient and dense. The trees there should be able to provide what you cannot.” With that, Eöl turned to leave the Hall.

From the corner of his eye, Oropher saw his brother’s jaw drop and realized that his own was hanging open as well in response to Eöl’s disrespect. Thingol’s next words demonstrated he was no better impressed.

“If you think,” the High King said with a hard, forbidding tone that stopped Eöl in his tracks, “that I will allow you to dwell in the same forest where I courted and wed my lady wife after you have spoken to her as you just have, you are a greater fool than anyone ever imagined.”

Only the seriousness of the situation prevented Oropher from laughing openly at that statement—many people had referred to Eöl as a fool, but never to his face.

Eöl turned back to the king, hands balled tightly into fists, his stance tense. But Thingol did not pause to give him time to speak.

“If you are so anxious to be hidden from the light, I will gladly oblige you. I will lock you in a cell in the dungeons before I will see your presence defile the beauty of the forest where I first met my lady wife if this is the way you would treat her. I promise you that there, the light you hate so much will never find you and you will learn the meaning of your accusation—you will learn what it means to be truly imprisoned.”

Eöl’s eyes widened and then swiftly narrowed in response to that threat. The guards at the door of the Hall took a step towards the King and Eöl, unsure how they should react to Thingol’s words and Eöl’s threatening posture. Oropher, his cousins, and indeed all the nobles in the hall watched in tense silence for Eöl’s response, knowing the temper of both elves.

It was Melian’s soft voice that intervened.

“An evil doom lies before you, Eöl, whether you go or stay,” she said. Then she laid a hand on Thingol’s arm. “But the lesser evil will arise from his departure, I believe. My counsel is that you let him go, my lord.”

Eöl’s brows drew together sharply. “My fate is my own and will not be dictated to me by you or anyone else,” he spat.

But Thingol ignored him, instead holding Melian’s gaze for a long moment before turning back to his cousin. “So be it,” he answered quietly. “But you will answer for the disrespect you have shown your Queen.” His voice hardened. “You will forfeit something dear to you in exchange for insulting the person most dear to my heart. You may go to Nan Elmoth, but the price of my leave to do so is Anglachel and Anguirel. Give me those swords in payment or I will not allow you to go—my guards will arrest you if you try,” he pronounced.

Oropher glanced at the sword that hung at Eöl’s side—Anglachel—and watched as Eöl’s face contorted in anger. That sword and its mate, Anguirel, were Eöl’s dearest possessions, the work of his hands and heart. Since he had forged it, long before the battles or even the attacks upon the elves in Beleriand had begun, Eöl had worn his swords proudly. Oropher knew Thingol could not have named a higher price and he knew it was one Eöl would not willingly pay. He found himself moving away from the table and towards the king and queen. And he was not alone. His cousins, father and uncles were all silently doing the same.

Eöl opened his mouth to refuse Thingol’s demand; he shifted his stance, willing to fight if need be. As he did, he saw that Thingol’s council had moved from around the table and now surrounded the king and queen. The guards had also come forward and stood behind him. Scowling bitterly, he drew Anglachel from its sheath on his belt.

Instantly, the guards drew their own swords—eyes wide, clearly horrified to by this turn of events, but still determined to do their duty and protect their king, no matter the adversary. Thingol stepped between Melian and Eöl, arms wide as the noble elves surrounding him stepped forward to lay hands on Eöl.

But Eöl threw Anglachel to the ground at Thingol’s feet. “Take it. But you will not have Anguirel. It goes with me to Nan Elmoth,” he said, and he turned to face the guards behind him, clearly intent on charging past them.

All looked to Thingol for his command.

“I care not at all for swords,” Melian whispered.

Thingol loosed a long breath and waved his hand. The guards stood aside and Eöl stormed from the Hall.

Thingol watched him leave, his jaw clenched tightly. Then he reached for Melian’s hand and brought it to his lips. “No sword nor anything else made by the hands of elves or even the Valar themselves approaches the worth of my wife or my daughter,” he said. Then his gaze turned to the doors through which Eöl had disappeared. “But his insolence should not go unanswered.”

“Nor shall it,” Melian replied, “But others will answer it at another time.”

Thingol nodded and glanced at the elves assembled in the Hall. “As you wish, my lady, “ he replied. He placed Melian’s hand on his arm and covered it with his own. “We have other issues to discuss and we are much better off without Eöl’s hot temper interfering while we do so,” he said, leading her to the dais and gesturing to his courtiers to return to their places.

Oropher found himself releasing the breath he had been holding as he walked behind Thingol to the table.

“I told you this situation was not one to play with,” Celeborn whispered into his ear.

“Indeed not,” he replied. “Of course anyone could predict Eöl’s arrogance would one day lead him to trouble.”

Celeborn looked at Oropher sidelong, a reply on his lips, but instead of speaking, he smiled and shook his head.

“What?” Oropher demanded in a whisper.

Celeborn again shook his head. “Discretion, in this case, is definitely the better part of valor,” he replied and moved to take his seat opposite Oropher. Oropher glared at him narrowly.

Fëanor went up the long Firth of Drengist that pierced the Echoing Hills of Ered Lómin, and passed thus from the shores into the great land of Hithlum; and they came at length to the long lake of Mithrim, and upon its northern shore made their encampment in the region that bore the same name. But the host of Morgoth, aroused by the tumult of Lam-moth and the light of the burning at Losgar, came through the passes of Ered Wethrin, the Mountains of Shadow, and assailed Fëanor on a sudden, before his camp was full-wrought or put in defence; and there on the grey fields of Mithrim was fought the Second Battle in the Wars of Beleriand. Dagor-nuin-Giliath it is named, the Battle-under-Stars, for the Moon had not yet risen; and it is renowned in song. The Noldor, outnumbered and taken at unawares, were yet swiftly victorious; for the light of Aman was not yet dimmed in their eyes, and they were strong and swift, and deadly in anger, and their swords were long and terrible. The Orcs fled before them, and they were driven forth from Mithrim with great slaughter, and hunted over the Mountains of Shadow into the great plain of Ard-galen, that lay northward of Dorthonion….

From the Grey Elves of Mithrim the Noldor learned of the power of Elu Thingol, King in Doriath, and the girdle of enchantment that fenced his realm; and tidings of the Noldor’s great deeds in the north came south to Menegroth, and to the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest. Then all the Elves of Beleriand were filled with wonder and with hope at the coming of their mighty kindred, who thus returned unlooked-for from the West in the very hour of their need, believing indeed at first that they came as emissaries of the Valar to deliver them. The Silmarillion: Of the Return of the Noldor

Thingol looked out over the nobles of his court assembled before him.

“The last time I gathered you together, it was to discuss how we fared against the evil creatures and how we would defend ourselves against future attacks. One question we left unanswered at that time was the means by which the orcs were driven from lord Cirdan’s Havens.” He paused and nodded towards an elf that Oropher recognized as a lord of the Nandor.

“Is that not Saeros, Ithilbor’s son?” Engwe whispered in Oropher’s ear. “What could he be doing here?”

Oropher smothered the smirk he wished to bestow on his little brother, but he could not hide the amusement in his eyes. Engwe and Saeros had long been rivals. “It seems he has found some favor with the King,” he whispered, biting his lip to restrain his laughter at Engwe’s sour face.

“Late last night, the scouts Beleg sent north towards Mithrim returned,” Thingol continued, causing Oropher and Engwe to fall silent again. “Saeros was one of them and I will let him tell what he learned there.”

