ERNIL

Chapter 9 ~ Over the Mountains VI

Thranduil woke the next morning to pain.  He was amazed he had been able to make himself sleep at all, but previous wounds had taken the novelty from the experience.  Somehow he had managed to suppress for a few hours not only the trauma to his arm but also the torments in his mind.

He sat up under the sheets, careful not to move too suddenly.  Gwaelas had cleaned and bandaged the wound upon their return to the room, but it was still far from healed despite his efforts to mend it during the night.  Even now the bandage was dark with blood.  They would have to do away with it and Gwaelas’ ruined mantle before either could be questioned.  He was reluctant to allow anyone knowledge of the incident, let alone the circumstances of it.  He was at Annatar’s mercy in that regard, but he was under the chilling impression that the lurking devil would be content to hold his peace for reasons of his own.  An insidious doubt was growing within him despite his rejection of Annatar’s insinuations.  He was uncertain of whom he could trust.

Gwaelas approached him softly with a wan attempt at a smile, apparently still weary and unsettled.  It was certainly not a good morning, and he made no pretense of calling it such.

“Help me with this,” Thranduil bid him, waiting grimly while the other tore the remainder of a shirt into strips, and then proceeded to undress the wound.

The torn flesh had attempted to close itself, but any abrupt movement would pull it apart once more.  Gwaelas’ smaller hands made swift work of rebinding it, as gentle as possible while making it firm enough to hold together.

“Wrap it thickly today,” Thranduil instructed.  “I cannot have it bleeding through.”

He felt odd, perhaps a bit lightheaded and sluggish.  He attributed it to the recent bloodletting.  His arm was not entirely functional, yet he would have to make as good a show of it as he could.

Making his way into the heart of the palace, he managed to accost one of his higher-ranking acquaintances over the casual breakfast laid out in the dining hall.

“Gildor,” he began abruptly.  “Of all the Noldor in Eregion, I feel I trust you most.  May I confide in you?”

“Certainly, Thranduil,” the golden lord assured him at once, a slight shadow passing over his face.  “Please, sit.  And do eat something; you are as pale as the moon this morning!”

Hunger was indeed gnawing at his stomach, but the fears preying upon his mind had an ill effect on his appetite.  Still, Thranduil made a conscious effort to make himself comfortable and take at least a fashionable helping of the fruit and pastry there on the table.  He would probably be glad of it later.

“Now,” Gildor prompted him, “what troubles you, my friend?”

Thranduil pushed a slice of apple around his plate on the end of his fork for a moment before he dared to begin.  “My lord,” he said at last, “what is your true opinion of Annatar?  How does he present himself to you?”

Now Gildor did frown a bit.  “I heard that you were summoned by him yesterday,” he said.  “The meeting did not proceed favorably?  I trust he is not responsible for your condition this morning.”

“I confess my own impression was decidedly less than favorable,” Thranduil said guardedly, declining to acknowledge the rest.

“Lord Annatar has had nothing but courtesy for me,” Gildor offered, seeming bemused.  “I cannot imagine what it is about you that offends him.”

“I offend him?” Thranduil protested.

“Forgive me.”  Gildor frowned again, seeming concerned.  “Are you certain you are well?  You look faint.”

“Do you truly see nothing odd about him?”  Thranduil persisted.  “Can you not feel the shadow in his presence?”

Gildor’s eyes narrowed.  “Just what are you saying, Oropherion?”

“I am saying,” Thranduil hissed vehemently, suppressing the urge to shout, “that he bodes no good for anyone.  He prowls around the forges like a demon, and I for one am convinced that Eregion harbors him at its peril.”

“And what have you to prove this amazing accusation?”

“I have only the assurance of my own heart.  I come from the realm of the Maia Queen; I can recognize a Power incarnate when I meet one!”

“And I come from Aman, Thranduil.”  Gildor arched his brow, his tone still tolerant but decidedly superior.  “Of course, Annatar is not only as he seems.  The Lords of the West may send us Maiar for heralds if they wish, and indeed he has intimated to a few that such is his purpose here.  But whatever you think of Annatar, Celebrimbor’s craft is his own and he will manage it well.”

Thranduil sat sullenly for a moment.  “Do you truly believe that?” he asked at last, disgusted.  “Because I cannot.”

“You do not know Celebrimbor as well as I.  You must trust the master in his own field.”

“I cannot,” Thranduil snapped again.

“You must.”

Thranduil glowered.  “I gather there is nothing more to be said.”  Pushing back from the table, he threw down his napkin and strode back through the hall toward the door.

Black thoughts clouded his mind as he descended the white marble steps, barely lighting upon each.  He had hoped Gildor would be distant enough from Annatar’s devilry to see it for what it was, or at least to consider the possibility.  The enemy’s charms were apparently more pervasive than he had imagined.

