The holly branches scratched his hands, but Thranduil barely noticed.  He was much too preoccupied trying to muster up enough yuletide spirit to look forward to the festivities scheduled for that evening.  Surprisingly, the bright colors and the sounds of traditional carols were actually stirring a spark of genuine hope in the depths of his heart.  It had been years since they had celebrated anything in the halls of Menegroth, but now it seemed they might dare hope for some renewal.

The decorating was truly a group effort this year.  The great hall was crowded with individuals of every rank and station just trying to be involved and to find some diversion from the griefs that had prostrated the entire realm.  The dead were buried, Doriath had a new king and queen, and all but the deepest scars of the Dwarvish rape of the city had been repaired or concealed.  The minstrels were glad to finally put away their laments and fill the air with more festive music.   

“I think it is finally long enough,” Galadhmir said with some satisfaction, tying the last holly sprig onto the garland and attaching a hook.  He climbed up the enormous ladder and secured the hook to the chains of the blazing light fixture at the center of the ceiling while Thranduil steadied him from below.  They gathered the remaining length in great loops over their arms and secured the other end to the wall in the same manner.  Several long garlands now radiated out from the center of the room like ribbons from a maypole.  

Many of them were already dressed in their holiday finery, enjoying the chance to wear it again.  Gems glinted everywhere, as though the stardust had been scattered throughout the room.  Thranduil wore his belt studded with large emeralds, and even Galadhmir, though not of a wealthy family, had white crystals sewn onto his collar.  An encouraging enthusiasm was burning like an ember in the heart of the city, and soon the two of them gladly joined their strong voices to the chorus reverberating through the hall.

Wreaths of pine boughs were being woven and hung.  Extra candlesticks were being placed.  The old holiday tapestries were rediscovered and hung along the walls.  King Dior was apparently quite determined to make as fresh a start as possible.

“Even the coronation did not require so much effort,” Galadhmir mused.  They stood back to admire their handiwork over a glass of spiced wine.  “This always was one of my favorite seasons.”

“But you like every season,” Thranduil smiled.

They wandered back through the wide hallways toward the front gates, admiring each room now in full yuletide glory.  The king's young sons Elured and Elurín were running about, trying to be useful but mostly making an amusing distraction of themselves.  Their boundless energy was infectious.

“I need to get out,” Thranduil said at last, longing for the freedom of the woods and the crisp smell of snow.  "I have had my fill of cutting sprigs and tying knots.”

“It can be rather tedious,” Galadhmir admitted, rubbing his worn fingertips before grabbing some nuts for himself.  “But at least wait to eat first.  You know how impatient you can be when you are hungry.”

Thranduil laughed, but could not argue.  “Very well, I can wait.”

The fountains which fed all the cisterns throughout the city continued their lively splashing in the corridor, throwing cold droplets like liquid glass.  Almost everyone was beginning to migrate back toward the great hall now that there were savory smells in the air.  They were all smiling, and there was an air of happiness and contentment about the place that they had not known for some time.

“Come on,” Galadhmir said, elbowing him in the ribs.  “Let's get some food.”

They had scarcely taken three steps before they stopped.  There was a growing sound of shouting behind them.  The nearest musicians faltered as the shouting became screams and frantic orders from the guards to shut the gates.

Without a word, Thranduil and Galadhmir ran back toward the noise.

People were flooding away from the outermost chambers in a panic when they arrived at the gates.  “What is it?” Thranduil demanded of the captain of the guard.

“Fëanorionnath!” he shouted back, barricading the gates with a massive beam.

Thranduil risked a glance out of the nearest arrow slit, and felt the blood drain from his face.  A dreadful black mass of horsemen and infantry were indeed breaking through the tree line and thundering toward the bridge. 

There was no time.

“Arm yourselves!” the captain shouted, waving them away as his archers manned the embrasures.  “The gates will not hold.  Clear the people from the hall!”

