Book II ~ ERNIL

“THE PRINCE”

Chapter 1 ~ Into the East

It was certainly a long ride over the expanse of Eriador.  Day after day they crossed the fields and hills and lightly-wooded forests of that country at a steady but leisurely pace.  The winter weather was quickly melting into spring, and soon there were green buds and young leaves brightening the landscape, new spring grass beneath the passing hooves of their horses.

They rode in loose double file, the men spread throughout the ladies as a traveling precaution.  Oropher led them with Lóriel at his side, followed by the brothers Gwaelas and Erelas upon their woodland horses.  Thranduil held the next place with Lindóriel, Luinlas behind him, Galadhmir with Gwaelin, Linhir with Illuiniel, Anárion with Menelwen, with Baranor and Noruvion taking up the rear.  Their camps along the way were superficial, lacking many of the familiar comforts of home but equal the needs of any single night.  For the most part they slept beneath the stars or amid the occasional grove of trees.  It was becoming a monotonous though not entirely unpleasant routine as days became weeks, and weeks became near a month.  Their pedigreed mounts could have made shorter work of the distance, even laden as they were, but the additional pack horses slowed them considerably, and they maintained an easy pace to better conserve the stamina of the entire party.

Thus far, Thranduil had to admit that this other half of Ennor was well worth adopting.  It had been too long since he had been so far inland, and he was beginning to feel more at home than he ever had on the western shore.  He could only hope Eryn Galen itself lived up to his expectations.  The broken gray ridge of the Hithaeglir loomed large before them now, the final gateway into the east.  They were still snowcapped.

“But the passes should be clear enough,” he was saying.

“I certainly hope so,” Lindóriel said for herself.  “I have already had enough snow for one season.”

Thranduil was about to concur, but slowly the entire line of them came to an inexplicable halt.  He looked ahead and saw that his father had regally paused on the crest of the bluff before them, staring critically at the base of the mountains ahead.  His curiosity quickly won the better of him, and he passed his pack pony’s lead around behind him to Lindóriel.  “Excuse me,” he said, spurring across the grass to the head of the line.

“What on earth is this?” Oropher asked rhetorically as his son reined in beside him.  Thranduil could feel his father’s festering displeasure, and in that moment he could see why.  It seemed a full-fledged settlement was coalescing at the mountain’s foot.  It was still some distance away, but the gentle rise of the land afforded them a clear view, revealing several completed stonework structures and many more foundations.

“Well, it seems we shall not be so far removed from our friends as we thought,” Thranduil observed wryly.  “Do you see the colors?”

“I do,” Oropher replied, his voice flat.  They were small and distant, but Elvish sight could still make out the row of flying heraldry atop the most prominent of the finished structures, notably the flaming star of the Golodhrim and the silver tree of Celeborn.

Lóriel said nothing, but a sidelong glance toward her husband betrayed her misgivings.  Thranduil said nothing more, both he and his mother awaiting Oropher’s final judgment of the situation, be that a curse, a lament, or a full diatribe.

Their lord merely sighed, a look of resigned disgust settling on his face.  “If they believe they will be able to charge me a toll for the use of the pass, they are sorely mistaken,” he said, inciting his horse forward once more.

Thranduil just smiled and pulled back a pace as the others went ahead, waiting for his place in line.  He joined Lindóriel again as she passed and received his pony’s lead back from her.

“What is it?” she asked as they moved on.

“Celeborn,” Thranduil answered her, leaving the rest for her own eyes.  “Father is none too pleased, as you may guess.”

Lindóriel arched her lovely brows as she took in the view for herself.  “And what about you?” she asked as she turned back to him, her voice low and coy.  “Are you truly as much your father’s son as you would have them believe?”

Thranduil felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “You lay traps for me, Lin,” he said with a proud tilt of his head.  “What are you trying to do, betray me here in front of everyone?”

She merely laughed, a glad sound that came much more easily to her now.

“Very well, you have discovered me,” he granted her.  The hound, Argeleb, ambled through the grass beside the horses, easily keeping pace throughout the entire journey.  “I am not at all sorry to see Celeborn.  However, his friends the Golodhrim are another matter.”

“I see,” Lindóriel mused.  “And how much do you believe Adar Oropher will object to their presence so far east?”