“Thranduil!”

He turned to see Gildor descending after him.  Without a word, the golden lord took a stern hold of his shoulder, pulled him to the bottom of the stairs and behind a pillar.

“A word to the wise, my friend,” he advised firmly, holding him against the wall.  “Do not imagine Eregion has turned only blind eyes upon the forges, or that you are alone in your suspicions.  Lord Celebrimbor knows more of the mind of Annatar than any of us, for he is deep in his counsel.  If there is evil afoot, we shall soon know it.  I recall how the house of Oropher regards the kin of Fëanor, yet Celebrimbor is no more an enemy than you would make him.”

Thranduil regarded him with a passive scowl which elegantly simplified the brewing storm of thought behind his eyes.  He was still uncertain whether he dared to make known to Gildor the incident of the previous night.  Would that gain him any support, or merely warrant further restriction of his movements?  Would his silence make him more vulnerable?  Was Gildor truly as deep in Celebrimbor’s confidence as he supposed himself to be?

“I know you are a creature of action, Thranduil,” Gildor concluded, more gently.  “Yet in matters such as these, we must leave the work for those who know it best.”

Leaving the main hall, Thranduil turned in the direction of the library.  This was not the privileged archive of the smiths, but the one intended for the public.  There would be nothing odd about his presence there, and if he were to fully understand the situation in Eregion in a timely fashion he must begin his studies without delay.

The ornamented corridor was crowded at that time of day, yet Thranduil stiffened to see Annatar striding towards him amid the thin crowd.

He summoned Gwaelas immediately to his side, and together they passed their mysterious enemy without a second glance.  Annatar seemed not one whit more interested in them than he was in anyone else present, yet new pain lanced through Thranduil’s wounded arm beneath his fleeting shadow.

“Stay with me,” he instructed Gwaelas, not wishing to allow his thoroughly intimidated companion out of his sight during the remainder of their stay within those walls. 

The library itself, like most everything in Eregion, was a masterpiece in its own right.  Its walls were traced in sculpted gold and silver and boasted a vast collection of literature and history on its gleaming shelves.  It would require several long and tedious years to read through all of it, yet Thranduil hoped to gather the significant highlights within the next week.

But he could not start immediately.  The library was occupied with a public reading of Noldorin poetry.  The listeners were seated on the floor in various attitudes about the reader, some more attentive than others.

Celebrían and Amroth were among them, and she silently beckoned for Thranduil to join them.  He could see no harm in obliging her, so he gently waved Gwaelas aside to an inconspicuous corner and took a place on the floor beside his cousins.  Celebrían took his hand warmly in her own, a gesture he truly appreciated amid all the conflicts preying upon him.  Yet her ring still held a dark intrigue.  He could feel its happily benign power there against his fingers, of no harm and certainly of some limited good.  But the mystery of it still unsettled him.

Thranduil paid very little attention to the sonorous Quenya recitation as he sat there, but rather allowed all his agitated thoughts to collect into some semblance of order.  He must begin by first taking note of everything commonly known about the Mírdain themselves, their leadership and influence, their previous accomplishments, their aspirations.  Who were the most influential members, and whose favor was Annatar actively courting besides Celebrimbor?

When the reader ceremoniously concluded the selection of the day, the knot of listeners began to disperse.  Thranduil rose as well, and helped Celebrían to her feet.

“I cannot stand to be shut up inside on a clear day like this, Thranduil,” Amroth said with a mischievous smile.  “Come out with me and my friends.  Or can you resist the call of new snow on the hillsides?”

Thranduil returned the smile, but grimaced inwardly.  His injury certainly forbade any physical exertion, even if he had not already made other plans for himself.  Now it remained for him to bow out gracefully.

“Perhaps another time, Amroth,” he said as pleasantly as possible.  “I had intended to take advantage of your archives here sometime before I returned home.”

“That does not sound like the Thranduil I know,” Amroth challenged him, planting his hands on his hips, but all in good humor.  “Very well, I shall not press you.  Yet I accept your flimsy excuse on the assumption that you obviously did not rest well last night.  Your face betrays you.  Go on, do your studying.  We shall have our fun without you this time.”

When they had gone, Thranduil turned to the enormous collection of volumes, scanning title after title for something of interest.  His search was still hamstrung by his ignorance of written Quenya, but not nearly so much so as in the deeper archives.  He began at last with a book of daunting size entitled The Founding of Eregion, cradling it on his left arm while flipping through the close-written pages with his barely-functional right.

It would be a long road from there, but he felt a stubborn determination growing upon him to see it to the end.

Several hours later, Thranduil was still in the library, his only companions a growing stack of books and Gwaelas.  He was reclined on the couch now beside the burning hearth, unusually lethargic.  Mealtimes had passed unnoticed, but the household had provided him a modest serving of wine that he had readily accepted, hoping to take the edge off the pain in his arm.

