ERNIL

Chapter 12 ~ Over the Mountains IX

For weeks after the frightening chain of events which had followed Thranduil’s first meeting with Annatar, all had been quiet within Ost-in-Edhil.  The monotony had been maddening.  His every nerve had been pulled taut, jumping at shadows, waiting for something definitive to befall Eregion and hoping against hope that the winter would break and he could escape back to Greenwood, back to his own side of the mountains.  But nothing did happen, and as the days wore on it seemed less and less likely that anything would.  Annatar had withdrawn into his own affairs and no longer even acknowledged Thranduil’s presence in the city.  Thranduil himself gradually grew weary of worrying over something he was powerless to address.  These were not his affairs, and Galadriel seemed to have them more in hand than he ever would.  There were many things he intended to immediately change in Greenwood when he returned, but those would have to wait a few months more.  Winter was now at its deepest, and he was almost able to truly relax again beside a fire, taking certain obvious precautions, reasonably content in Gildor’s assurances that sharper eyes than his own were trained upon Annatar.

That day he was relaxing in other ways.  He was on a mountain cliffside with Amroth and his friends, because it was much easier to temporarily forget his troubles outside the city.  The snow was thick and soft with a glistening crust, and its appeal was irresistible.

In their company, Thranduil had learned the nuances of a casual sport that had allegedly been discovered accidentally by the Elves of the foothills in their observations of the Men who made their home on the Eregion borderlands.  Travel over snow was ordinarily no difficulty for an Elf on foot, but those of mortal race had redeemed their inability to tread lightly by wearing wide netted frames on their feet for walking, or long boards like sled runners for swifter travel.  The latest development involved only a single board, roughly the size of a small infantry shield, and was more pleasurable than practical.

The obstacle course they had set up involved first a running leap from a crag into a stomach-fluttering drop during which one tucked the board beneath his feet and hit the snow at speed, then a row of staves planted at irregular intervals around which he navigated while plummeting down the slope, pulling his legs up at the end to clear a frosted boulder—taking care not let the board get away, of course—and sailing into another free fall with the hope of making a graceful landing below before hitting the ice.

Thranduil, handicapped by his status as a beginner, had suffered his share of spills the day before, but now he flattered himself that he had almost succeeded in mastering the course.  Today, he lived for the bite of the wind in his face, the satisfaction of slinging up great sheets of powdered snow at every rapid turn.  Up here he could almost forget Annatar entirely for a few precious moments.

“All right,” Calanon was saying, whose father was originally of Gondolin.  His tireless grin was infectious as they all stood together at the summit, overlooking the drop below.  “This next course will determine once for all the grievances between the Wood and the City of Stone.  Tonight, this crag will fly either the banner of Oropher or Celeborn!”

“And will you be reckoning the best two of three?” Thranduil laughed, taking note of his opposition.  “It seems you have an advantage in numbers.”

“Surely that need not concern you,” Meldarion snickered, all in good fun.  “We have not been able to intimidate you thus far, have we?”

Amroth had trained his keen eyes on the ground far below, beyond the frozen stream.  “Look there,” he said, pointing.  “It appears that we shall have some fair spectators after all.”

The music of small silver bells had come to their ears, and there were Celebrían and her ladies drawing up in a white sleigh, waving up to them in greeting.

“The last one on the ice need not hope to find the ladies waiting!” Thranduil taunted, seizing a board and vaulting himself over and away before the others could object.

After landing the first fall, the rest of the course was straightforward enough.  They had replaced the staves in a new pattern, as always, so it was not devoid of challenge.  He could not afford a stumble now; he would never hear the end of it.

Over the rock!  He drew himself up and prolonged the flying leap as long as possible, just to add another unnecessary but showy element of risk.  As a result, he deliberately overshot their landing site and skidded out onto the ice, crouched in a rapid spin before at last slowing to a stop.

“Why, Thranduil, that was quite daring of you!” Celebrían congratulated him as he climbed up the snowy bank to join her and her maids.

“Nonsense,” he smiled.  “It was far more daring the first time when I had not the faintest idea what I was doing.”

Amroth was coming down now.

“We brought you some sustenance,” she said, proudly lifting the covered basket from beneath the furs in her sleigh.  “We expected that you might be enjoying yourselves too much to return to eat, so I asked the kitchen to set these aside for you.  Now, if only we could get all four of you down here while they are still warm!”