Saeros stood and bowed to the king, but when he faced the others to speak, his posture clearly betrayed a pride that brought an open scowl to Engwe’s features.

“The news I bring from Mithrim is great indeed,” Saeros began.

Engwe snorted softly, gazing at Saeros with unconcealed contempt. Oropher’s eyes narrowed slightly as well and he saw Amglaur roll his eyes, causing his brother Amdir to turn his head to hide a smile. Celeborn looked a warning at all of his friends that his grandsire Elmo echoed.

But Saeros, oblivious, continued his story. “I was with Beleg when the King ordered that he and his warriors hurry south to aid lord Cirdan. Reaching the Havens, we learned the orcs had turned north of their own accord, not driven by any host of lord Cirdan. So Beleg chose me to lead scouts north to be certain the orcs were not beleaguering our people there.”

“I heard Beleg sent him to be rid of his arrogance,” Engwe whispered.

A hand closed over Engwe’s wrist where it rested on the table, gripping it firmly. “I heard Beleg sent him north to give him purpose so that he would not fade after learning of his adar’s death on Amon Ereb with lord Denethor,” Engwe’s father, Cellon, whispered coldly. “Be silent. And if you cannot feel pity, than at least be respectful of the High King’s messenger.”

The younger elves glanced at each other and returned their attention to Saeros, with impassive expressions firmly in place.

“When we reached Mithrim,” Saeros continued, “we found there, camped around Lake Mithrim, a host of elves whose banner I did not recognize—it bore what appeared to be a winged, golden sun of sixteen points on a blue field. We learned from the Grey Elves that these strangers were responsible for the slaughter of many orcs, including the ones that attacked lord Cirdan. We were told that a host of orcs came through passes in the Ered Wethrin to attack the strangers at unawares as they were setting up their camp. They fought back and drove the orcs to Ard-galen. The orcs assaulting the Havens came north to aid their brethren against the strangers, but were all destroyed. Thus, the Havens were freed.”

“And did you learn who these mysterious ‘strangers’ were, Saeros?” Amdir asked when Saeros paused. His tone was dry, near enough mocking that his father, Tathron, raised his eyebrows disapprovingly.

“That is why you are here, Amdir. To find out who they were,” Thingol responded, looking at the young elves evenly. “Continue, Saeros,” he said with a nod as Oropher and Amdir exchanged a rueful look.

Saeros bowed again and looked back at Amdir with his chin high and an irrepressible gleam in his eyes. “The Grey Elves told me that the strangers are princes of the Noldor—the sons of no less than the High King, lord Finwë, himself—returned from Aman. They say they were sent by the Valar to defend us from the Evil One, who they have named Morgoth,” he declared.

Stunned silence reigned as all present absorbed that information. Then the murmurings began, quickly rising in pitch until voices echoed throughout the stone hall. Thingol allowed it to continue for a long moment before holding up his hand. The room quickly fell silent and all looked to the King with a mixture of wonder and concern.

“My thanks, Saeros, for bringing me this important news,” Thingol said. Then he looked out over the elves assembled before him. “I am pleased to hear news of my friend, lord Finwë, for I have always regretted being sundered from him. And I am hopeful to hear news of my brother, Olwë, from these Princes of Valinor.” He paused and his tone grew more serious. “Indeed, there is a great deal more information that I want.”

Saeros looked at Thingol regretfully, but the King shook his head.

 “No Saeros, you were right to not to tarry in delivering this news. But now that I know what has happened to the orcs besieging the Havens, I have still more questions, for while I will not refuse aid in defeating the Evil One, long have I been King in Beleriand and the ordering of its protection is mine to command.” He paused again and his tone was distinctly frosty when he continued. “Since the sons of Finwë have not yet seen fit to send messengers to the King of the lands they now inhabit, I intend to send my own representatives to them. But the journey north towards the Mountains of Shadow where the Noldor are camped is long and dangerous. Only one with proven skill with arms might undertake it. But this task is not one I will trust to any soldier.”

“I will return, my lord,” Saeros offered at once.

Again Thingol shook his head. “I have more need of you here, Saeros,” he answered.

“Then, if it is your will, my lord, I will go,” Oropher said, standing and leaning forward slightly over the table where he sat next to his father.

Thingol smiled at him. “Along with the rest of the pack that you run with, no doubt,” he said, his smile broadening when Engwe, Amdir and Amglaur all stood and nodded as one.

Thingol looked at Celeborn and Galathil.

Celeborn stood. “Like Oropher, if it is you will, my lord, I would very much like to meet our kin returned from Aman.”

Thingol nodded once. “It is indeed my will that you should go to Mithrim. And this is how you shall speak for me to the sons of Finwë: I am grateful for whatever aid they lent my people in the Havens; and I am anxious for news of my kin and friends in Valinor; but I expect the recognition that I am due as King of Beleriand. They will send a representative to me and quickly to speak to their intent in my lands.”

Oropher and his cousins bowed to signal their understanding and, as Thingol moved to dismiss the assembly, they exchanged pleased and excited glances that were poorly hidden by their bowed heads.

*~*~*

Oropher carefully inspected the blade of his sword before slipping it into its scabbard and girding it securely about his waist. It was the last of the belongings that he had gathered for his journey west and north. He was reaching to heft the bag that contained his clothes and other supplies when the door to his chambers opened. Expecting to see Engwe, his brows rose when, instead, his father entered the room.

Cellon glanced at Oropher’s hand upon the strap of his bag and his held his own hands in front of him, palms out. “A moment, please, before you join your brother and cousins,” he said.

Oropher frowned, but released the strap.

Cellon studied him closely. “I am not surprised that you volunteered to represent the King,” he began, his voice carefully neutral. “And I am pleased the King would choose my sons and nephews for such a serious responsibility,” he continued, placing heavy emphasis on the word ‘serious.’

Oropher sighed and struggled not to roll his eyes. “I will perform that duty faithfully, adar. This is not the first time that the King has asked my cousins and I to bear news in his name to distant parts of the realm.”

“No it is not,” Cellon answered. “But this is the first time you have volunteered to be his messenger. In the past, that has been a duty that you tried to skirt in favor of more pleasing pastimes, like racing your horse or disappearing into the forest with your cousins. So forgive me if I am suspicious of your motivations now. Please tell me what they are,” he demanded.

Oropher scowled and studied his father, judging the likelihood of dodging this conversation. It was immediately obvious there was no chance at all. He sighed again. “I have many reasons, adar. I am curious to meet the elves returned from Valinor and hear their stories…”

“I doubt that,” Cellon, interrupted. “You have never been one to have the patience to listen to stories.”

Oropher’s frown deepened. “And I want to see for myself that my friends near the sea all survived the battles,” he continued as if he had not been interrupted.

“That is more believable,” Cellon said. “Go on.”

“And I want to see the mists that Eöl spoke of,” he admitted with a slight growl to his voice. “I want to know what it is like to pass through the lands that the Lady protects and I want to see for myself if it is truly now impossible to wander freely as we always have.”

“And now we light upon the truth of it,” Cellon said, but if Oropher expected his father to be angry, he was mistaken. Cellon was clearly distressed. “Another of your adventures. The lands outside the forest are no longer safe, Oropher, and this journey will be no game. You will not return if you look upon it as one.” He took a step towards his son and gripped his shoulders. “I will not see my own sons die so soon after seeing so many of my cousins perish in battle. Swear to me that you will be careful, ion nin.”

