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We Were Young Once ~ II  by Conquistadora

ERNIL

Chapter 4 ~ Over the Mountains




“They are a fine-looking brood, my lord,” said a stable hand.


“They had better be,” Thranduil smiled.  “I have been perfecting them long enough.”


It was an impressive litter, Thranduil had to admit, one of the best yet.  He crouched down on his heels again, and another of the wolf pups bounded clumsily toward him.  That one at least showed the dark silver coat of his sire of long years past, the hound Argeleb.  Perhaps Thranduil would pass the name on to him.  He seemed to have spirit enough.


He rolled the pup onto its back with a playful swipe of his hand, and he was rewarded with a great deal of rowdy growling and wriggling.  Soon he was surrounded by the rest of the litter, their dam panting contentedly in the corner.


“I could well spend the rest of the day out here,” Thranduil said aimlessly, his lap filled with young hunters.  “But I suppose it would be too much to expect.”


“Undoubtedly, my lord.”


“Thranduil!”  Galadhmir’s voice rang from the edge of the glade as if in timely answer to his wry prediction.  “Your father expects you back!  There are guests on the way!”


With a reluctant sigh, Thranduil managed to extricate himself from the fluffy pack and climb to his feet.


“Who has come this time?” Thranduil asked as he joined Galadhmir on the forest path.


“Golodhrim,” Galadhmir informed him.  “The Noldor of Eregion, and even a few of their Dwarvish friends.”


“Really?”


“Yes.  You might want to find a change of clothes before you meet them if you know what is good for you.  One can only guess what they want.”


The last of summer’s vibrant green was just beginning to fade into the onset of autumn, and Lindóriel’s yellow roses were in early bloom everywhere.  They grew thicker as one approached the grounds of Amon Lasgalen, making its landscape of autumn glory one of the many wonders of Greenwood.  Thranduil was privately pleased that these Golodhrim had chosen so opportune a time for their visit in that regard.  He drew out his knife and cut a young bloom in passing, swiping off the thorns as he walked.


It was a brisk climb up the shaded backside of the hill.  Thranduil continued up the neat stone pathway at a leisurely run into the forested depths.  He slowed as the population grew denser, partly out of desire and partly of necessity lest he outrun the children flocking from the trees to meet him.


“Prince!  Prince!  Prince Thranduil!” they chorused, each competing to be the first into his waiting arms.


Thranduil obliged them in this almost daily ritual, sweeping up the winner who giggled ecstatically, while the others still clamored around him.


“Can you stay out with us?” another asked, grabbing hold of his other hand as they walked.  “We want to ride with you again.”


“I am afraid not,” Thranduil apologized, truly sorry to disappoint them.  “The king and I have some immediate business to attend.”


Six small voices were raised together in frustrated lament.


“Do not carry on so,” Thranduil laughed.  “There is always tomorrow.  And I am sure that by then I shall find some convenient opportunity to take you all for a turn about the valley.”


They shouted gleefully, raising a song and dancing around him as though he were a pole for spring streamers.


Their group elicited many smiles from the people about as they neared the palace.  Lasgalen had grown steadily stronger amid the prosperity of the last years and its more efficient organization.  The steady growth of a new generation was a telling sign of it.


“Here I must leave you,” he said eventually, setting the one child down among the others beside the bole of the beech tree beside the ones which held Oropher’s hall.  “You are all too young yet to follow me this way.  Go see if you can charm the stable master into giving you some treats for the horses.”


With that, he gathered his legs beneath him and gained hold of the lowest branches in one easy bound.  Up again, hand over hand, one smooth branch after another, Thranduil thrust himself up through the leafy boughs.  At last, he had come near enough to grab hold of the sill of the open window and haul himself inside, landing in an elegant heap on the floor.


“Thranduil, my lord!” Gwaelas gasped, apparently a bit cross with him, and already holding an appropriate change of clothes as though he had been waiting an intolerably long time. 


“Well, you did not expect me to present myself downstairs looking like this, did you,” Thranduil asked, shaking the leaves from his hair.


 



Shortly thereafter, Thranduil descended from his room more formally attired.  At any rate, he deemed it formal enough that he would not shame his father before their guests, whoever they might be.  He wrinkled his nose a bit as he reached the level of the main hall, for the distinct smell of Dwarf was in the air.  It was absolutely the first time the Naugrim had set foot in that place.


Just as he was about to enter the hall, a gentle hand snagged his mantle and held him back.


“Wait a moment, Thranduil,” his mother said, keeping her voice low.  “Let me explain.”


“Who are they?”


“They are Noldor of Eregion.  They come bearing gifts and overtures of goodwill from Lord Celeborn and his Lady and ostensibly from all of Eregion.  But their true purpose, it seems, is to establish a definite alliance with your father.”


“Have we grown so much that we merit the regard of the great Golodhrim?” Thranduil asked wryly.  “I cannot imagine they fear us.”


“Perhaps not,” Lóriel continued grimly, “but I can imagine their wish to command our armies at need.  An ally who offers no aid is no ally at all.”


“Father does not enter alliances lightly.”