The festive atmosphere in the hall had already turned to chaos when they ran back through.  People were screaming, crying, running for their own chambers and calling for their loved ones.  The bravest among them were tearing open the armory closets and throwing swords to whomever would catch them.  A horrible crashing could be heard from the front gates.

Thranduil joined the panicked crowd, scrambling back toward his family’s quarters.  He was near panic himself.  This could not be happening, not again!  He burst through the door of Oropher’s house, stumbling over the threshold. 

“Father!” he called desperately, knowing even as he said it that the place was empty.  He sprinted to his room and grabbed his sword and scabbard from their place on the wall, strapping them to his waist as quickly as his fumbling fingers would allow. 

Fear was pulsing through every vein as he began to realize he may not survive the night.  A bestial horde of Dwarves had been bad enough, but now an army of merciless Kinslayers was beating down the gates.  His stomach turned violently at the thought, and he retched on the carpets before he could stop himself. 

The screaming grew louder and even more frantic as people began trampling each other in their haste to escape.   As much as he wanted to join the stampede of terrified Iathrim headed for the forest, Thranduil scraped up his courage and leapt back against the tide, knowing he had to at least try to defend the city, however hopeless it may be.

Halfway back to the great hall, the corridors were already littered with corpses and slick with garish trails of bloody footprints.   Tapestries were burning where the candles had been knocked against them.  Golodhrim were running in all directions, murdering and pillaging as they went.

Too late, Thranduil saw three bloodied Fëanorian swordsmen leaving a ransacked room as he ran past.  They came after him, and he hesitated only a moment before running desperately in the other direction.  Halfway down the corridor, he turned a corner and skidded behind a huge pillar, drawing his dagger. 

He had only a single moment to swallow his terror, to disassociate himself from the abhorrent thing he was now forced to do.  Then he spun back into the corridor, sinking his blade into the throat of the first Fëanorian bearing down upon him, ducking away as the others stumbled over their stricken comrade.  With another swipe he crippled the second behind the knee.  The third turned on him, but Thranduil pulled him too close for swordplay, slashed the inside of his thigh and threw him back, leaving him to bleed to death.

Smoke was filling the corridor, roiling out of a room engulfed in flames.  Thranduil turned and ran toward the throne room.  There was a cache of weapons there and it would be the most likely place to gather. 

Another soldier leapt after him at the corner, startling him enough that he slipped in the blood and fell hard to the floor.  He rolled and reached up just in time to deflect a jarring blow from the enemy sword with his dagger.  At the same moment, an arrow slammed through a weak point in the Fëanorian’s armor and put him down.

“Thranduil!” shouted Captain Baranlas, nocking another arrow.  Grim despair had hardened his features.  “Fall back to the king’s quarters, my lord!  I shall defend this corridor behind you.”

Thranduil drew his sword and obeyed without question.  He doubted he would see Baranlas again.  Everything seemed lost.

At last, he burst into the throne room.  A dozen arrows were trained on him, and then lowered.  At least a hundred lords, soldiers, scouts and marchwardens were gathered there around Dior and his family.  The king beckoned to him.

“Oropher,” Dior said grimly, “I fear our plight here is more desperate than we expected.  As the nearest kinsmen left to me here, I would ask one last service of you and your son, if it is indeed to be my last.”

“You have but to ask, my lord,” Oropher assured him.  Thranduil was relieved to see both his parents there, and they him, though they might all die yet.

“Take my daughter into the wood,” Dior said.  “Make certain she escapes the ruin of this city and the grasp of the Kinslayers.”

Thranduil glanced around, noticing that Elured and Elurín were missing.  Elwing, a child of only three years, clung desperately to her mother’s neck, eyes wide with terror.

“Go,” Dior insisted, forestalling any protests Oropher may have.  “I will stay to defend what is mine, but my mind would be easier if I knew she was with you.”

“I will defend her with my life, my lord,” Oropher promised, clearly ill at ease with the idea of abandoning his king in the face of the enemy.

A loud, splintering crash echoed through the hall as the doors were assaulted from the other side.