Oropher’s expression changed from one of irritation to concern. “I was in the battle, adar,” he replied softly. “And they were my cousins too. I will not soon forget naneth’s tears when we returned. We will be careful. And we will deliver the King’s message faithfully.”

Cellon loosed long breath and released him, taking a step back to assess his preparations. “I know that the King chose well when he asked you to represent him, but I worry about you Oropher. I always have,” he said quietly. “In this instance, as in so many before it, I will take comfort in the fact that the King saw to it that Celeborn and Galathil are going with you. At least they can be counted upon for being cool-headed.”

Oropher raised his eyebrows in amusement as he lifted his pack onto his shoulders. “You think so, do you?” he asked provocatively, before stepping around his father to move towards the door.

Cellon put his hands on his hips with a scowl, but he did not stop his son from exiting the room.

*~*~*

AN: Sorry for the outrageous delay in updating this story. I hope that my schedule will now allow me to alternate between updating this and Interrupted Journeys as I originally intended.

Chapter 3: Of the Noldor and the Sindar

Now in Mithrim there dwelt Grey-elves, folk of Beleriand that had wandered north over the mountains, and the Noldor met them with gladness, as kinsfolk long sundered; but speech at first was not easy between them, for in their long severance the tongues of the Calaquendi in Valinor and of the Moriquendi in Beleriand had drawn far apart....

Now rumour came to the camp in Hithlum of the march of Fingolfin and those that followed him, who had crossed the Grinding Ice; … coming at length to Hithlum, he made his first camp and dwelling by the northern shores of Lake Mithrim. No love was there in the hearts of those that followed Fingolfin for the House of Fëanor, for the agony of those that endured the crossing of the Ice had been great, and Fingolfin held the sons the accomplices of their father. Then there was peril of strife between the hosts; but grievous as were their losses upon the road, the people of Fingolfin and of Finrod son of Finarfin were still more numerous than the followers of Fëanor, and these now withdrew before them, and removed their dwelling to the southern shore; and the lake lay between them. Many of Fëanor's people indeed repented of the burning at Losgar, and were filled with amazement at the valour that had brought the friends whom they had abandoned over the Ice of the North; and they would have welcomed them, but they dared not, for shame.

Thus because of the curse that lay upon them, the Noldor achieved nothing, while Morgoth hesitated and the dread of light was new and strong upon the Orcs.

The Silmarillion: Of the Return of the Noldor

Try as he might to urge his mount forward on the shadowy path, the elf only succeeded in making the animal dance skittishly in a circle, the finely engraved decorations on its tack jingling like little bells amidst the silent pines. The horse’s nostrils flared and it stared with wide eyes into the dense woods that grew at the foot of the mountains. Its rider's eyes darted about as he held a lantern high above his head to better peer into the forest. The lantern’s cut crystal lens refracted the light it cast, causing it to flicker over the trees and sparkle as it fell on something silvery amongst them—lichens, perhaps, or pine sap running down a dark trunk. The rider’s other hand gripped the hilt of the finely wrought sword hanging at his belt.

"Are you mad?” a voice called from the darkness further along the path.

The rider gasped in response to this unexpected query and his horse whinnied, rearing slightly. The faint glow of a matching lantern appeared and grew stronger.

"Why do you linger?” the second rider asked urgently while studying the surrounding darkness.

The first elf reined in his mount sharply and kicked its flank hard, finally persuading it to continue along the path. “Curse this dark land and all the dark creatures in it,” he spat.

"Afraid of the dark?” the other asked, while encouraging his own snorting horse to a quick trot.

"There is something amongst the trees,” the first snapped back.

"Yes, owls. Now keep up so that we might finish our patrol and return to our less than adequate beds in that forsaken camp.”

With a last glance into the trees, the elf kicked his horse again. “The faster we get off this shadowy path and back into the open plain, the happier I will be,” he muttered.

The silence that followed his passing was broken only by a soft snuffling noise that sounded suspiciously like snickering. The riders would have assured themselves that it was a fox or some other animal, since their eyes provided no evidence to the contrary. But the riders would have been wrong.

"They have no woodcraft what-so-ever!” an incredulous voice declared as several figures slipped silently from the trees onto the path. A hand signal from each of them brought their horses to their sides from the hiding places they had sought deep in the shadows.

"They certainly might better spend their time learning to ride rather than creating absurd trinkets with which to burden their horses,” another said, shaking his head in disgust. “As if the leatherwork was not sufficiently elaborate, it was encrusted with engraved silver. What could possibly be the purpose of that, except to further annoy the animal? No wonder it did not respect him,” he said, stroking the nose of his own horse as it nuzzled his neck.

"Indeed,” agreed a third. “Fine swords or no, they will not long survive if they see so little.”

"The same could be said about you, my lord Oropher,” a teasing, soft voice said from the trees above them.

As one, the group of elves on the ground turned towards the voice, their hands reaching for their swords. The elf in the tree did not so much as flinch or tense. The amused smile that lit his fair face only grew broader as the noble elves on the path recognized him and relaxed, breaking into grins themselves.

"Galuthaun! You villain! How dare you spy on us while we are busy spying on someone else,” Oropher exclaimed as he reached up to tug at the Green Elf’s cloak.

Galuthaun jumped from the tree, landing lightly next to Oropher and accepting his embrace gladly. As he moved to exchange similar greetings with Oropher’s brother and cousins, another figure descended from the tree and lingered in the shadows. Oropher turned to greet whoever his old friend’s companion might be, but when he did, he leaned forward in surprise.

"Golwon?” he called, taking a step forward, as if to see more clearly. “It cannot be!” he exclaimed as a slender elf stepped closer, nodding. Oropher’s eyes widened. “The last time I saw you, you had only just begun to learn to hunt. Surely it is not safe for you to be out here in the wilds. What ever are you doing here?”

Golwon straightened, trying to stand a little taller. “I am of age,” he said, his chin jutting out in a manner that reminded Oropher of a recalcitrant child. He frowned and drew a breath, but Galuthaun stepped between them.

"Easy, my lord,” he whispered. “Golwon has earned the right to patrol with us. With his own blood and with that of his father and brother.” He paused, still standing between them, and gestured down the path. “We have a camp just inside the forest,” he continued in a voice for all to hear. “Golwon and I had finished our patrol and were returning to the camp when we saw you. Come, join us. You can see the Returned Elves’ camps from it and, while you watch them, you can tell us why you were spying on them rather than greeting them.”

"We did not intend to spy on them," Celeborn answered as he led his horse in the direction Galuthaun had indicated. "We heard something following us and went into the trees for safety until we could identify what it was."

Galathil nodded. "And we dared not approach them after we saw that they were Elves. They were as skittish as deer. Only deer do not carry swords."

Amdir laughed, nodding in agreement. "We feared they might attack us before they realized we were not Enemies."

Galuthaun smiled and shook his head in response. Golwon, in contrast, was oblivious to the conversation, focused instead on scanning the trees as they walked, an arrow nocked in his bow. Oropher followed him with his gaze for a long moment before starting after them.

"Tell us how you and your family have fared, Galuthaun,” he asked. The main reason he had been anxious to go on this mission was to find out how his friends and their lands had come through the recent battles. If children like Golwon were now patrolling for signs of the enemy, he feared to hear the answer to that question.