“I seriously doubt their migration will influence him to immediately abandon the realm he spent the last centuries building,” Thranduil answered dryly.  “Let them stay on this side of the mountains and all should be well enough.  He does not like it, but he will learn to abide them.”

It was still a considerable ride down to the burgeoning city, but it sat near the mountain pass and was not far out of their way.  It would have been insufferably rude to pass by without exchanging greetings at the very least.  Thranduil wondered how his father would manage the inevitable meeting and hoped for the best.  He was looking forward to seeing Amroth again, even if only for a short time.

When they had approached near enough, a herald was sent out to them from the work site.  It was an eager young Golodh by the look of him, leaping onto a horse and grabbing a banner as he passed.  He rode out across the plain to meet them, colors flying in the wind.

“Hail, and welcome to Eregion!” he greeted them, halting his dark mount before Oropher.  The Lord of Eryn Galen regarded him with a rather haughty demeanor, sitting his horse like the king he plainly believed himself to be.  Thranduil again passed his pony’s rope to Lindóriel and rode to his father’s side.

“Seldom have we received such distinguished travelers in our city, unfinished as it is,” the herald continued, bowing again as Thranduil arrived.  “Whose arrival might I announce to my lords?”

“You may announce Oropher, King of Eryn Galen beyond Hithaeglir,” was the imperious reply.  “Who are your lords?”

“Eregion stands beneath the rule of Lord Celeborn of Beleriand, Lady Galadriel Finarfiniel, and Lord Celebrimbor of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” the herald informed them.  “Their hospitality is yours to command, King Oropher, if you wish to accept it before you pass the mountains.”

For a moment it looked almost as though Oropher was inclined to let his pride have its way and decline the offer.  Beside him Lóriel shot her husband a silent glance sharp as daggers.  Thranduil, too, dropped his gaze and cleared his throat discreetly.  He knew his mother and the other ladies had been too long away from civilization, and Lindóriel was not the only one who would appreciate a hot bath and a night in a real bed.  The horses would also benefit from a night or two in a stable and some fresh grain.  Overall, the majority of them were strongly in favor of accepting the hospitality of Eregion, whatever it might entail.

Oropher was not so dense as he could sometimes appear, and he seemed to sense that if he made the decision to press on, he would be going alone.  So, in the interest of preventing the mass mutiny of his family, he nodded his reluctant acceptance at last.

“Lead on,” he said, and the herald wheeled his mount around at once.

“Follow at your leisure, my lord,” he bade them before he rode back to rejoin his fellows.  “Another will meet you and escort you to your quarters.  I shall announce your arrival to the Lords of Eregion.”

Thranduil again returned to Lindóriel, crisis successfully averted for the moment.  If he could only keep his father quiet, he might actually be able to enjoy this unexpected visit.

“I am glad we are staying,” Lindóriel admitted with a sigh of obvious relief.

“I knew you would be,” Thranduil smiled.

When at last they entered the confines of the city walls behind their guide, it immediately became apparent that this Ost-in-Edhil, as they named it, would be a city of grand proportions.  Great new foundations were already marked out for numerous other halls and dwellings, and new walls of stone were being masterfully built.  Almost too masterfully, in fact.

Thranduil passed a cool gaze over several Dwarves going about their business amid the Noldorin city as he rode past them.  The very sight of their stunted kind sent a chilling tingle through his blood.  He had seen perhaps two or three of the Naugrim in those parts of Lindon in which he had lived, and the repugnant effect upon him had been the same.  He had never liked the ones who had appeared from time to time in Doriath, and now his most abiding memories of them were of square-bladed axes buried in the broad chest of his grandsire, Thoron, callously lopping off the fair head of his mother’s brother, Glorlas.  Beside him, he felt that Lindóriel had stiffened too, and indeed the whole column of them had fallen eerily silent, no sound but that of the horses on the paved street.  Thranduil could not imagine how Celeborn endured such a strong Dwarvish presence in his city.

“We have received instruction to see you quartered on the other side of the Merethrond,” their guide was saying, indicating what might have passed for a wing of a palace just beyond the great hall sporting the heraldic banners.  The tense note in his voice betrayed his own knowledge of the difficulties between Dwarvish kind and the Eluwaith.  “Your horses will be stabled just across the way.  The Lord and Lady will receive you this evening at dinner.”