“Go now,” the king commanded them. “before they breach!  I would not have them follow you.”  The queen and the princess exchanged one last grasping farewell before Oropher pulled Elwing away with him.  The doors gave way and a crowd of Golodhrim spilled into the hall, two grim lords at their head.  Oropher, Lóriel, Thranduil, and two of the royal guards ducked out of the room with the princess under the first hail of arrows.

They ran as quickly as they could for the south gates.  Maimed and dismembered bodies lay strewn over the floor, men and women alike.   Some individual Fëanorians gave chase, but gave up when the fleeing Iathrim failed to engage them, enticed by easier plunder. 

A thunderous command echoed through the corridor behind them, attracting the immediate attention of all the Golodhrim in the area.  Thranduil looked back and saw a huge captain, a diadem on his brow, pointing them out.  At once, three warriors came after them, bloodied blades drawn.

It was clear these pursuers would not be easily shed, and Thranduil grabbed one of their two guards, intending to engage them.  Oropher spared one agonized glance back, understanding Thranduil’s plan but hating to leave him.  Side by side, Thranduil and the guardsman turned and braced themselves in the corridor, blades up.

The three Fëanorians fell upon them in a vicious attack.  Thranduil parried several shattering blows before slinging the other’s blade aside and thrusting upward beneath the chin.  Blood spewed from the Golodh’s mouth, and in that moment of disorientation Thranduil wrenched his blade out of his opponent's palate, kicked him down and dealt a death blow to the throat.  Beside him, the guardsman sank to his knees over the body of the second Golodh, clutching a mortal wound.  The third thrust his sword through the guardsman’s chest just as Thranduil’s blade came down hard on his neck.

Standing in the ruin, Thranduil had only a moment to look up and see the captain bearing down on him in a murderous rage.  He stumbled backward, lifting his blade just quickly enough to absorb the hacking onslaught loosed against him.  The vehemence of the attack forced him to give ground, ducking out of the way as the sweeping strikes of the Golodhrin sword knocked chips out of the wall.

The bloodstained captain pressed his advantage with a brutal artlessness that mirrored the contempt on his face.  Thranduil could feel the ache in his arms as his enemy pounded away at his sword as if to cleave him in two.  Then he fell backwards over a corpse and froze as steel touched his throat.

The Golodh leaned in, twisting his blade under Thranduil’s chin hard enough to draw blood, but hesitating to thrust it deeper.  He was close enough now that Thranduil could read the runes on the medallion he wore.

Carnistir.

“Where is it?” Caranthir demanded in a heavily accented voice.  “Where is the jewel?  Do they have it?”  He nodded in the direction Oropher had fled.

Thranduil threw himself to the side, and what should have been a fatal strike glanced instead through his shoulder.  He lunged toward an open door, but a blow from Caranthir's armored fist knocked him down again.  Stunned, Thranduil scrambled through the door and to his feet.  He turned and raised his blade, its once burnished edges beaten ragged by the superior Golodhrin steel.  Caranthir surged forward and swept the sword aside with his own, catching the ragged edge and twisting it out of Thranduil’s hands.

In that blinding instant, Thranduil realized he would die on that sword unless he acted.  The desperate will to live burned through whatever fear paralyzed him, and he leapt at Caranthir’s face like a savage.  His hand clenched in the mane of dark hair, his legs encircling the armored waist as he plunged his dagger to the hilt into Caranthir’s neck.

The Fëanorion fell backward in a heap, his hands grasping at Thranduil’s wrists, a horrible surprise in his fading eyes.  Thranduil pulled out his blade and slit Caranthir’s throat as he would a wounded stag.  The lifeblood flowed out of him alarmingly fast, driven by a powerful and frantic heartbeat that soon stilled.