"My family was very fortunate,” Galuthaun answered somberly. “My eldest brother was badly wounded, and we feared for him. But it seems now that he will recover. Our youngest brother was also wounded, but not so badly. He is nearly recovered. Adar, daeradar, naneth and I were not wounded at all beyond a few cuts.”

Oropher’s gaze flashed to his friend’s face. “Your naneth? Surely she did not fight?” he asked. His cousins all stopped walking and looked back at Galuthaun as well.

"Everyone fought,” Golwon answered. His voice was quiet. “Everyone.”

Oropher and his cousins watched Golwon walk past them before they looked at Galuthaun for an explanation.

"Golwon’s brother and adar were killed,” Galuthaun said softly. “His naneth…well, she was wounded herself and might recover." He shook his head and loosed a long breath. "She is not doing well, though she is trying, for Golwon’s sake. My adar has taken them in,” he concluded, as he followed Golwon down the path. Oropher and his cousins exchanged a wordless glance before following. “I am pleased to see all of you are well,” Galuthaun continued after a pause, making his voice steadier with obvious effort. “We had heard all of the king’s family fell with him and we feared the worst about you.” He looked at Oropher. “The Laegelrim's king, I mean. Lord Denethor. I understand the High King escaped injury.”

"Lord Thingol suffered only minor wounds,” Oropher replied. “Engwe, Amdir, Amglaur and I did not fight directly alongside lord Denethor, else we would indeed have been killed. His position was overrun.”

"We heard he fought valiantly,” Galuthaun said.

"He did,” Oropher answered. “He sacrificed himself to prevent the orcs from escaping. He saved all the people in Ossiriand through his actions, for the orcs would surely have fled there if they had succeeded in escaping. And the Laegelrim would have stood little chance, armed only with bows, against the orcs' armor.”

"We stood here against the orcs with bows and without armor," Golwon countered sharply, hefting his bow and glaring coldly at Oropher and the gleaming hauberk he wore. "We did not retreat before them when they came through the Ered Wethrin."

"I said not that you had," Oropher answered. "I was speaking of the Laegelrim in Ossiriand, not the battle here in Mithrim. Though from what we have heard, save for the presence of the Returned Elves, these lands would have been overrun."

Golwon snorted. "Save for the presence of the Returned Elves, setting fire to their ships--fires that were seen all the way in Angband--Morgoth would have never sent his minions here."

Oropher exchanged a glance with Celeborn, eyebrows raised, in response to that.

"They set fire to the ships they sailed here?” Celeborn asked.

"We have much to discuss,” Galuthaun replied, but he said nothing more.

They walked in silence for a while, until the path nearly leveled off its descent down the mountain and Oropher and his cousins could almost make out the edge of the forest. At this point, Galuthaun and Golwon leapt up, catching a low branch on young pine. Oropher and his cousins followed suit, following them and moving gracefully from branch to branch, until they reached a place where the taller trees' branches were thin, facing the plain and Lake Mithrim. There, they settled onto a simple platform nestled in the branches, used by the watch.

Oropher looked through the branches to see flickering fires illuminating the numerous tents and other, more permanent looking structures around the northern and southern sides of the lake. His breath caught in his throat in horror. The light of the fires was scattered through an unnatural, shadowy mist that enshrouded the lake. He, along with his brother and cousins turned sharply to Galuthaun, their expressions demanding explanation.

"The mists came not long after the second host of elves from Valinor arrived,” Galuthaun said.

"Second host?” Celeborn repeated, sitting cross-legged and facing Galuthaun fully, his back on the Noldorin camp. “A second host came? After the first burned their ships? I think you had better tell us how that could be accomplished. Tell us what you know about these Returned Elves.”

"Yes, my lord Prince,” Galuthaun responded solemnly. And he began his tale. “The first elves came in ships. They were fewer in number and came before the rising of the lights. They burned the ships they came in once they reached the shore. Beautiful ships in the shape of swans, they were. The burning and the noise of their arrival attracted the orcs, as Golwon already said. We would have all perished, but the Noldor pushed them back and they were fey. Their swords shone as brightly as their eyes and the orcs fled before them. Their leader—Feanor, son of Finwe—pressed them to the very gates and Angband, but he was assailed by balrogs and killed...”

"He was killed? Their leader was killed?” Celeborn exclaimed. “We had not heard that.”

"It might explain why they have not yet contacted the King," Galathil said softly.

Celeborn nodded with obvious sympathy.

"So, Finwe himself is definitely not with them?” Oropher interjected.

"Finwe is not here,” Galuthaun confirmed. “We have heard that he was killed in Valinor...”

"Killed in Valinor!” Oropher and several of the others gasped. Not even the Blessed Realm was immune to Morgoth's evils!

Galuthaun nodded. “By Morgoth," he confirmed. "Feanor, his oldest son, pursued Morgoth across the sea, but was killed, as I already explained, by balrogs. And Feanor's eldest son, Maedhros, is also lost. Captured, or killed, I am not sure which, at a parley with Morgoth. The other six sons are amongst those in the camp...”

"Seven sons! This Feanor had seven sons!” Engwe exclaimed, glancing at his brother, eyebrows high.

Oropher looked back at him, amused. “Well, Malthoron has six sons,” he said with a shrug.

"Who is their leader now?” Celeborn asked in an obvious effort to keep the discussion focused. “Who should we address when we approach them?”

"That is the question,” Galuthaun responded. “Maedhros is lost. Feanor's next son is Maglor. I have met him. He is a descent sort. He leads the first host now. But an elf of the second host, Fingolfin, is Feanor's half-brother, and there seems to be some confusion over whether he, or Maglor, is now their king.”

All the elves now stared at Galuthaun. “What is a half-brother?” Amdir finally asked.

Galuthaun leaned towards them and whispered, as if speaking of some dark secret. “Feanor's mother was Finwe's first wife. She passed into Mandos after his birth.”

Everyone's eyes widened in response to that.

"How terrible that a child should be deprived thus of his mother!” Galathil said.

"Finwe took another wife,” Galuthaun hurried to continue.

Gasps were the only response to that declaration.

Galuthaun nodded. “And had two more sons with her: Fingolfin, the oldest, is the leader of the second group of elves. His two sons and daughter came with him, but his oldest son has disappeared from their camp. No one knows where he has gone and everyone fears for him terribly after some of our people shared stories about what happens here to elves that disappear in the night."

"That was unnecessarily cruel," Galathil whispered. "Unthinking, at least."

"Finwe had another son, Finarfin, with his second wife," Galuthaun continued, without pause. "Apparently, he remains in Valinor. Finarfin, we have heard, is now married to Olwe's daughter, Earwen, and they had four sons and a daughter, who all came with Fingolfin's host.”

Oropher shook his head, as if to clear it. “So, we have here in Mithrim, five princes, still living, who are the sons of Finwe's eldest son. Then we have three more princes and a princess in Finwe's second-born and his children. Finally, we have four more princes and a princess, our own cousins, who are the children of Finwe's third-born. What do all these princes of the Noldor and their followers want? Why should they all have come to Beleriand now?”

"And how did the second host come at all, if Feanor burnt their ships? More importantly, why would he do that, with his brothers still on the road behind him? What would such a deed mean?” Engwe added.

"They came to pursue Morgoth to the ends of Arda, is what they claim,” Galuthaun responded. “Or at least so says Maglor. As for how the second host came—they came over the Grinding Ice.”

Now jaws dropped.

