ERNIL

Chapter 11 ~ Over the Mountains VIII

The darkness had smothered him, denying him any return to life.  He had been aware of nothing, insensible to the passage of time and to what must have moved around him, conscious of nothing save the intolerable agony that paralyzed his every nerve as though his spirit were slowly being ripped free of his body.  Apparently, that was exactly what had been happening. 

In an effort to forget the pain, his mind had all but ceased to function.  Consequently, his memory of the event was all muddled, but it had seemed that he was called back by familiar voices only to be driven away again by a malevolent snarling that protested each effort.  It was only when he felt that his mind would soon no longer be his own that he rediscovered his will to resist in his own way.  He pulled away as he might, though it was like twisting a knife in his chest.  When at last he had awoken, exhausted but whole again, it was Galadriel whom he had seen standing over him.

Now he was seated beside Gwaelas’ bed, more or less recovered though still voiceless and rather weak, confined within the royal comforts of Eregion during his convalescence.  His voice was one of his particular vanities, so until it was restored he would sooner be silent than attempt to speak like a crow.  His arm was healing again after being reopened and properly cleaned and dressed.  Poor Gwaelas had not yet woken, yet Thranduil was assured that he was out of the worst danger.  Two of Galadriel’s maids hovered about giving him every care and attention.

Thranduil watched them, protectively maintaining his place at the bedside.  He had admittedly done a poor job of protecting him before this, but he was determined to better his performance on that score.  It still was not clear what had induced Gwaelas to wander from the library in the first place, but all evidence would suggest that he had been severely and inexplicably attacked by the household dogs, driven at last to leap from the walls to what should have been his death had it not been for the snow.  His leg had been broken and both ankles were injured, but the greatest danger had been the same contamination Thranduil himself had suffered.  Those dogs were somehow tainted by a curse of their own.  There was but one factor in common between their cases, yet Thranduil would have maintained a sullen silence on that point even had he not lacked a voice.  His mind was dark with churning thoughts.

“You do not acknowledge your suspicions, Oropherion,” Galadriel observed solemnly, her eyes trained steadily upon her needlework, “yet I know you must think of nothing else.  Shall I air them for you?”

Thranduil merely glanced her way.  He did not protest, but he still sat beneath the lingering shadow of a foul mood.

“I have no more love for Annatar than you do,” the Lady went on, “and I would consider you a simpleton indeed if you had not yet surmised his purpose in striking against you.  You have obviously firmed your own opinion of him, as Lord Gildor has confided to me.  I, too, am convinced that he comes with conquest in his heart and not benevolence.  Were my words heeded, he would be expelled from Eregion as from Lindon.  Yet he has ensconced himself here among those more willing to give him ear, those disposed to disregard the warnings of Gil-galad, of Celeborn and myself.

“No conqueror comes without a strategy,” she went on, “and even the simplest can still be employed to great effect.  Divided, Elvendom cannot stand, yet the three greatest realms in Middle-earth are far from united.  Failing to seduce Gil-galad, Annatar seems content to isolate him for the moment.  Lord Celeborn, I hear, has already admitted to you the extent to which we have been undermined in this city.  If he ever gains complete hold in Eregion, Annatar’s eye will turn to Eryn Galen.”

Thranduil followed the patient discourse silently, thinking it amazing that not many months ago he had never heard the name of Annatar nor suspected a dark power was again at work in the world.  To imagine Greenwood blissfully unaware of the growing shadow until it was too late was chilling enough, yet to be made to sit aside and watch it grow would have been intolerable.  In Celeborn’s position, his will to be silent would have broken long ago.

“You, Thranduil, are our link to the heart of Greenwood,” Galadriel said, looking at him and holding his gaze.  “Annatar knows this.  He knows that you are in many ways the wiser of the woodland princes.  He plainly intends to drive the wedge ever more deeply between us by either eliminating you or merely alienating you with your father by the infliction of some grave offense—for example, the unpardonable demise of your companion.”

Gwaelas moaned in his sleep, and Galadriel was called by her maids to attend him, hopefully to lead him out of his dark dreams at last.  Thranduil watched her work, profoundly resentful of the casual way in which both he and Gwaelas had been compromised like pawns on a chessboard.  There was also some indignation left for Galadriel herself, for she had not warned him upon his arrival of what to expect of Annatar, an omission not entirely redeemed by the fact that she had now saved their lives when circumstance required it.  Everything he had learned about Annatar he had been made to discover for himself.

“How do you abide this?” he rasped at last, unable to hold his peace.

“What evidence do I have?” the Lady asked imperiously, glancing over her shoulder.  “But I know the truth of it.”

As he suspected.  It was no more than he had himself.

“My own children do not yet know what to make of Annatar,” she assured him, somewhat tersely.  “Our hopes were to resolve the matter quietly, yet your continued presence here seems to be forcing many hands to act at once.  I can only pray that this ill-advised attempt fails in both its objects.”