Once they had seen all thirty of their horses stabled and were shown to their own rooms, they still had a few hours before their appointed dinner with the Lords of Eregion.  Thranduil set about spending that time as productively as he could.  He bathed and unpacked one of his finer outfits, one of evergreen and white, accented with gray leaves and a short mantle draped rakishly over one shoulder.  If such were to be the colors of their new realm, they might as well begin earning a reputation for them.  He also wore his green sash beneath his belt, adorned with the monogram and so blatantly Sindarin; not the one Illuiniel had first made for him years ago, but the replacement Lindóriel had provided.

His room opened onto an open corridor that extended along the outside of that entire story of the building.  He wandered out onto it with Argeleb when he had finished dressing, and sat down on the long stone bench that stood along the railing.  Leaning against a pillar with his feet propped up comfortably on the remaining length of the bench, he opened Serataron’s book in his lap.  It was the first opportunity he had found in the past weeks to really look at it.

Tales of the Land of the Fence.   It was gratifying to know he had played such a large role in the preservation of those narratives, and it brought a smile to him now to imagine Serataron slaving away at his edited and revised edition, striving always toward absolute perfection.

Just inside the first pages a pressed beech leaf fell into his hand, and on the empty page opposite the chapter Of Thingol and Melian he found a brief sentiment his old master had left him, written in the same elegant hand as the rest of the book.

Thranduil, my friend, though the winding paths of life take us along our separate ways, may this remind you always of a lonely Exile who greatly appreciates the time and effort you deigned to share with him.  Even now, the completed work is not half so precious to me as the memories made in the writing of it.  Your presence in our house is sorely missed, but as time moves ever on, I trust you will always find new hearts to touch.  I may truly say I loved you as a son, and I hope your chosen course will one day lead us to one another once more.  Farewell, my lord, and may the stars of Elbereth ever shine upon your road. ~ SA

Thranduil could not help but smile again, remembering the kind face of the man who had briefly been as a father to him, showing him another and far more pleasant side of the Golodhrim.  It was no secret to him that Serataron had indeed hoped to see him wed to his daughter, a solace for the son he had lost; but it was not to be, and he trusted Malach to be equal the task.

Dwelling for a moment upon fond memories of Elemmirë, he saw that she too had left him a parting thought.

Dearest Thranduil, I shall not pretend to be pleased by your leaving us.  Indeed, I should be compromising the truth if I did less than admit that I shall miss you dreadfully.  Please do not remember us by the bitter night upon the shore when last we spoke.  I do not.  Recall instead our brighter days together.  I shall always remember you as one of the most engaging friends I have ever known, that proverbial woodland prince of Ennor I was privileged enough to meet, and indeed even to love.  May all the blessings of Valimar follow you, my lord.  Namárië. ~ El

Thranduil ran his hand lightly over the page, turning in his fingers the midnight-blue ribbon that he knew must have once been hers.  There was something left in his heart for her even now, as there probably always would be.

“There you are,” Lindóriel said as she emerged onto the balcony.

Thranduil looked up with an immediate smile, placing the marker and closing the book.  “Here I am,” he assured her.  She looked absolutely stunning in her green and white gown, a braided silver cord about her waist.  She knew he liked that dress, and had probably guessed he would be wearing the same colors.  And of course, the emerald pendant at her throat complimented the ensemble perfectly.

“You look wonderful,” he said as she came to sit on the edge of the bench beside him before he could get up.

She smiled demurely, slipping her hands into his.  “You always say that.”  Her smile then became something warmer, and without a word she pulled him closer and bestowed a fond kiss.  She might have meant to draw away then, but Thranduil pulled her back for another.  She accepted it gladly, but then pushed him back.  “I came merely to find you,” she said softly, her hand braced gently but firmly against his shoulder to forestall any further endearments.  “Your father wants us all to be ready for dinner a bit early and to meet with him beforehand.”

Thranduil allowed himself a sigh, mildly annoyed that they had met an untimely interruption, and slightly frustrated with his family.  “Doubtless he wants to instruct us in our respective attitudes toward Celeborn and his lady,” he said, and Lindóriel nodded. 

Thranduil slouched back against the pillar, silently expressing his own disgust with the whole affair, the hollow courtesies, the prickly conversation. 

“I am ready now,” he said, thoughtfully turning her hand over his, her right hand, where he would one day be placing a ring.  “We shall be along in time.”