"And when they came, Maglor moved his camp from the northern shore of the lake to the southern shore, where you see it now. Believe me, there is absolutely no love between these two hosts of Noldor. In fact, there is open hostility. I think—and this is purely speculation because none of them on either shore of the lake will discuss it—that Feanor abandoned Fingolfin's people instead of sending the ships back for them.”

"But, who would leave behind willing allies when going into battle against Morgoth?” Amglaur asked. “That is the worst sort of folly. The number of his orcs is vast and must be countered by equally large numbers. What could it mean that this Feanor would turn away from willing aid?”

"Perhaps they were not willing,” Galathil suggested.

"They were more than willing,” Celeborn replied. “So willing that they faced the Ice to come.”

"But not so rash as to march straight on Angband before recovering their strength,” Galuthaun said. “I would judge Fingolfin's host the wisest of the two, but Maglor's the most valiant.”

"Whose do we approach?” Celeborn asked, sounding tired.

"If you are seeking my counsel, I would approach Fingolfin, my lord,” Galuthaun replied after a long pause to carefully consider his words. “He is the eldest of Finwe's House present and his is the largest host.”

Celeborn looked at his companions. They all nodded. “Very well, we will speak to them.”

"I will go with you, to help you with their speech,” Golwon said. “Their language is odd and difficult to understand. I have learned it, so I can help you.”

"Very well,” Celeborn agreed, eyebrows raised.

"If it is not overbold, may I ask, my lord, what is your business with the Noldor?" Galuthaun asked.

"The king sent us to remind these Noldorin princes that there is a king in Beleriand who they, at the very least, must acknowledge.”

That pronouncement was met with a loud snort from Golwon. “I wish you great luck making them see that, my lord,” he said. “They look on us as savages. At the very best, servants born. They acknowledge no power but their own and they take what ever pleases them.”

"Savages? Servant born?” Oropher and Engwe repeated as one. “What is that supposed to mean?" Engwe continued.

"And what do you mean that they take whatever pleases them?" Oropher added, his back stiff.

"Some of them have offered to give us what are, in their opinion, better dwellings in exchange for our service," Galuthaun hastened to explain. "Or to show us how to weave finer cloth, dye it brighter colors and adorn it with jewels in exchange for doing tasks for them. Some of our people have agreed. Some feel obliged to do so in recompense for their aid against the orcs."

"Some of us have refused," Golwon interjected, "knowing that they were the ones who attracted the orcs, so they should have been the ones to drive them off. And also knowing that our dwellings in the trees and simple clothes are more than enough." He loosed a derisive noise. "What possible good would bright silk and sparkling jewels do me when I am hiding in a thorn bush from orcs? We do not need their self-proclaimed improvements. Nor do we need them altering our lands to their liking."

"How do they respond to your refusal?" Celeborn asked. "And how have they altered the land here in Mithrim?"

"They look on us with sadness and pity, like a child that fails to tempt a lost dog to come to him and accept the leash by offering it food," Golwon responded.

"And they are building, my lord," Galuthaun added. "Fortifications and houses and other structures. They have taken a good number of trees, both for tools and for construction materials, and they are now taking stone from the mountains."

"You would not believe the sweat they pour over that stone!" Golwon exclaimed. "To cut it from the mountain, shape it into blocks and then lay it, either for roads or buildings. Stone roads! What could possibly be the purpose of such a thing? They tell us they will be used to better haul goods in carts and that might make sense if not for the fact that they refuse to even speak to one another between the camps. Who do they intend to trade goods with? Will they extend their roads to Menegroth or Eglarest or Brithombar to trade there?"

"They had better have permission from the king before they cut paths through the Brethil and Neldoreth for roads," Oropher interjected quietly. There were nods all around in response to that.

"And stone houses! Who needs a stone wall to block out the beauty of the lake and trees and grass? But that is what they want for themselves to live in. And for us to serve in. Let others imprison themselves thusly, for I shall not!" Golwon concluded.

Galuthaun nodded. "Some of our people have moved on, not wanting to be bothered with these Noldorin 'improvements.' But others stay because they are pleased to joined company with long sundered kin or they admire the Noldorin swords or they are curious to learn the crafts they promise to teach."

"And some stay to make sure these Noldor do not destroy our lands or people," Golwon added, his tone making it clear he was one of those.

"What would you have us say to these princes of the Noldor on your behalf?" Celeborn asked. "And what message concerning them should we take back to the king?"

"The same message to both," Galuthaun responded instantly. "The Noldor need to respect us, our customs and our land."

"Then that is what we will tell them," Celeborn promised. "And we will make sure the king hears what is happening here."

Golwon nodded once, satisfied with that answer.

*~*~*

Oropher and Celeborn led their brothers and cousins down the partially finished stone road, behind the guard that had met them at the boundaries of the Noldorin camp. There had been some debate amongst them over who should speak for Thingol--whether Celeborn should go alone, as the oldest and most closely related to the king, whether someone should accompany him and, if so, who, or whether they should all go. In the end, they agreed the numerous princes of the Noldor should face all the princes of Elwe's line who were present. They all went.

As they walked through the camp, Oropher made no pretense of doing anything other than looking, with open curiosity, at the people around him, so very different from the elves he knew in Beleriand. These Returned Elves' eyes were sharp and bright, much more so than even the most noble elves in Thingol's court. More so than anyone save Thingol himself. And Melian. Oropher found himself wondering if such was the effect of Valinor.

As Golwon and Galuthaun had stated, all the elves he saw had their hands busy at something, be it cutting stones or building, sewing or mending clothes or crafting weaponry or household items. And they did not simply stack stones into walls or stitch together garments or carve wooden spoons and bowls. Their stones were intricately hewed with elaborate designs before being fit perfectly into their place. Their fabric was as bright as the grass and flowers in the sunlight, heavily embroidered and embellished. And the hammering from the smithy they had built near the center of their camp reverberated and echoed from the slopes of the surrounding mountains, from which they had already completed a stone road.

"The Grinding Ice did nothing to crush their sense of ambition, did it?" Engwe whispered into Oropher's ear.

"I imagine a tremendous ambition is what would be necessary to drive one to make such a journey in the first place," Oropher answered. His own words soured in his mouth like vinegared wine. What sort of ambitions must they have to be driven to such a feat and what effect would those ambitions have on the land and people he loved?

He had little time to dwell on such thoughts. His open stares naturally attracted the attention of the working elves and when they looked back at him, their reactions gave him something else to marvel at. Some, when they saw him, merely froze and gaped at him. Others gasped. Some all but fled, ducking back into whatever shelter was nearest. Not one of them could meet his gaze, even with their piercing eyes. A rolling murmur preceded them up the road, causing people to glance in their direction and then hide themselves.

Oropher frowned. Why would they react so? For a moment he feared they faulted his appearance. After all, these refugees, who had struggled over the Ice and were now at labor, were dressed with more finery than he exhibited here in the land of his birth, while representing his king to their princes. No jewels studded his collar, no rings or necklaces or broaches adorned his person, no silk cloth billowed about him. Perhaps they thought him unworthy to meet their lords. Perhaps they thought him a wildling and feared him. He reflexively tugged at the hem of the deerskin jerkin he wore under his mail. He was dressed perfectly appropriately for having just traveled months from Menegroth nearly to the sea, he muttered to himself, his chin rising. But as soon as he thought that, he realized his apparel could not be the reason for their odd behavior. Only the guard escorting them knew their purpose in the camp. Next he speculated they were offended that he bore arms--his bow and sword--into their camp. That, he could certainly understand, but it could not be the problem either. All the Noldor were armed, most with swords at least as fine as the one he carried. Even the ellyth amongst them.