Gwaelas was quiet again, and in the intervening peace Galadriel rose again to face Thranduil directly.  The grim ease of her manner had become something more solemn.  “Lord Celeborn finds himself further isolated each day,” she said.  “His true friends grow few.  To return to Eryn Galen only to forget the troubles of Eregion would be to accomplish what Annatar intends.  You cannot deny that reason will fail to sway the obdurate heart of your father the king.  It falls to you then to remember the people of Eregion in their need, and to be our advocate in the court of Oropher should the worst befall us.”

Thranduil said nothing, merely held her gaze.  His father’s warning against the lingering Curse of the Exiles was very much present in his mind, yet neither could he forget his obvious kinship to the Lord and Lady of Ost-in-Edhil.  In that light, they could rightfully expect Eryn Galen to be attentive to their plight, whatever it may be. 

The world is changing, Thranduil, his father had told him so long ago when they had sat together on a pier on the shores of Balar.  Now he feared it was changing again, cycling back into the darkness they all knew far too well.

A few days later, Thranduil wandered the halls of the palace alone, finally dressed in a manner fit to be seen outside his bedchamber.  He was aimless, but unable to be still.  Gwaelas remained in the care of Galadriel.  He was awake now, and his tale of the demon in the shape of Amroth was more than unnerving.  Could they afford to trust anyone anymore?

Walking silently over the polished marble of the corridor, Thranduil’s eyes drifted dourly over the images carved into the wall, representations of the major battles of Beleriand.  He could not help but feel a tingle of strange nervous energy as he imagined the advent of another dark age, the oppression of Middle-earth beneath a foul power like Morgoth, larger than life and against whom all efforts were ultimately in vain.

His old sense of history had just fallen shatteringly into perspective.  His early years had been characterized by the traditional milestones of youth.  Later, the fall of Doriath and the ruin of Beleriand had been more clearly demarcated than he would have wished, and the years afterward had been saturated with their own defining moments.  But ever since they had been absorbed into the tranquil peace of Greenwood, he had hardly noted the passage of time.  It was as though they had stepped outside the march of years and the wheeling of the seasons, so much so that it had all seemed to drift along in one great contented blur.  There had at last been nothing to upset the order of their lives.  Now that blissful oblivion had dropped him unceremoniously back into the racecourse of life.  Nothing enjoyed the permanence intended for immortality, nothing was invulnerable, no one could afford the perfect isolation they had enjoyed.  A realm without allies would be easily crushed, and it was no comfort to know in his heart that Greenwood was essentially defenseless.  Annatar already realized their weakness.

A more sobering thought was the realization that they were also essentially alone.  All his life, Thranduil had been accustomed to looking to a higher authority to bear the brunt of the wars that rocked the earth.  Thingol, Dior, Eärendil, Gil-galad.  Who would he look to now?  His father still stood over him, yet Oropher did not seem disposed to take the obvious pitfalls of his isolation seriously, and Thranduil had begun to quietly entertain his own doubts concerning his father’s practical ability to rule at all.  He did not question his authority, and so did not oppose him, yet Oropher seemed hobbled by an extreme narrowness of mind that a king could ill afford.  That bitterness had already borne bad fruit in his rejection of Celeborn’s recent overture, the reason Thranduil had come to Eregion in the first place.  Already he was taking it upon himself to repair the damage his father left in his wake.

Suddenly he questioned his own ability, regardless of his father.  Who was he to appoint himself responsible for so many lives?  Eryn Galen was teeming with a massive population of happily simple Wood-elves, raw, untrained, and entirely too trusting.  Gwaelas himself was an almost typical example of his race.  Could they endure trials as had been inflicted on Beleriand?  Would that break them?

Despite their simplicity—or perhaps because of it, he reminded himself—the Galennath were likely to exhibit a tenacity that would be strength enough to build upon.  They needed only a leader from whom to draw their courage.  Could he and his father fulfill that purpose for them?  Thranduil remembered the bristling outrage that had seized him when Annatar had dared to torment Gwaelas in his presence.  He had no way of knowing the dark lord’s ultimate ambitions, but he was determined now that Annatar would have to walk over the body of Thranduil Oropherion before he would lay hands on any of the woodland people again.  His lingering fear made his heart beat faster, but it had no voice in his final resolution.  They were his people now, and he would not abandon them.

He wandered further down the corridor, letting it lead him where it would.  The timeline of artwork on the walls was nearing its end, leaving off at the point where history was presently being written.  The double doors directly ahead of him looked intriguing.  Opening one of them, he found himself looking into a sort of gymnasium, a great high-ceilinged room where several old warriors and a few younger ones were maintaining their own disciplines despite the luxurious peace of Eregion.

“Thranduil!” Amroth rushed to meet him with a brilliant smile, shirtless and with his pale hair charmingly disheveled, quarterstaff in hand.  “I am glad to see you up and around!  I should have known you would not stay down for long.  Can you speak yet?”