“Well, I am not ready,” she said, gently pushing him back and standing to leave, shattering his hopes of spending the next hour with her.  “Do not be late.”  She kissed him fondly and swept back inside, the short train of her gown rippling over the stone and tile of the floor.  He quietly watched her go, appreciating the view.

Argeleb suddenly began thumping his great tail against the stones in glad recognition.  Thranduil also recognized the familiar presence approaching him, and reckoned it some small consolation.

“I see you have found a lady love since last we met, Oropherion,” Amroth observed.

Thranduil turned a haughty look upon him.  “And what have you to say of it, Celebornion?” he demanded.

In the next moment they both melted into boyish grins as Thranduil stood and Amroth pulled him into a fierce embrace.

“Well met again!” Amroth greeted him with a brilliant smile and a musical laugh.  “I never expected that you would follow us so soon!”

“That was not exactly our intent,” Thranduil admitted, releasing his young kinsman.  “Indeed, if my father had known he would be constrained to visit this Ost-in-Edhil along the way, he might have taken us through the north pass instead.”

“Then I am thankful to have surprised him,” Amroth grinned.  He sat down as Thranduil did likewise.  “I would not have missed this chance to see you.”

He was becoming an admirable young lord, Thranduil observed, embodying all the best of both his parents.  His hair was tinged with his mother’s golden fire, but his frame was his father’s, the broad shoulders and the strong hands.  Amroth was maturing, he saw, but his innocence remained.  He hoped it always would.

“But come on, tell me about her,” Amroth smiled eagerly, hitching up his robes of white and gray, crossing his legs beneath him.

“Lindóriel?” Thranduil asked.  “You have met her before.  Do not tell me you have forgotten.”

“Ah, yes, Lady Lin!” Amroth nodded.  “Indeed, how could I forget her?  I had always imagined you and Lady Menelwen together.  She is so much like you.”

“She is,” Thranduil admitted wryly.  “And that is precisely the reason we would never get along peaceably.” 

“Yes, that I can understand,” Amroth conceded, perhaps thinking of his own parents.  “But no matter.  Lady Lin is worthy of you.  Was not her mother akin to Beleg Cúthalion?  You must promise to bring your children to Eregion before they are too far grown.  Or might I come to your wood?”

Thranduil could only laugh.  “You seem to have great plans for my family already.”

Amroth smiled resignedly, but there remained a quiet and lingering impatience about him.  “Have you any spare sisters who would like to stay here with me?” he asked.

“I am certain you will find a lady of your own,” Thranduil assured him, “and you will know her when you do.  Surely there are many lovely maids in this world just waiting for a strapping young lord like yourself.”

“Or like you.  I must make certain they do not lay eyes upon you first if I am to enjoy a fighting chance.”

“I have found my lady,” Thranduil assured him.

“I like yours.”

“Well, you cannot have her.”

Amroth merely laughed, flashing a smile very like Celeborn’s but still bright with youth and levity.  “Very well, my friend,” he said.  “I shall stop prodding you.  What do you think of Eregion?”

“It has a fine start,” Thranduil admitted, glancing down from the balcony to the courtyards and unfinished buildings all about them.  “But why here?  What brought you from Eriador?  I dare say my father would especially like an answer in that regard.”

Amroth nodded.  “We thought he would.  It is because the Dwarves are here, Thranduil, and you may believe this alliance was certainly not of my father’s making.  Beneath the peak of Caradhras lies Hadhodrond, Khazad-dûm, the greatest of the Dwarvish mansions.  My lady mother and the lord Celebrimbor are especially eager to befriend them here.”

Thranduil darkened at the mention of the Dwarves, and he trusted Amroth knew quite well the reason why.  If Oropher did not yet know of this Hadhodrond, he did not wish to be the one to bring it to his attention.  Thranduil also knew Celeborn to have as virulent a dislike of Dwarvish kind as any of them.  “I wonder at your father’s forbearance,” he said simply.

“As do I,” Amroth agreed.  “But, if it is any consolation, know that these come of the Dwarves of Belegost.  Does that appease you?”