“I know he does not, but neither will he be inclined to let their gifts slip away once they have entered his hall.”


“I see.  And you fear the affront such uncultivated behavior would cause.”


“I fear it is unavoidable now.”


Thranduil nodded.  She was probably right.  Then he rounded the corner and entered the hall.


As he had expected, there stood three resplendent Elves and three Dwarves before his father’s throne, and there before them stood three open chests bearing all manner of treasures from the Noldorin city.  All seven of them looked up as he entered, and Thranduil paid no heed to Oropher’s glare of paternal annoyance.  However, he did graciously acknowledge the greetings of the ambassadors before taking his place, standing at the king’s right hand. 


After the appropriate pleasantries, they returned to the business at hand.


“And so, before you, King of Greenwood, lie these small tokens of the esteem of all Eregion,” the first of the Noldor continued, very graciously.  “It is the hope of my lords that an understanding of friendship be established between Greenwood and the city beneath the mountains.  What answer may I bring to them?”


Thranduil said nothing, holding his peace while Oropher considered his answer.  Now that he was in front of them, he could see just what those small tokens of esteem entailed.  It was a generous overture, certainly, enough to easily double what the treasury of Lasgalen possessed.  But, in practical terms, he had no greater hope than his mother that the matter would be resolved favorably for all concerned.


“You may convey to your lords our great appreciation for their attentions,” Oropher said at last, a pleased but guarded tone in his voice that confirmed Thranduil’s suspicions.  “But if it is a firm alliance they seek, we do not enter such confines lightly.”


A pall of general discomfiture descended upon the hall.  Thranduil felt for the envoys and their suddenly awkward position.  What exactly did such an answer truly mean, and were they then to take back the proffered gifts?


“But my lords merely ask—”


“My answer is no,” Oropher interrupted imperiously.  “Eryn Galen will never bind itself in obligation to another realm.  That has never been its purpose.”


The Elves seemed perturbed by the refusal, but the Dwarves were genuinely insulted.  Thranduil suspected this offer of alliance had carried no great goodwill from Hadhodrond in the first place.  As one, they moved to pack up the chests and be gone.


But Oropher was quicker than they, planting one foot on the nearest chest.  At his full height, he towered menacingly over the Dwarves with what could at best be called a hostile smile.  “Rather than seem boorish, however, we do accept the gifts of the Mírdain,” he said.  “Please convey to our kin in Eregion our heartfelt gratitude.”


Thranduil simply closed his eyes, and his mouth, for it was not his place to censure the king, at least not publicly.


The Dwarves, given license to be just as offensive as they pleased, turned and trooped out of the hall entirely.  The Noldor were not far behind them, though they took their leave with somewhat better grace.


When they had all gone, Oropher at last removed his foot from the collection of gold and silver, his smile melting into a look of profound disgust as he turned to leave the hall in the other direction.


“Father!” Thranduil insisted sharply, hurrying to follow him out.  “That was uncalled for.”


“Oh, yes?”  Oropher disdained to turn as he continued to climb the curving stairway toward his own chambers.  “If they want to send their treasures to me, that is their affair.  But they will never succeed in bribing me into their power.”


“I do not care what their intentions were,” Thranduil maintained, continuing the pursuit two steps at a time.  “All of Eryn Galen speaks with your voice.  You cannot go about giving offense wherever you please!”


“Do not presume to lecture me, Thranduil,” his father growled, gaining the topmost stair outside his door, looming like a cloud.  “I may give offense where it is due.”


“I fail to see how that was due a moment ago.”


“They cared nothing for us when they deemed us nothing,” Oropher complained, apparently annoyed that he should have to defend his behavior to his own son.  “Now they would snare for themselves a piece of our prosperity, milk our resources and command our armies.  It is merely the first of their efforts to draw us into the troubles of their circle, and their loss is their own.  I did not come two hundred leagues from Lindon to fraternize with the Golodhrim!”


“Must you estrange Celeborn forever?” Thranduil demanded angrily, cutting at once to the heart of the argument.


Oropher glared down at him, but could say nothing for a moment.  Thranduil stood his ground with a bitter glare of his own.  On this point, he would have an answer.


“Celeborn does not concern me,” his father said at last, but the words seemed wrung from him with an effort, and carried no passion.


Thranduil could not wholly disguise his disappointment.  There had been a time when Celeborn and Oropher had been the best of friends, difficult as it was to remember now.  The jealous chasm that had torn between them was deep indeed, but some kindred feeling had always remained, even if it inspired nothing but frustration.  If Oropher was determined to throw off even that, their separation had never been so hopeless as it was now.  But it was a tragedy Thranduil would endure no more.


“Let me go to Eregion,” he said.  “I, at least, have not disowned him.  And though I am your son, he and his family are no less my kinsmen than they are yours, and you will not keep me from them.”


He had expected a bitter refusal, or at the very least a violent lecture.  He was prepared for it all and would endure it without complaint if such was the price he must pay.  To his surprise, Oropher merely looked down on him for a long moment more, then turned and stepped into his room.


“Very well, then.  Go,” he said simply, closing the door behind him.  “I apparently cannot stop you.”







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