“Tolerably,” Thranduil answered him.  His voice had indeed returned, but he still kept his words few.

“So, you finally found your way into the arena,” Amroth congratulated him.  “While you are here, I might as well spar with you.”  A shadow of concern crossed his face.  “Unless you do not think you have the strength yet.”

“I shall oblige you, Amroth,” Thranduil assured him with a tired smile of his own, “for old times’ sake.”  Stepping aside, he removed his belt, pulled off his tunic and knotted his hair into a loose ponytail.  He took up a staff from where they stood against the wall.

Amroth set upon him at once, hardly waiting for a challenge.  His eyes were bright with the memory of his youth in Lindon, and Thranduil found his enthusiasm infectious.  Contrary to what he had said, he had not felt completely up to a rough-and-tumble, but within the first few seconds he felt his strength flowing back.  After a few thrusts and parries, he easily kicked Amroth into a heap on the floor.

“You have lost none of your touch, I see,” Amroth laughed before leaping at him again.

The battle resumed with greater gusto, and swift hits were given and taken.  Amroth had become quite an athlete, and though Thranduil had to admit that he had neglected his own training of late, he could still hold his own well enough.  Their staves met with growing force as they attacked each other like overgrown boys.  Ducking beneath a whirling blow, Thranduil swung at Amroth’s legs, but the move was anticipated.  Overhead and under, to the left, right, and the left again, unable to afford a moment’s distraction.  Meeting both staves in the middle, Thranduil thrust Amroth back, throwing him off his feet and to the floor.  One more whirl and thrust would cement his victory, but his final blow was obstructed far short of the intended target, and he found himself crossing staves with someone other than Amroth.

“Excellent form, Oropherion,” Celebrimbor smiled.  “You know your business well.  You will not object to obliging me while good Amroth recovers himself?”

Thranduil met the renewed opposition with well-placed parries, but he was already giving ground.  This sparring match was perhaps meant innocently enough by the Noldorin lord, but his own mind was in turmoil.  How much did Celebrimbor know of his recent exploit into his sanctum?  If he knew, then why did he not speak of it?  Why was he smiling that way?  Annatar’s mention of the Kinslayings would not be quieted, and Thranduil had enough black memories of his own to make his position now uncomfortably familiar.

Celebrimbor did not spare him the intensity of a serious attack, and Thranduil was hard pressed to meet it, thrown off balance.  The blows came so swiftly that he had not time to think, and soon he was drawing desperately on every skill the marchwardens of Thingol had instilled in him.  Blinding flashes of memory plagued him unbidden.  Celebrimbor crossed staves with him in a moment’s stalemate, and his face was suddenly that of Caranthir.  Numbed by old fear, Thranduil’s legs were easily swept out from under him, and he crashed to the floor.  Several vicious swipes to the left and right saved him from immediate defeat before he tucked in and rolled back to his feet.  Celebrimbor was back upon him in the same moment.

Do you truly imagine all thought of kinslaying is past? 

Do you imagine . . . ?     

Unable to rightly distinguish Celebrimbor from the specter of Caranthir in the heat of the moment, Thranduil at last firmed his own defense and moved to the attack.  He smelled the blood again, and it was almost enough to drive him mad.  His opponent responded to his renewed fury with equal force, and again Thranduil fell beneath a shattering blow.  But as he fell, he caught himself on his arm and swung his leg around, striking the other cleanly across the knees.  At once he curled upwards, planting one foot firmly on the Golodh’s wrist and thrusting the end of his staff to the hollow of the other’s throat.

All was still then, but after a moment of breathy silence Celebrimbor laughed lightly.  “Very well, Master Oropherion; I allow you your victory, if only for the moment.”

Thranduil obligingly released him, stepping back with an effort to calm his racing heart as the illusions vanished.  Shaken as he was, it was not easily done.

He remembered nothing of the next few moments, only that he and Amroth were soon preparing to leave, and he was taking up his shirt and tunic again.

“What came over you?” Amroth asked him, his concern almost overpowered by his wondering admiration.  “You attacked him like a wildcat!  I dare say you put the fear of defeat into Celebrimbor; I do not think he knew quite what to make of you.  Thranduil?”  His smile vanished.  “You are going pale again,” he said.  “You have already overtaxed yourself.”

Thranduil let him ramble on, striving only to draw steady breath.  His mind was flooded with voices from the past, voices he would not hear again this side of the dread threshold of death.  Memories he had buried now would not be quieted.  In a moment he felt he would break out in a cold sweat.  His hands were shaking.

“Thranduil, what—?”

“Nothing,” he assured him, forestalling any further questioning.  “Just . . . just a memory.  It will pass.”

Amroth’s face turned grim, suddenly seeming to understand the unspoken implication.  Thranduil shut his eyes before they could play any further tricks upon him.