“Somewhat,” Thranduil admitted, allowing some of his bitterness toward all things Dwarvish to slowly subside.  The origins of this particular branch of Dwarvendom did indeed make a great deal of difference.  Rumor had it that many had fled east of their own accord, fearing the wrath of Doriath after the atrocities perpetrated by their brethren of Nogrod.  He had no crow to pluck with the Belegostrim, though he doubted he would ever be able to deliberately befriend them.  Dwarves were Dwarves.

“But come,” Amroth beckoned.  “Let me show you my home.”

Thranduil allowed Amroth to proudly lead him through the streets of Ost-in-Edhil.  The completed portions were largely the living quarters and the main hall, but everywhere there were other edifices in various stages of development.  They saw the vast site for the library and archives, the growing walls of the southern wing of the palace, and even the intended position of Celebrimbor’s forges.

“But this place is my favorite,” Amroth said, up a stone stairway to a lookout post on the guard wall.  The spring wind was stronger there, and the position afforded a breathtaking view of the northern plains and mountainous foothills.

Thranduil smiled.  “It is a lovely position for a guard post,” he observed.  “Only the city itself obstructs the view in any direction.”

“And what this one cannot see will be duly observed by that one there,” Amroth said, pointing.  “We have not neglected to prepare the city’s defense, little though we expect to be threatened in this day and age.  Still, it has never hurt anyone to be prepared.”

“No, it has not,” Thranduil concurred, his voice trailing off as darker thoughts returned to him.  Each time the attack had come they had been unprepared, and each time they had been massacred.  He had long since vowed never to make the same mistake again.

“Come,” Amroth beckoned again, turning to walk along the wall toward yet another descending stairway.  “I want you to meet the Gonnhirrim.  Father has no use for them, but Mother insists that they can teach me a great deal.”

Thranduil followed his young cousin down to ground level once more, gracefully enduring the extended tour with an almost paternal patience.  He really was not interested in meeting a crowd of Dwarves, but if Amroth wished to introduce him, so be it.

“Nordri!” Amroth called, his clear voice sounding over the stone surrounding them.  “A moment, my friend!”

Thranduil had to suppress a wry smile as he recognized that the great Dwarvish craftsman seemed none too eager to again be called away from his work by this young master.  Nordri was overseeing the laying of a foundation at that moment, a great burly figure with his long brown beard braided and tucked into his belt.  He turned with a weary air, but Thranduil observed the Dwarf take a bit of a start at the first sight of him.

“My apologies, Master Dwarf, for interrupting you at your work,” Amroth began, but I would like you to meet my father’s kinsman, Thranduil, Prince of Greenwood in the east.  He and his father are staying a short time with us as they pass the mountains.  Thranduil, Master Nordri, son of Nirad, the foremost stonemaster of Eregion.”

“Master Nordri,” Thranduil nodded, polite enough but without warmth.  He tried, but he had not condescended to speak to a Dwarf for a very long time.  “To judge by what I have seen thus far, your renown is well-deserved.”

A shadow seemed to pass briefly over Nordri’s dark eyes, but whether that implied a recognition of his Doriathrin accent Thranduil could only guess.  “My thanks to you, Master Elf,” he gruffed.  “Great lords are seldom so kind.”

They regarded one another for a long moment, an unspoken tension between them which existed without cause or purpose, but which could not be summarily dismissed by either of them.  It was a stiffness Thranduil felt would likely dominate all his future dealings with the Stunted Race.

“I shall not keep you longer,” Amroth was saying.  “You must be busy, and we must not be late for dinner.”

Dinner!  Thranduil could have kicked himself as they took their leave of Nordri and turned back toward the Merethrond and his own temporary quarters.  “Late, indeed,” he grumbled, not at Amroth but at all circumstances combined.  “And I was supposed to meet with my father.  Ai, Belain!”

They covered the remaining distance at an easy run before they went their separate ways, knowing they would see each other again shortly.  Bounding up the stairs three at a time, Thranduil flew through the corridor like a scalded cat, rapped politely on his parents’ door and then let himself in.

“Thranduil!” Oropher barked irritably as he looked up, the room crowded with all the other members of their party.  “When I ask an hour in advance that you be here, I expect you to remember!  Where have you been?”

Thranduil paused a moment as he closed the doors behind him, an entire stream of excuses dying on his tongue.  There was no way to make this palatable.  “I was making the acquaintance of a Dwarf, Father,” he said.

“What?”

“Never mind; he is here,” Lóriel reprimanded her husband, gently but firmly.  “You were saying?”