One elleth in particular caught Oropher's attention. She obviously had some Vanyarin ancestor, like his friends of the House of Malthoron. Her hair was golden fair, but shot through with strands of silver, very like that of the House of Thingol. Oropher wondered if this might be one of Earwen's children--one of his cousin's.

She stood, watching him, unflinchingly, amongst a group of several ladies warping standing looms and guarded by a very young warrior, barely of age. When the young warrior turned in response to the sound of the whispers and caught sight of Celeborn, Galathil, Engwe and Oropher, he dropped openly into a fighting stance, albeit an utterly panicked one, and his hand fumbled at the sword hanging at his waist. One of the weavers--an elleth with raven hair--darted around from behind her loom and snapped something at him in their oddly familiar but incomprehensible language while seizing his sword arm. The young warrior yielded to her automatically. She must be an older sister, or perhaps even his mother, Oropher thought. Another dark-haired elleth, obviously a relation, looked to the first with wide eyes, clearly seeking comfort. The young warrior shot some hot words back at the elleth. Those three were siblings, Oropher concluded. No one spoke to their mother with that tone.

The golden-haired elleth put an end to the entire exchange with one quiet word that elicited a curtsy from the older, dark elleth, sent the younger one immediately back to her needlework and brought the young warrior to attention.

The golden one holds authority, Oropher thought. His attention remained focused on her as she stepped away from the group of weavers and followed the party of Sindarin elves at a safe distance. Even with his back to her, Oropher felt her eyes bore into him.  

"What are they saying?" Celeborn whispered to Golwon, referring to the murmurs around them.

"They are speaking of your hair, saying you must be related to Olwe, which, of course, you are. They call you Swan Lords and use that title with some fear. They speculate if you are here for vengeance or reparations," he whispered back.

Vengeance? Swan lords? Oropher thought, exchanging a confused glance with his cousins. What is a Swan Lord and what could be so frightening about swans? Did it have something to do with the swan-shaped ships these princes burnt upon their arrival? And what did any of that have to do with their uncle Olwe? He shook his head and gave up trying to find an explanation for their odd behavior.

They were approaching a finished stone building near the center of the camp. It was tall as a young tree and very wide. Elegantly designed and richly embellished. This was their princes' home, Oropher concluded. Fitting. And well done in such a short time.

The guard led them through its gilded wooden doors into an antechamber with a polished granite floor, signaling for them to wait while he spoke with another guard at the entrance to the main Hall. The second guard disappeared into the Hall.

In his absence, the fair-haired elleth strode into the antechamber and circled around the visiting elves. She looked like a warrior searching for weakness in the enemy's front.

Their guard snapped to attention at her glance.

"Who are these armed strangers that you lead so willingly into our lord's Hall," she demanded, speaking Sindarin in the same flat, nasally accent the guard had used.

"Representatives of Lord Elwe, my lady," the guard answered promptly, also in Sindarin. "Come from Menegroth."

The elleth relaxed visibly, her stance immediately less battle-ready. "You are Elwe's kin, then, not Olwe's?" she asked, now smiling pleasantly. Oropher blinked at the transformation from predator to hostess. "His sons, perhaps? But we heard he had only one daughter. His grandsons then?"

"Some of us are Elu's youngest brother Elmo's grandsons, my lady," Celeborn answered with a polite bow. "In our language, Elwe is called Elu. I am Celeborn and this is my brother, Galathil. We are the sons of Elmo's son, Galadhon. These are our cousins, Oropher and Engwe, sons of Elmo's daughter, Doroniel. And, finally, Amdir and Amglaur, sons of Naethos, grandsons of Ithilbor, a lord of the Laegelrim."

"And you, I would wager, are Olwe's kin," Oropher interjected quietly. "The daughter of Earwen, I would guess, and, thus, Olwe's granddaughter and our cousin."

That statement forced the lady-warrior back a step. "I am Earwen's daughter and Olwe's granddaughter," she confirmed after a deep breath. "If you know that, you should also know that Lord Finarfin is my father, King Finwe is my grandfather and my grandmother is Indis, the High King Ingwe's kin."

"And of all the names my sister has given you," a new voice, emerging from the Hall, declared, "none of them were her own. How typical."

Oropher and all his cousins turned to face another golden-haired elf. Three dark-haired elves flanked him.

The fair-haired elf smiled at them, even as he studied them, one by one. "I am Finrod Finarfinion and this is my sister, Nerwen. Or, at least that is the name our mother gave her. Our father named her Artanis, but our cousins call her Alatariel."

Oropher blinked and stared at her in response to that introduction. The elleth again looked more like a warrior than a lady as she glared at her brother. He grinned back at her, unabashed. One of the dark-haired elves shook his head with a long suffering look.

"How do you prefer to be addressed, my lady," Celeborn asked diplomatically.

"I will leave you to draw your own conclusions, Lord Celeborn," she replied.

Celeborn regarded her silently a moment and then turned to the dark-haired elves.

"I am Fingolfin," the tallest of them said. "This is my son, Turgon..."

"And this is my brother, Angrod," Finrod concluded, placing a hand on the shoulder of the elf that had shook his head a moment before.

"Your parents and cousins gave multiple names to your sister only?" Engwe asked, his tone dry. "We have no options for how to address you? How dull."

Celeborn slowly turned a level glare on Engwe, but Finrod only continued smiling. "In truth, my name is Findarato. Finrod is what your people have named me. My mother named me Ingoldo..."

"And his siblings and and cousins name him many things, though perhaps none of those names are appropriate to repeat at this moment," the many-named elleth interrupted with a honey-sweet tone. She turned to Engwe. "And if anything is dull, perhaps it is the fact that so many of you are simply variations of some tree--Galadhon, Celeborn, Galathil, Oropher..." she allowed her voice to trail off and arched an eyebrow.

The elf that named himself Fingolfin, stepped forward. "I am certain that the lords of Beleriand did not travel from the forest to the sea to banter about names," he said. His tone made clear that neither did he have the time or inclination to do so.

Oropher tensed, remembering Galuthaun's story about Fingolfin's long missing son. No doubt this elf was in no mood for foolishness.

"We have come to greet you in the name of Elu Thingol, High King of Beleriand," Celeborn replied formally. "And to extend to you his invitation that you and he might renew the ancient friendship between the Noldor and Teleri by allowing him to properly host you in Menegroth, rather than from afar, here at Lake Mithrim, and by the proxy of these elves," he indicated Golwon, "our kin. He will be deeply grieved when we deliver news of the death of his great friend, and chosen brother, Finwe, but it will surely assuage his grief, at least somewhat, to meet Finwe's sons and grandsons. And to learn that our two Houses have been joined in marriage."

The princes of the Noldor exchanged a glance that could only be described as uncomfortable. "Please join us in the Hall," Fingolfin said, standing back and gesturing for them to pass through the tall, double doors behind him. "We have much to discuss and learn about one another."

Celeborn nodded. That there was much to discuss was not to be denied. He led his cousins into the Hall.