Thranduil staggered to his feet, shaken and disgusted by it all.  He had to get out.  He was not even supposed to be here.  He glanced around, and suddenly realized he was in Galadhmir’s house.  The body he had fallen over outside was Dorlas, and not far away lay the lifeless form of his wife.  The place had been ransacked, but Galadhmir’s parents had not been wealthy enough to own anything that would catch a Golodh’s eye.  However, one closet was suspiciously closed.

Knowing he had only moments to spare, Thranduil lay a hand on the door handle and heard a terrified sob.  “Lindóriel?” he called.  He opened the door and found her crouched and cringing there, Galadhmir’s younger sister, a kitchen knife in her hands.  They shared the same look of exhausted relief at the sight of one another.

“We must go,” he said, pulling her up.  Then he hesitated.  He grabbed a satchel from the closet.  “Pack whatever food you have!” he instructed.  As she rushed to the larder, Thranduil also helped himself to Dorlas’ winter cloak.  He paused for a moment, then shed his sword belt and scabbard.  His own sword was ruined.  Quickly, he pulled Caranthir’s belt off the body and tried it on for size.  It was serviceable enough.  He retrieved and sheathed the Golodhrin sword.  Then he took the diadem as well, and his medallion, and his ring.

Lindóriel had reappeared with the satchel.  Thranduil shoved the jewels deep inside it and gave her cloak to her.  She was still pulling it on as he hurried her out the door.

“Do not look,” he instructed her as they stepped over her father’s body.  He took her hand and together they sprinted for the city gates. 

Galadhmir nearly collided with them as the corridors came together.  Thranduil pulled him in without a word, and the three of them made a last desperate break for the gates ahead, open to the cold dark of the night.

Angry voices shouted after them, but they did not wait to be accosted.  They hit the crusted snow with all the speed they could manage and plunged into the darkness.

Snow was falling in great silent flurries.  Thranduil led them toward the southern border, knowing that was the direction his father had been heading when they were separated.  He avoided the main road, racing headlong down a hunter’s trail he knew well even in darkness.

At long last they slowed, hearing no sounds of pursuit.  It was bitterly cold, and the woods were silent.  The only hint of the horror they had fled was the smell of acrid smoke as Menegroth burned far behind them. 

As the nervous tension at last drained from his body, Thranduil began to tremble violently.  The shock and grief he had not had time to feel until now threatened to overwhelm him.  There was elvish blood on his hands, on his clothes, in his hair.  He retched again into the snow, though he had nothing left in him, barely hearing Lindóriel sobbing into her brother’s arms.

Galadhmir groaned mournfully, a keening note that sounded in the stillness as though his heart would break.  Distantly, it seemed they could hear others lifting their cries of woe into the night as well, the broken voices of Doriath.

The snow showed no signs of letting up.  For some time Thranduil could not move, a part of him so miserable that he would have preferred to freeze to death rather than take another step.  Then he remembered his father and mother, the last words Dior had spoken to them, the trust he had given them.  At last, he turned back and saw Galadhmir and Lindóriel looking at him with tear-streaked faces, waiting for him to lead them.  They were all adrift in the world, and they were trusting him.

He could not afford to despair, although the feeling threatened to sap whatever strength he had left.  With an effort, he hauled himself to his feet and beckoned them to follow.

They continued south through Region forest.  It took Thranduil only a moment to get his bearings in the dark.  They avoided the road, walking parallel along the marchwardens’ paths.  After what seemed like a long time in the silence, they came to one of the guardsman’s outposts, really no more than a sheltered flet high in a beech tree.  Thranduil’s nightingale signal call produced no reply.  It seemed to be abandoned.

“Wait here,” he instructed the others as he bounded up the well-worn hand and footholds.  Pulling himself up through the hole in the center of the floor, Thranduil saw the post was indeed abandoned and stripped of almost everything useful.  He considered staying the night there, then thought better of it.  If the Fëanorionnath spread through the wood, he did not want to be trapped in a tree.  He was able to salvage a small wood hatchet and one torn bedroll before returning to the others below.