“Yes,” Oropher said slowly, gathering his thoughts again with one last stern glance at his son.  “We have very little time to review, I am afraid, but in a word, beware any near friendship with these new lords . . .”

Thranduil sidled up to Lindóriel as his father lectured on.  Her pale golden hair was put up with a silver comb that glimmered like a tiara, the rest allowed to fall in gentle curls down her back.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, playfully curling a soft ringlet around his finger.

She suppressed a smile and would not turn to acknowledge him out of deference to Oropher.  But she did reach up to her shoulder to take his hand.  “Beauty is solely in the eye of the beholder, my lord,” she reminded him fondly.

He smiled and edged even closer.  “This beholder is enchanted.”

“THRANduil!”

He winced, feeling his father’s growing impatience, but Oropher did not waste time reproving him further, despite his keen annoyance.

“You will wear these,” their lord went on, producing a carefully-packed parcel from one of his bags.  Opening the box, he pulled out a slender bundle and removed its velvet wrapping, revealing in his hand a gleaming circlet of silver beech leaves.  It surprised them all, for he had said nothing of such things before this.

The first he set aside for himself, unwrapping another just like it.  “Thranduil, this one is yours,” he said, handing it over.  “I had them made before we left Lindon.  Handle them carefully.  Linhir,” he said, bestowing a similar one upon Lingalad’s son, except that these were now made in the likeness of ivy.  “Galadhmir.  Anárion.”

While the others breathlessly received their crowns, Thranduil paused a moment to consider his own, carefully turning it over in his hands.  It was masterfully made, simple but elegant in its design, the sharp leaf shapes brilliantly reflecting the light.  He suspected it was not truly silver, but white gold.  He also noted that his and his father’s were sparingly accented with diamond amid the branching leaves, an embellishment the others lacked.  The subtle symbolism of them was obvious; he and his father were the anchors of the family, the others clinging as vines to the two trees.

“You are the princes of Amon Lasgalen,” Oropher told them.  “Conduct yourselves accordingly.  Whatever the circumstances of your birth, whatever the station of your father, this is what you have become.  Nothing is of any consequence save the positions with which I invest you now.”

Opening another parcel, Oropher then produced several brooches also in the fashion of remarkably detailed beech leaves, giving them in turn to Luinlas, Baranor, and Noruvion for them to pin onto their tunics.  “You are the lords of Amon Lasgalen,” he said.  “Do not bear it lightly.”

Lastly, he brought to light another of the beech leaf tiaras, one of a distinctly more feminine design, glimmering with white gems.  “Lori, meleth nín,” he smiled, holding it out to her, “did I not promise to make you a queen?”

“Ai, Thranduil, it is perfect!” Lindóriel breathed, tentatively touching one of the sharp leaves with her fingertip.  “Come, let me see you wear it.”

“It has been a long time since I wore one of these, Lin,” he said as she helped slide it into place on his brow, subtly securing it in his hair.  The others were likewise trying their own on for size, Luinlas and Baranor pinning on their leaf badges as Oropher affectionately crowned his wife. 

Lindóriel smiled up at him, a proud sparkle in her eyes as she completed her arrangement and pointed him toward the mirror behind his father.  Thranduil could see his distant reflection from where he stood, and was indeed very pleased with it.  He glanced aside as Galadhmir turned to him, the other attempting to grow accustomed to the unfamiliar touch of the flashing diadem on his brow.  Indeed, it would still be some time before they all grew comfortably into their new roles as lords and princes, but the hierarchy of Eryn Galen was finally taking definite shape.

As Lindóriel contentedly slipped her arm around his own, Thranduil glanced through the whole crowd of them, a tingling excitement growing within him.  This was the new beginning they had dreamed of, the chance to build another lasting name out of the ashes of Beleriand.  They had all worn some kind of green for the evening, which he belatedly realized must have been another directive from his father, the formal adoption of the favorite hue of the woodland Elves.

He paused for a moment, considering who they had once been.  Linhir had been the second son of a lord of Doriath; Anárion was a lesser son of Gondolin; Galadhmir had been of no consequence in Menegroth; Luinlas had been a scout in the wood of Neldoreth; Baranor and his son were healers.  They had been quite a motley group, but now they were all united as a single force gathered beneath a new power in Elvendom, the King of Eryn Galen.