He had barely scraped the surface of the available reading, yet he felt he had reconstructed in his mind the circumstances of the city’s first span of years with considerable accuracy.  But the lesson had been a dry one, and to that he attributed the dull stupor of mind in which he found himself.  He had discovered nothing of any great import, though the basics of the history would be indispensable.

It must be wearing on to evening.

Eventually, he was again distracted by the soporific warmth and golden light of the fire, falling back into a world of grim daydream.  Gwaelas had been quietly busying himself on the opposite side of the room, still within sight but endeavoring not to be a distraction, waiting with infinite patience.

Soon Thranduil found that his eyes would not resume their focus on the page, nor would his mind make sense of the writing.  Mildly frustrated with his entire quest, he lay back for a moment, letting his eyes fall closed of their own accord, surrendering to his own weariness.  It seemed too much of an effort to even lift his hand from where it lay on the open face of the book in his lap.  It stirred fonder memories of another place and another time, sitting beside the hearth with Lindóriel in the depth of the woodland winter.  He imagined he could hear her musical laughter, feel her head on his shoulder.   He was suddenly quite content to remain unmoved for the duration of the evening.

But it was then that he began to suspect.  His eyes flew open as a cold fear shot through him.  Why was he so exhausted?  It was unlike him, unwarranted, unnatural. 

With a desperate effort he tried to force himself upright.

“Gwaelas . . .”

But he fell back gently, unable to resist or say more before the darkness took him.

Lindóriel left his side and turned back with a merry laugh which echoed eerily through the air.  Oropher’s hall was transformed into Menegroth around them, infested with ravaging Orcs, but she took no notice.  One charged toward her from behind.  Thranduil was powerless to move and his cries were mute.  The Orc seized her by the hair, but its aspect changed at the touch, becoming a terrible prince of the Noldor as it tore its dagger across her throat.  Thranduil was unable to scream, feeling her pain as his own. 

The Hírilorn was burning, and the Esgalduin ran red.  The bloodied ground yawned open and the black sea came rushing in to drown it in a roar of choking foam.  Dark mountains were thrust upwards to the clouded sky in the east, their shadow falling unnoticed over his father Oropher, an arrogant light in his eye and a blinding gleam of silver on his brow.  Ships came from the West, only to be lost in the mist. 

The walls of Menegroth fell around him again, reforming themselves as the hall of Amon Lasgalen; the Orc who had murdered Lindóriel leapt upon him in turn, ripping something from his arms and bearing it away as a child screamed madly for its father.  Smoke rose from the south, and the howling of the wolves heralded the coming nightfall.  Cries of pain and the ring of steel echoed through the dark of the wood.   He felt an iron collar close roughly around his neck, heard the rattle of chains and a fey warrior’s laughter behind him.  He pulled mightily against them, angry now, but then watched in horror as his mother was impaled upon a Noldorin sword in their home by the sea. 

Shackles closed upon his wrists.  His father was turned to stone and shattered upon the rocks like a forgotten monument.  The forest grew up around them as though a century passed in the blink of an eye, and a rumbling black mountain spat fire above them.  The cursed Elves who bound him fell howling into the shape of Orcs, grasping at him with their claws, and in a swirl of black that became bronze Annatar towered before him.  In his hand, the dark lord clutched the blond hair of a trembling Elf child.  The young face was somehow familiar, streaked with frightened tears. Thranduil’s heart turned to ice, helpless as Annatar wrapped a crushing hand around the boy’s throat.

“Thranduil?” the dark lord asked, smiling maliciously as the child writhed in his grasp.

“Thranduil . . .”

Thranduil? . . .  Thranduil!”

As the horrible voice softened, Thranduil dragged himself back to consciousness despite the painful constriction in his chest.  He opened his eyes to find Amroth hovering over him, and then Celebrían, both seeming momentarily concerned until he was truly awake.

“There you are!” Amroth smiled.  “It would seem that study takes a heavy toll upon you!  We wanted to wake you for dinner, but you looked so content we dared not disturb you until now.”

Thranduil did not answer him at once, aware of more immediate concerns.  He found it difficult to breathe.  A weakness had taken his entire arm along with shivers of pain that penetrated to the center of his chest.  Something was horribly wrong with him.

“Thranduil?” Amroth asked, concerned again.  “Are you all right?  You look positively ill.”

“I . . .”  At last many things were falling into place—his festering wound, the sleeping draft in his wine, his sudden shortness of breath—awakening a horrible suspicion and a barely-suppressed panic.

One glance was enough to confirm that his companion was gone.  With his good arm Thranduil seized Amroth by the sleeve, sick with fear.

“Where is Gwaelas?” he demanded, his voice thick and rough.