They pressed on through the darkness at a brisk but sober pace, anxious to put as much distance as possible between them an any pursuit.  Thranduil also very much wanted to find and rejoin his father’s party; he knew Oropher would not compromise his duty to the king by lingering unnecessarily even to find his own son, though the conflict would sicken him at heart.

Thranduil wondered about his parents.  Where they ahead of him in the dark, marching through the snow with Lady Elwing?  Had they even survived the sack?  There had been no time to discuss any plans beyond escaping Menegroth before they were separated.  He knew that if they were alive, they were wondering about him.

Their family had once enjoyed such a strong spiritual connection that they had been able to sense one another’s joy or pain, but that had deteriorated after Thingol’s death, and since Melian’s departure had become so faint as to be indistinguishable.  It had been like walking through a fog, and now they were lost in it.

Oropher’s most likely path would be toward Nivrim and the Fens of Sirion, so Thranduil resolved to keep on in that direction and hope to meet the others along the way rather than search for them.  They stood a better chance at survival together, and there was no safety to be had in Doriath any more.  It made him sick to think it, but Doriath itself was dead as well.

He was dozing as he walked, drifting in a wretched sea of grief, shock, and monotonous cold.  All at once he came back to himself with a start, halting the others for a moment to listen.  They all heard it, foreign voices on the wind.

It was still dark, just before dawn.  The Fëanorionnath were likely fanning out through the woods, searching for stragglers.  There was nothing to do but run.

They fled like deer through the wood, swift and nearly silent, but driven by a relentless fear.  Every so often, Thranduil halted their flight to listen for any sounds of pursuit, then turned to run again.  They all knew how vital it was to remain out of bowshot.  Lindóriel had lost her doeskin slippers somewhere along the way and was obviously suffering from the cold, but she made no sound.  As much as Thranduil imagined he and Galadhmir both wanted to carry her, they could not afford to slow their pace, not if they wanted to live.

The sun began to burn on the horizon, but it brought no warmth.  Thranduil paused again to listen, and Lindóriel slumped against her brother, almost unable to support herself any longer.  They seemed to have eluded the Golodhrim for the moment, but as the slanting rays of dawn illuminated the wood, the reality of their position became shockingly evident.

Both Thranduil and Galadhmir cursed at once.  Lindóriel’s bare feet were lacerated by the ice, and she had left a trail of red footprints across the otherwise pristine landscape.  Even a novice tracker could not fail to find them. 

Lindóriel began crying, weakened by pain, cold and despair.  Thranduil tore a strip off the hem of his undertunic and began quickly binding one of her feet.  Galadhmir, as his sister’s direction, tore strips from the hem of her chemise for the other foot.  Thranduil’s shoulder smarted, reminding him that he was also wounded.  They had to move.  The idea of how far back that trail might extend was turning his stomach. 

“Softly, softly,” he said, attempting to soothe Lindóriel as she began choking on her sobs.  They could not fall apart now.  His own heart was beating frantically, every instinct imploring him to run.  Her feet bandaged as well as possible, Lindóriel stood up as best she could, but Thranduil did not trust the bandages to hold.  They would have to carry her.  Galadhmir moved to take her up.

“No, give her to me,” Thranduil insisted.  Galadhmir had been a weedy youth, and Thranduil was still the stronger of the two.  He swept her into his arms, and she took firm hold of his neck.  Galadhmir took up their satchel of meager supplies, and they were off once again.

They ran due south, abandoning their westward progress.  They ran until Thranduil felt the cold air burning his lungs.  He was not able to move as lightly as he had been, burdened as he was, and he knew he was making obvious tracks of his own.  Their only hope lay in speed, and he would run until his heart burst if he had to.

They finally stumbled into the center of Bar-en-Faroth, a hunting village near the south road.  They paused for a moment to catch their breath.  The village was obviously abandoned, and at first glance it seemed unusually bare of weapons and supplies.  This Thranduil interpreted as a hopeful sign, assuming his fellows had left their homes prepared for the worst. 