The sleigh could almost seat the seven of them quite comfortably.  As it was, Calanon agreed to sit on the floor, giving deference to the rank of at least two of his companions.  After the nipping cold of the mountain, a warm meal was an unexpected extravagance, and it was greatly appreciated by all.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself more these days, Thranduil,” Celebrían smiled.  “Has Eregion begun to show you a better face?”

“Perhaps,” he freely admitted.  “My knowing it better seems only to improve my opinion of it.”

“That is the most praise I have heard you grant our city since you arrived,” Meldarion jabbed.  “I am at a loss to understand how your precious Wood could begin to compare.”

“When you come to Eryn Galen, I shall show you,” Thranduil replied simply.

“His lady friend still graces the Wood, Mel,” Amroth explained knowingly.  “Surely that would be reason enough to prefer it.”

“Another one?” Calanon laughed before Thranduil could say anything.  “I do not yet concede the point, my lord.  Good Thranduil seems to create lady friends for himself wherever he may be.”

“A dastardly lie,” Thranduil dismissed the accusation, although he laughed with them. 

Why could not all of life be like this?  Here he was, at the foot of a snowy mountain, leagues away from home, having a grand time with two cousins he had hardly known.  His two newest friends had last week been perfect strangers to him, and yet already they were as affable as Galadhmir and Linhir.  The issues of race and kindred barely crossed their minds, and only in jest.  He glanced aside where he could see the city itself standing tall over the white-blanketed landscape, so foreign and yet already so familiar.  Celeborn’s old banner, stubbornly unchanged since Doriath, fluttered proudly over the rooftops.

But wait . . .

“Thank you, sister,” Amroth was saying to Celebrían.  “This delicious surprise of yours was a great pleasure.”

“You know you are welcome to it, brother,” she smiled.  “Of course, we must show Cousin Thranduil every courtesy, or he may not be inclined to ever return to us.”

But Thranduil was no longer paying attention.  “Amroth,” he said, his voice suddenly hard as he took his cousin by the shoulder.  “What do you make of that?”

He indicated the distant banner flying over the palace.  They watched as the blue and silver tree of Celeborn slowly dropped and was finally pulled from sight.

Amroth’s dark brows had fallen as well.  “Perhaps it is only—”

But all mundane explanations died in his throat as in its place rose very different colors, the star of Celebrimbor presumptuously unfurling against the gray sky.

The cold wrath on Amroth’s face knew no words, and Thranduil quickly surmised the grim reality of the situation.  The banners over the gates were being exchanged as well.

“Stir the horses,” he said.  “We’re doing no good just sitting here.”

The city itself was contained in an atmosphere of false calm.  Everyone knew what had happened, yet no one seemed to know how to react, and many chose not to act at all.  Many waited for instructions from their own lords.  No one wanted to be the first to unleash strife on their city, yet the whole place was charged with a nervous energy, and one word from Celeborn would set it off.  But no word came.

“There is little time,” Celeborn was saying as Thranduil, Amroth and Celebrían burst into his quarters.  “Amroth, you will take your mother and your sister through Hadhodrond to Lórinand.  Thranduil, you will take Gwaelas and accompany them.”

“Gwaelas is still unable to walk,” Thranduil said flatly.

“That is your affair, Oropherion.  It would be best to take yourself back to Greenwood while you still can.  I do not know how Celebrimbor will be disposed to deal with your presence here.  The Mírdain are in power now, and I cannot guess what Annatar will induce them to do.”

You will be fortunate indeed if you escape this city with your life.   That was probably not what Celeborn meant, yet it was disturbing to hear Annatar’s words echoed. 

“And what of you?”

“I will not pass through the mansions of the Dwarves,” Celeborn said darkly.  “I remain here.”

“What?”  Thranduil could not find it within himself to be tactful at a moment like this.  Galadriel seemed displeased, to say the least, but she did not gainsay her husband.  Perhaps they had already argued it all out before this.  “If you will not come to Eryn Galen, at least go as far as Lórinand.  Perhaps you can no longer be Lord of Eregion, but you are still lord of your own household!  Your place is with them!”

“The Dwarves bar my way!” Celeborn insisted, in an equally august rage.  “I will not pass through the Dwarvish mansions.  It is impossible; my sentiments forbid it.  I will not endure the indignity of begging their kind for sanctuary.”