*~*~*

Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the Northlands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth underground. Long before, in the bliss of Valinor, before Melkor was unchained, or lies came between them, Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros; and though he knew not yet that Maedhros had not forgotten him at the burning of the ships, the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart. Therefore he dared a deed which is justly renowned among the feats of the princes of the Noldor: alone, and without the counsel of any, he set forth in search of Maedhros; and aided by the very darkness that Morgoth had made he came unseen into the fastness of his foes. High upon the shoulders of Thangorodrim he climbed, and looked in despair upon the desolation of the land; but no passage or crevice could he find through which he might come within Morgoth's stronghold. Then in defiance of the Orcs, who cowered still in the dark vaults beneath the earth, he took his harp and sang a song of Valinor that the Noldor made of old, before strife was born among the sons of Finwë; and his voice rang in the mournful hollows that had never heard before aught save cries of fear and woe.

Thus Fingon found what he sought. For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment.

The Silmarillion: Of the Return of the Noldor

The Hall of the Princes of the Noldor was well appointed. Especially so for elves that had crossed the Helcaraxe. Oropher idly studied the intricately carved legs of his brother's chair. And the stitching of his own chair's upholstered arm. A very pretty pattern, almost like a honeycomb. And comfortable. Soft. He imagined the Noldor were glad they took the time to make their furniture so luxurious since Celeborn was exhausting them so.

People called him stubborn! Oropher thought, stifling a snort as his cousin insisted to Fingolfin--again--that some representative of the Princes of the Noldor must return with them to Menegroth. Or at least follow soon after them. Celeborn had politely but steadfastly turned every effort to divert the conversation away from that topic into an opportunity to pursue it. And he had countered every one of their arguments to excuse themselves from that responsibility. Thingol would be pleased.

To his right, Nerwen--Oropher had decided he thought the golden-haired elleth's mother had named her most correctly--grimaced almost imperceptibly after swallowing a sip of wine. It was the berry wine the Laegelrim came to Mithrim every year to make. It was sweet. Perhaps too sweet for her taste. She turned an apologetic look upon him when she realized he noticed her slip in decorum.

"I beg your pardon," she said with a practiced, diplomatic tone, addressing Oropher to the side of Celeborn's conversation with Fingolfin. "We are, of course, most grateful to have wine to drink. The Laiquendi, your subjects, have been more gracious in their reception of us than we could have hoped to expect and we truly appreciate their generosity. It is only..." she hesitated and smiled at him. "We," she indicated her brothers and cousins with a wave of her goblet, "are accustomed to wine pressed from a more cultivated source. We have vineyards in Aman, with finely cultured grapes. But this fruity wine," she hastened to add when Oropher only looked at her silently, "it has spirit, rather like your subjects."

"A savage spirit," Oropher answered, coolly, remembering Golwon's words from the night before. "And they are not my subjects. They are my people. My mother is Elu's niece, but my father is Lenwe's cousin. I descend from both the Lindar and the Laegelrim."

"And thus your family's fascination with trees, I suppose," Nerwen replied, not one to be cowed by confrontation was she. "If you dwell in them, it stands to reason you name yourselves after them--perhaps after the sort you were born in."

"I hope that when we finally are able to travel to Menegroth, we will learn how you make this most excellent mail," Fingolfin declared, rather loudly, before Oropher could reply. He seemed to be making yet another effort to change the subject in his conversation with Celeborn. He was likely also trying to forestall the argument he felt brewing between his cousin and his guest.

His comment elicited sharp, if dubious, glances from all the Noldor. It could not be more obvious that they doubted Fingolfin's judgement of the quality of the mail. They could doubt it all they wished, Oropher thought. It would never be the Noldor that tested it. The orcs of Beleriand had tested it thoroughly and found it more than a match for their weapons. That was all that mattered to Oropher. He cared not at all for the Noldor's admiration or scorn of his weaponry, wine or anything else.

"Have you looked at it closely?" Fingolfin asked, gesturing to Celeborn's mail coat while looking at his children and nephews. "It is woven so closely that I cannot even see light through it."

Oropher suddenly found his hauberk the object of the intense scrutiny of the Noldor closest to him, initially only out of polite interest, but soon Turgon leaned toward him and boldly fingered the rings of his mail.

"How is this woven?" he asked, trying and failing to separate the rings.

"It is a variation of the Four-in-One weave, using a box chain," Oropher answered. "We call it a Bird's Nest, but the Naugrim that make it for us have a different name for it."

Celeborn made a small, somewhat alarmed noise in response to the term Naugrim.

Oropher ignored his cousin and smiled at Turgon. "You will not separate those rings, no matter how you try to shift them. Arrows with bodkins will not separate them. I know this from experience. So your fingers certainly will have no success."

"It is a marvelously tight weave, you are right, Atar," Turgon said, still studying it and, thus, failing to notice Celeborn's reaction. "And not terribly heavy, even with the additional rings," he added, now hefting the skirt of the hauberk in his hand.

"Naugrim?" Finrod repeated. "There is a division of your people that you call the Naugrim?" He was trying to sound diplomatic, but was not entirely successful.

"They are better called the Gonnhirrim," Celeborn intervened, "And they are not Elves. They call themselves the Children of Aule and other names, besides, perhaps, but those they do not share with us. Their language is secret. They live in the Ered Luin in the far east. They are...shorter people." He hesitated and lowered his voice. "They are not lovely," he whispered. "And they are...they have a good deal of hair, but on their faces, which they are very proud of." He gestured as if stroking a beard, to the obvious confusion of all the Noldor. "But they do masterful work with steel," he continued in a stronger voice, "as you can see. And with stone. They delved Menegroth for us and forged many of our weapons."

"Not elves, yet they speak," Finrod said. "Quite curious. And they built those caves we hear your King lives in. Hmmm."

Oropher was not certain what to make of Finrod's tone.

"I believe I have heard of these Children of Aule," Fingolfin said. Then he frowned and looked down. "I heard Fingon discussing them once with Maedhros." His voice was quiet and faltered over his son's name. "I thought their existence was only a fable."

"I must say," Finrod said. "I would be interested in meeting these Gonnhirrim if they can make mail like this. It is uncommonly fine."

"The smithies where they make it for us are in Menegroth," Celeborn replied. "We could show them to you and introduce you to their smiths when you come to speak with the King."

Oropher stifled a snort in response to the exasperated expressions this latest change of subject elicited.

"The Sindar are single-minded. No doubt about that," Nerwen commented, lifting her glass to Celeborn in a gesture that seemed more mockery than salutation.

It was the name she just used rather than her demeanor that captured Oropher's attention.

Celeborn's too, apparently. "What did you call us?" he asked. "Sindar? Why do you call us that?"

"We thought that in your language it meant...well, the color, like your cloaks," Fingolfin explained, pointing at the muted fabric draped over the otherwise brightly colored chairs.

"It does," Celeborn replied, still sounding confused. "But that is not the name of our people."

"We are the Teleri," Oropher said.

"Though we also call ourselves the Lindar," Amdir said.

"And the Eglath," Amglaur added.

"Sindar seemed an appropriate name to us," Turgon said. "Since everything here, from your clothes, to the land itself is so grey. Even you named this land Mithrim."

"And the word Sindar comes from your own King's name. Elwe Sindacollo," Nerwen said.

"It is rather bold to rename a people who have already named themselves, is it not?" Engwe asked.

Fingolfin smiled an overly patient smile. "Your people re-named me, after all. Just as my half-brother's father-name was Curufinwe, I was also named after our father. My name is not Fingolfin. It is Finwe Nolofinwe. Nor is my brother's name Finarfin. It is Finwe Arafinwe. I have not complained that you pronounce my name in the fashion of your people's speech."