“Look!” Galadhmir pointed with an excited whisper.  On the door of one of the empty homes, it seemed Oropher had left his mark in charcoal.

Thranduil was elated.  He put Lindóriel down for a moment to look at the series of cyphers scrawled underneath the initials.  They were marchwarden’s abbreviations, less likely to be interpreted by hostile eyes. 

“They are headed for Nivrim,” Thranduil confirmed, new energy shooting through his veins.  “Elwing is still with them, and they are nearly one hundred strong already.”

“Do you think we can catch them?” Galadhmir asked.

“They cannot be too far ahead of us,” Thranduil reasoned. 

Galadhmir hoisted his sister onto his back before Thranduil could object, and they began running again.  It was becoming more difficult to maintain speed, but at least they knew they were heading in the right direction.  A gray wolfhound ran after them, preferring their company to the emptiness of the village.

The forest seemed endless.  Little though they could afford it, their minds became numb to the pain and fatigue, and indeed to everything besides the effort of going on.  Eventually they were reduced to walking.

Thranduil relieved Galadhmir, taking Lindóriel into his arms once more.  They trudged on through the silence, occasionally disturbing a pheasant or a wandering stag.  Even the squirrels were hushed in their trees, seeming to sense the invasion of their wood.

At midday they paused to eat, rationing what Lindóriel had managed to salvage from the family larder.  She and her brother were silent, uncomfortably reminded of their mother.  Thranduil allowed them to grieve in peace, ineffably grateful his parents had survived, and all the more anxious to catch up with them.

By that afternoon, even his nervous energy had ebbed, and it was enough to simply put one foot in front of the other.  A deep chill was descending once again, promising a frigid night.  Lindóriel had made a valiant effort to walk on her own, and as a result her bandages were wet with melted snow, surely even more uncomfortable than before.  Thranduil swept her up again without a word.

Dusk was falling quickly.  It was as though the wood had swallowed them all.  The only sound was the crunch of the snow beneath their feet and the snuffling breath of the hound beside them.  All at once he stopped and tensed so abruptly that they all stopped with him.

The low call of a nightingale cut the air.

Glancing around, they quickly stumbled toward the copse of fir trees from which the call had come.  Strong Mithrin hands helped pull them inside, out of sight, and Thranduil was gratefully caught up in his father’s firm embrace.

For a long moment Oropher would not let him go.  His father did not say anything, but Thranduil could feel the worry and concern which had obviously been plaguing him.  Despite all the horrors behind them, all the pain, grief, and loss, they were still alive, but life had never before felt so fragile.

“Come,” Oropher said softly, at last composing himself.  “We have not many comforts here, but at least you may have your wounds tended.”

Thranduil moved to follow, but only made it a few steps before he was met by his mother, Lady Lóriel, who had hurried to meet him from the other side of the glade.  She fell into his arms without a word, though her anxious relief was plain.

The entire camp was unnaturally silent, cold and dark.  No more than the occasional whispered word was spoken, and no campfires had been kindled, though there were plainly more than one hundred Elves huddled about in the snow.   There was still a thick air of fear about the place.

Silently, Lóriel led Thranduil, Galadhmir and Lindóriel deeper into the camp, indicating that they should sit on the truck of a fallen pine beside a collection of makeshift surgical supplies.  Gingerly, Thranduil removed his cloak and tunic to reveal the injury to his shoulder while another weary healer unwrapped Lindóriel’s feet.

“I have sent scouts from Bar-en-Faroth back to Menegroth,” Oropher explained, hovering nearby as Lóriel attempted to clean Thranduil’s wound with ice water.  “They will tell us whether we need bother returning to the city.”

“Do you think there will be anything left?” Thranduil asked miserably, biting back the pain.

Oropher sighed.  “No.  But it is our duty to make inquiries in the event the king survived.  It is our duty to Lady Elwing.”

Thranduil said nothing as his mother bandaged his wound as best she could.  He did not expect the scouts to return with encouraging news, but he was too tired to worry any more.  He pulled his blood-crusted tunic back on against the cold, but returned Dorlas’ cloak to Galadhmir.  It was painfully obvious that there were not enough provisions to go around.