“Know your place,” Oropher commanded them, his own diadem flashing with sovereign confidence.  “Be not intimidated by these lords of Eregion.  You are heirs of my house and of the whole of Greenwood.  You are the Aredhil of Beleriand, and you do not bow before the Exiles of Aman.  Demand as much deference as you give, for as of this day you and all the heirs that follow of your bloodlines shall be named among the Lords of Middle-earth.”

Thranduil glanced back, just noticing that Gwaelas and Erelas were proudly flanking the door in perfect form.  They were identically clad in royal green and gray livery not so far removed from what was worn by their new lords.  It did much to subtly increase their slighter stature, tailored to emphasize a strong shoulder line. 

It was thrilling to see everything coalescing before his eyes.  Those lords of Eregion did not realize what had just taken life in their midst.

“Now,” Oropher smiled, regally taking his queen on his arm, “if we are all sufficiently assured of who we are, let us not keep our hosts waiting.”

Thranduil surreptitiously pushed the remaining food around his plate with his fork.  It was not that he had not been hungry, but after living so long on the simple fare of their journey the lords’ table was suddenly too rich for his tastes.  Besides, the present company demanded much of his attention.

On the opposite side of the oblong table sat Celebrimbor, the sole surviving grandson of Fëanor himself.  His was a daunting presence, to say the least, and Thranduil observed him carefully.  He knew he should not hold the evils of the father against the son, especially since Celebrimbor had been very publicly estranged from his father long ago in Nargothrond, but he could not yet bring himself to fully trust this scion of the most infamous house the Eldar had ever suffered.  His physical resemblance to the elder generation of Fëanorionnath was also striking, stirring unsettling memories. 

Those who had lived to remember the fall of Doriath did not habitually speak of who had slain whom.  Therefore, it was quite possible, Thranduil mused darkly, that no one at the table besides his own family realized that Caranthir Fëanorion had fallen at his hand.  He had not even told Serataron.  It was not a fact he was particularly proud of, for it had simply been the result of a chance collision amid the chaos, but the fact of it remained.

Celeborn was there, of course.  He remained his familiar proud self, but if Thranduil could still read him accurately, Cousin Celeborn was more than a bit dissatisfied with the whole situation.  He hid it well, probably for the sake of his wife.

Galadriel had not changed either since their last meeting in Lindon.  She was the maternal ruler, guiding her new creation of Eregion with a gentle hand of iron.  Thranduil had once wondered whether she ever wore anything other than gleaming white since she had left Menegroth, but tonight she had ameliorated that preference with accents of gray, possibly out of deference to her husband.

Amroth had politely held his tongue for the most part that evening, seeming to know there would be a better opportunity to speak more freely in another place and at another time.

The rest of that side of the table was occupied by minor Noldorin lords Thranduil did not recognize.  They would be the upstarts of this new realm, just as Galadhmir, Linhir, and the others also had yet to make lasting names for themselves.

Celebrimbor was asking his own questions of Oropher, for he had not heard of their plans for Eryn Galen before this.  Indeed, the entire ruling household of Eregion had seemed at a loss at how to properly address them upon their arrival. 

“You realize, of course, the dangers of the pass of Caradhras?” Celebrimbor inquired then.  His voice suited the rest of him, strong and pleasant, though heavily accented.

Thranduil waited as Oropher seemed to hesitate before humbling himself enough to ask the nature of these dangers.  Indeed, the existence of any danger at all did not seem to have entered his mind.

“I was not aware of them, no.”

Celebrimbor sighed, deliberately laying his fork down beside his plate.  “Then I regret to be the bearer of ill news, my Lord Oropher, but in the recent past, evidence has mounted there to suggest the renewed presence of the Urqui; as you say, the Yrch.”

Thranduil suppressed a gasp as Lindóriel’s nails dug into his thigh.

“Orcs!” Oropher exclaimed incredulously.  “The Orcs have been extinct since the harrowing of Angband.”

“So we would all wish to believe,” Celeborn said.  He sounded tired.  “But the fact remains that the abomination has somehow returned with new life.  The traces have been too plain to be misread.”

What was this?  Orcs?  Thranduil held his peace as he tried to fathom what he was hearing.  So, the Armies of the West had not eradicated the enemy as they had thought?  Were the great wars perhaps not ended after all?  The disappointment would be disgusting.  They had already dealt with the Orcs!  Those monsters were a horror that belonged to another Age.