As Fingolfin spoke, Oropher concealed his mouth behind his wine goblet, pretending to take a drink, in order to hide his laughter. Finwe named all three of his sons after himself! No, that was not self-centered. Not at all.

"And the lady Nerwen thought our tree-based names were dull by virtue of being repetitive," Engwe said softly.

Celeborn pointed at him to silence him. "Enough of names," he commanded. Defiance flared in Engwe's eyes, but Celeborn had already turned back to Fingolfin. "Call us Sindar if you wish. As long as you come to Menegroth, I doubt the King will care."

Oropher grinned, waiting to see how Fingolfin would change the subject this time. He had not need to try.

At that moment, the doors to the Hall flew open and a guard entered along with an elleth. "My lords," he called, not waiting for leave to speak. "Lord Fingon has returned. With Lord Maedhros. They are in the northern camp." He nodded to the elleth, and gave her a a gentle push forward, encouraging her to speak.

She curtsied. "My name is Helindilme. My Atar and I are...we came with Lord Feanor. We are healers. Atar is treating Lord Maedhros, but he sent me to ask for aid. For medicine. I can tell you what he needs...what we would use in Aman, but I do not know if the same medicines are available in these lands. We need a healer who knows better the herbs that grow here. Preferably one with experience...." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord Maedhros has lost a limb. His right hand. He yet survives, but he needs someone skilled with that sort of injury. Neither Atar nor I have ever treated severed limbs. We do not know how to close such a wound."

Golwon, who had stood to the side of the room with the Noldorin servants and guards throughout this conversation, stepped forward. "My cousin is a surgeon. She has treated many warriors that lost limbs in battle."

Fingolfin turned to him. "Fetch her," he commanded. "And whatever medicine she and this elleth deem necessary. I will escort you myself to the northern camp."

Golwon looked to Celeborn and, after a nod from him, rushed from the Hall.

Meanwhile Fingolfin stood and grasped the elleth by both arms. "Fingon? What news of him?"

"He is uninjured save some minor cuts that have already largely healed," the elleth quickly reassured him. "And he is being hailed as a hero, my lord. They are calling him Fingon the Valiant and Lord Maglor is already leading songs in his praise. Lord Fingon told us that he retrieved Lord Maedhros from the very walls of Thangorodrim, where he found him in the mists, hanging caught by an iron ring around his wrist. He cut him down." She swallowed hard while making a slashing motion across her wrist. "That is how Lord Maedhros lost..." she drifted to silence and gestured with her left hand to her right. "The lord of the eagles bore them back to our camp."

"Valar preserve us," Fingolfin whispered. Then he turned back to his guests. "If you will excuse me. Fingon is..."

"Your son. Yes, we know," Celeborn said. "We heard that he was feared lost. We rejoice with you that he and Lord Maedhros have returned. It is not often that one survives Thangorodrim."

Fingolfin only nodded to that before leading the healer from the room.

*~*~*

Oropher stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back into the embrace of the slender pine that supported the platform he was happy to once again share with Galuthaun, Golwon, his brother and cousins.

"Maedhros admitted they deserted the second host. I heard him say it," Golwon was whispering to Galuthaun. "I heard him ask forgiveness for it and claim he suggested the ships return for Fingon, at least, but his father refused to allow it."

"Fool," Engwe muttered.

Oropher was not the only one there to nod in agreement with that sentiment.  

"More than that," Golwon rushed to say, holding out his hands to silence them. "Maedhros yielded rule of the Noldor to Fingolfin, saying he was the oldest son of Finwe still alive..."

"But Maedhros is the oldest son of Finwe's oldest son. Do they pass inheritance differently from that?" Amglaur asked.

Golwon shrugged. "Apparently they pass it through all the father's sons before moving on to the next generation because Fingolfin accepted Maedhros's oath. And those of his younger brothers, though I would say not all of those oaths were made with full hearts."

Eyebrows rose in response to that.

"I heard some of Maedhros' brothers whispering. Calling themselves the Dispossessed. And they sounded bitter when they said it. Especially one I heard the Laegelrim servants call Caranthir. Still, they have already begun to plan together how they will  lay seige to Thangorodrim," Golwon concluded.

"May they succeed in that endeavor," Galathil said.

Everyone nodded.

"Though I doubt they will," Amglaur added.

Grim nods followed that observation as well.

Then Golwon's eyes lit with mischief, making him look every bit the barely adult that he was. He faced Engwe. "Since you found Curufinwe, Finwë Nolofinwe and Finwe Arafinwe amusing, you will enjoy hearing the father-names of Feanor's sons that I learned while in their camp," he said, leaning towards Engwe eagerly.

"Yes?" Engwe replied, affecting a bored tone.

"Nelyafinwe, Canafinwe, Turcafinwe, Morifinwe, Curufinwe, Pityafinwe and Telufinwe," he said gleefully.

The older elves all burst out laughing.

"You cannot be serious," Oropher exclaimed.

"How could I make that up?" Golwon retorted. "I am completely serious."

"I thought Finwe, Fingolfin, Fingon, and Finarfin were difficult enough to keep straight!" Amglaur said. "Finwe, finwe, finwe...that is simply impossible."

Oropher laughed at that in large part because, for once, he and Amglaur were in total agreement.

*~*~*

Author's Notes:

For those of you waiting for an update of Interrupted Journeys, not to worry. It will be along on Wednesday or so. I was just inspired to polish and publish this chapter when looked back at it while trying to remember exactly what I wrote about Helindilme.

Normally, I don't do so many of notes, but just to help with some of the language and customs that might be confusing:

1) Laegelrim  is the Sindarin term for Green Elf--the Elves that followed Lenwe and later Denethor abandoning the westward journey to Valinor. Laiquendi is the Quenyan term for the same people.

2) The Noldor in Fingolfin's camp are reacting as they are since they remember the Kinslaying in Alqualonde, where many of them killed Olwe's people.

3) Regarding Noldorin naming conventions: the Noldor receive a name from their father at birth and may receive another, later, from their mother. Some receive names from others or rename themselves. Nerwen, Galadriel's mother-name, means Man-maiden.  Artanis, Galadriel's father-name, means Noble Maiden.

4) Galadh is Sindarin for tree. Galathil may come from the same root. Celeborn means Silver Tree. One possible interpretation of the root of Oropher's name is oak.

5) The dwarves made the best mail ever created. From the Silmarilion: "...in the tempering of steel alone of all crafts the Dwarves were never outmatched even by the Noldor, and in the making of mail of linked rings, which was first contrived by the smiths of Belegost, their work had no rival." Of the Sindar

6) Naugrim is Sindarin and means 'stunted ones.' Gonnhirrim is also Sindarin and means 'masters of stone.'

7) Sindar, meaning Grey Elves, is the name the Noldor gave to Thingol's people. They called themselves the Lindar (singers) and Eglath (forsaken, in reference to the fact they were left behind in Middle Earth when the other Teleri went to Valinor).

8) Nelyafinwe is Third Finwë (Maedhros' father-name), Canafinwe is Strong Voiced Finwe (Maglor's father-name), Turcafinwe is Strong in body Finwe (Celegorm's father-name), Morifinwe is dark Finwe (Caranthir's father-name), Curufinwe is Skilled Finwe (Curufin's father-name), Pityafinwe is little Finwe (Amrod's father-name) and Telufinwe is last Finwe (Amras' father-name).