In the center of the glade, a pine and spruce shelter had been made for Lady Elwing.  She lay inside sleeping as comfortably as she might, bundled in a large cloak on a bed of brown needles.  Oropher had positioned himself with his wife nearest her, beneath the same spruce which had contributed its lowest boughs for that construction.  Thranduil joined his parents there, all of them huddled together for warmth as the deep chill of night fell over the wood once again.  He did not expect to be able to sleep, but he tried to at least relax his mind, knowing the guards in the trees would sound the alarm if the Fëanorians drew near.  Galadhmir and Lindóriel sat against the opposite side of the trunk.  The night was perfectly still.  From outside the glade, one would never suspect the mass of fugitives sheltering there.

In fact, no one truly slept that night.  Those who were not crippled by exhaustion or severe wounds were always listening for the sounds of an approaching enemy.  Some scarcely dared to breathe, traumatized by the violence of the city’s fall. 

Thranduil was roused for guard duty before dawn.  Galadhmir joined him, uninjured as he was, leaving his sister in Oropher’s care.  Just inside the trees, they came upon familiar face, Linhir Lingaladion. 

Thranduil greeted him with as much familiar warmth as either of them could muster.  They had known one another in Menegroth, though their fathers had not been on the best of terms.  Linhir’s left forearm was heavily bandaged and barely functional, but under the circumstances Thranduil was glad to see him alive in any condition. 

Food was scarce, but most of them were hungry enough to eat anything.  Small bands of hunters had been dispatched at alternating intervals, few enough to be inconspicuous.  They had brought back whatever game they could, an assortment of snowy hares and two young does.  These were butchered immediately with huntsman’s knives while the less perishable provisions were carefully conserved.  The camp smelled strongly of fresh offal for a time before it was buried in snow.  Smells could betray them as easily as sounds.

Thranduil, Galadhmir and Linhir each chewed their raw meat in silence.  It had not had time to hang properly and was tough with the rigor of death.  They had not exchanged a word all day, none daring to break the silence.  At one time or another they had all been trained by the marchwardens, and that old discipline returned instinctively. 

It was nearing midday when they were relieved by other more or less able-bodied members of their company.  Thranduil returned to the center of the camp where his father was engaged in earnest conversation with Lady Elwing, who was bundled in Lady Lóriel’s lap.  The juxtaposition of the great lord in council with a babe in arms would have been comical had it not been so grim.

“If return to Menegroth should be impossible,” Oropher was saying, seated on a log, “which sadly I expect to be the case, we must determine where we intend to go.  Come, Thranduil; this concerns you as well.”

Elwing regarded them both with as much royal poise as a child could under the circumstances.  Thranduil came and sat beside his father, and he could not help noticing that she was bearing it all very well for one so young and under such duress. 

“There are few enough safe places in this world left to us,” Oropher continued.  “Doriath itself is obviously too compromised; for all we know, Maedhros may claim it for himself, and we have not the numbers to contest him.  Nargothrond is ruined, and the north is entirely peopled with Exiles.  As I see it, we may go either south to join the Falathrim, or east to Tol Galen.”

Elwing said nothing for a moment, her small brows furrowed.  “I do not want to leave our wood to Fëanorionnath,” she said.

“It galls me as well, my lady,” Oropher replied with as much patience as he could muster, “but my first duty is to you and your safety.  To attempt to stay on here would be to seek peace with Maedhros and his brothers, which I suspect would be even more degrading and actually dangerous.  None of us suspected that their cursed oath would drive them twice to atrocities such as these.  Plainly, no peace can endure until they have what they seek.”  He frowned.  “Perhaps they have it already.”

Grief and anger clouded Elwing’s features.  “They do not have it,” she said hotly.  “Father gave it to me, and it is mine.”  Her hand had risen possessively to her breast, and for the first time since their harried escape, Thranduil and Oropher both noticed the smothered glow which her thick winter clothes were meant to conceal.