“The Nogothrim of Hadhodrond have taken it upon themselves to discover these trespassers within their mountain,” Celebrimbor went on.  “But first they must discover and penetrate the new and hidden passages.  They cannot yet be certain of the passes above.”

Oropher sighed disgustedly, reluctantly accepting the unwelcome situation.  “We have dealt with the Orcs before, Master Celebrimbor,” he assured him.  “We need not the aid of the Nogothrim to protect ourselves.”

Celebrimbor merely nodded graciously, content so long as Oropher knew what he was facing.  But Thranduil saw an almost wry expression flash across the passive face of Galadriel.  She said nothing, but he could read her displeasure.  She looked at him for a moment, then regally lowered her eyes again.

Some things would never change.

The night was already deep in darkness when Thranduil returned to his room.  Argeleb was there waiting for him beside the door, up and wagging his great bushy tail as Thranduil closed it again behind him.

As much as Thranduil had intended to enjoy this visit, he had not.  He was just glad now to escape the tension in the air, the probing eyes of Celebrimbor, the awkward relations among their own family.  He had spent the last of his evening again in Amroth’s company, which he would remember as one of the few highlights of this encounter with the rising Noldorin power.

Thranduil pulled his crown out of his hair with a sigh and laid it on the bedside table.  There was much more on his mind beyond the uncomfortable aspects of that particular evening, and it all returned to him as he shed his elaborate robes.  He extinguished the lamps and fell back onto the bed, but with no real intention of finding any sleep yet. 

In the dark, he glanced aside to the circlet, still gleaming in the blue moonlight from the window.  It was his first day as a true Elven prince.  His father was a reigning king, and he had his best friends for his peers.  He ought to have been perfectly content that night of all nights.

But he was not.

At last, he rolled back out of bed and walked across the room to the door, pulling on his cloak as he went out onto the terrace.

The stones outside were cool beneath his feet, but the night was overcast.  Great masses of clouds were coming together above him, leaving only opening enough for the magnificent face of the moon.  He sat down again on the bench beside the pillar, breathing the fresh scent of impending rain.  It was a keen disappointment that he struggled with, a discontent that had nothing whatever to do with Celeborn or Eregion or Golodhrim.  He stared up at the dark face of the Misty Mountains, brooding in their shadow.  He felt disregarded, neglected, even betrayed along with the rest of his kind and all the inhabitants of Ennor. 

He was not alone for long.

“Your father wants an early start in the morning,” Galadhmir ventured to remind him.  “You would do well to sleep while you may.”

“Then so would you,” Thranduil sighed.  “But you cannot, can you?”

Galadhmir merely shook his head and sat opposite him on the bench.  He smiled grimly.  “Celebrimbor has set your mind wandering.”

“I thought the wars were over,” Thranduil said bluntly.  “I thought Morgoth and all his creatures to be but a black memory.  I thought the Lords of the West knew their business better than this.”

“You are angry with the Belain?”

“I dislike to say it in so many words, but yes, I am.”  His lip curled bitterly, remembering the great relief it had been after the Armies of the West had defeated Morgoth and destroyed Angband, presumably ridding Middle-earth of all such horrors.  At the time it had seemed recompense enough for the cataclysmic violence which had broken the world they had known and drowned Beleriand.  Now it seemed that hope had been in vain.  “If they are the guardians of the world, then why do they not guard it?  If the Orcs managed to survive their purge, what and who else might have slipped away from them?”

Galadhmir was silent for a moment, regarding him coolly in the half-light.  “I am the last one you should ask, Thranduil,” he replied.  “When we have ceased to loathe the Naugrim and learned to abide the Golodhrim, then we may ask questions of the Belain.”

Thranduil was not satisfied by that answer, but the question had been rhetorical in the first place.  He remembered Lindóriel’s fears and wondered now that he had been blind to them.  “Now it seems the wars will never end,” he murmured darkly, almost to himself.

“I wonder now that we ever thought otherwise,” Galadhmir said.  “The earth is marred beyond hope of that.  There will never be lasting peace, not this side of the sea, at least.”  He sighed.  “And with that cheerful prospect, I am going to bed, and so should you.  I shall be glad of at least one more restful night if I am to meet Orcs tomorrow.”