Thranduil opened his mouth to speak, but his father’s hand fell on his knee like a vice before he could manage it.

“Not a word,” Oropher commanded, suddenly twice as tense.  The Silmaril of Lúthien was indeed the most highly prized treasure of Doriath despite the grief it had brought them, and they were not sorry to know it had not fallen into unworthy hands.  All the same, suddenly realizing that it was in their possession seemed to make Oropher feel more vulnerable than ever.  They could not afford to compromise the secrecy of the camp with the raw emotion the revelation of the Silmaril would cause.  Not yet.

“The southern road to the coast is the shorter of the two,” Oropher said, thinking aloud.  “We have too many wounded to attempt a lengthy eastward journey.  We shall seek the aid of our kinsmen the Falathrim.”

Throughout the rest of the day Thranduil dutifully said nothing of the Silmaril, though he desperately wanted to confide in Galadhmir and Linhir.  The nervous tension in the air grew only thicker while they stayed in one place, though it seemed they had not yet been discovered.  Those who were able busied themselves doing useful things in an attempt to control their anxiety.  There was at least one bowyer among them, and he was teaching whoever was willing how to carve crude longbows from whatever material was ready to hand.  Anyone with any skill helped tend and comfort the wounded. 

Oropher was running a whetstone over the abused blade of his sword as quietly as possible, trying to partially repair the damage it had sustained.  Thranduil sat beside him once again, bringing both their rations of raw venison, frozen now and even harder than it had been that morning.

“It is of little use, I am afraid,” Oropher admitted, looking sadly at his weapon.  He accepted his meat disinterestedly.  “It will require one with more skill than I to put the edge back on this blade.  I gather yours fared even worse.  I have been meaning to ask where you acquired such a fine replacement.”

“Oh.”  Thranduil hesitated, though he had expected the question.  “It belonged to Caranthir Fëanorion,” he admitted. 

“Was it he who tried to stop us?”

“Yes.”

The worry lines reappeared on Oropher’s brow.  “The hand of Elbereth must have been upon you, Thranduil,” he concluded.  “At that moment I hardly expected you would return to us.”

“It was due more to instinct than skill,” Thranduil confessed.  Then he stopped, noticing that his father was struggling to suppress the tears which were being wrung from him, doubtless brought on by the stress of exhaustion, anxiety, and his own grief.  Concerned, Thranduil lay a steadying hand on his father’s knee.  Oropher in turn put his arm around Thranduil’s shoulders and drew him close.

“Your life is more precious to me than all the jewels of Valinor,” he said thickly.  “Remember that.”

Touched by his unaffected sincerity, Thranduil nodded, tears suddenly stinging his own eyes.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Linhir interrupted apologetically at some distance, “but the scouts have returned from Menegroth.”

Oropher quickly wiped his eyes and resumed the stony-faced demeanor people expected of him.  “Thank you, Lingaladion,” he said.  “Send them to me.”

As the four hunters approached, Thranduil could already read grim tidings on their features.  One held a folded sheet of parchment, which he lay in Oropher’s hand.

“My lord,” he said heavily, “Menegroth is burnt and ruined.  We found few besides Fëanorian soldiers in the wood, and no sign of the king.  That,” he said, indicating the parchment, “was affixed to the gates.”

Oropher unfolded it, and after only a moment his anxious grief had become smoldering rage.  He cleared his throat and read aloud, though his voice trembled.  “Behold the ruin of the Sindarin King.  His halls are destroyed, his power is broken, and his children wander fatherless.  He has burned in the fire of his own avarice.  So shall be the fate of all who willfully and maliciously deny and deprive the sons of Fëanor Curufinwë of their undoubted and certain property.”

For a moment Oropher was unable to speak further, visibly swallowing every vicious curse which rose to his tongue.  “Spread the word,” he managed to say instead.  “I want everyone to know we march for Nivrim in the morning.”