“Yet you will endure the public disgrace to remain here?” Thranduil scoffed in disbelief.  “You will cast yourself on the magnanimity of the man who dared to displace you?”

Celeborn looked away, avoiding the issue.  “I have every hope that Celebrimbor will be good enough to ignore me.”

Thranduil could already see that argument was futile.  A thousand bitter things rose to his tongue, but he bit them back.  It was like this every time Celeborn and his father argued, a great deal of shouting to no effect.  Perhaps it did not have to be that way this time.  “I shall stay with you,” he said at last.

Celeborn could not conceal that he was taken aback by that statement, but he refused the offer.  “You cannot.”

“Why so?  It is no more ridiculous than what you propose, and I will not leave you here alone.”

“You must consider your duty to your father before entangling yourself needlessly in any foreign political feuds.”

“I do not see that it is needless.  It is my kinsman who has been wronged.  If I do not stand with him, who will?”

“You forget your place, Thranduil.”  Celeborn’s voice had deepened to a growl.

“My place is with my family, as is yours!  It is not I who insists upon scattering it to the winds!”

“Enough!”  Celeborn silenced him with a glare that would have made even Celebrimbor think twice had he seen it.  “There is no time for this nonsense.  Thranduil, your concern is touching, but you must return to your father.  I am not your only kinsman here.  See my family safely to Lórinand.  Gather Gwaelas and be ready within the hour.”

Thranduil sighed, recognizing the impasse.  “Very well.”

He left the room, striding purposefully down the length of the gleaming corridor, suppressing the instinct to run.  He passed Gildor, exchanging merely a glance.  That brief look carried great import, yet it remained unintelligible to both.  Had Gildor known that this was brewing?

“Gwaelas, we must be gone from here,” Thranduil informed him as he closed the door and quickly gathered up his things.  Fortunately, he could be packed in a moment; all that remained was to separate borrowed clothes from his own.

“But I have not yet regained my feet!” Gwaelas protested.  He was not indignant, merely concerned.  “You will not leave me!  Why must we go?”

“Lord Celebrimbor has only this morning deposed Lord Celeborn.  The Mírdain are seizing the rule of Eregion.  It would be unwise to remain until the spring and risk being caught between factions.”  Would Celebrimbor actually try to prevent their going?  He did not intend to remain long enough to find out.  “Of course, I will not leave you.  What do you take me for?  Even if your back were broken, I would find a way to bundle you out of here.”

“I dare say news of this will upset my lord the king.”

“I dare say it will,” Thranduil agreed grimly, stuffing his clothes into his pack.  Despite showing little or no concern for Celeborn’s well-being before this, Oropher would undoubtedly be greatly incensed by the injury done his cousin.

Within a quarter hour they were ready.  Thranduil had already been dressed for a rugged day outdoors.  He helped Gwaelas into some sturdier clothes, carefully lacing his boots over half-mended ankles.  Getting it all down to the stables may prove more difficult.

Slinging his own pack over his shoulder, Thranduil handed the other to Gwaelas.  “Hold this,” he instructed, and Gwaelas obliged.  With that, Thranduil hefted Gwaelas in his arms and left the room.

They met Amroth in the stables.  “I need not take much,” he explained.  “Lórinand is already my home.”

“See Gwaelas comfortably mounted,” Thranduil instructed him, securing his pack behind his light saddle and swinging astride. The Ladies Galadriel and Celebrían joined them before long.  Gwaelas was mounted as well as he could be, though Thranduil saw that he did his utmost to put a brave face on his own pain.  Amroth looked to him, and he nodded.

Without a word, they rode for the gate.

The passage through Hadhodrond, Khazad-dûm, was long and oppressive.  The Dwarves were not without their own forms of hospitality, and their halls were certainly grand, but the atmosphere was a foreign one.  Even their Elvish pleasantries were tailored to please the Noldorin ear.  Thranduil did not shun them entirely as Celeborn did, but he could not deny the tense tingle of apprehension which seized him when he considered the reality of being surrounded and even imprisoned among an entire horde of the stout warriors.  He could not sleep at night.  The six-day journey seemed like ten.

He and Gwaelas stayed a few weeks in Lórinand with their friends.  Despite the growing beauty of the young wood even in midwinter, Thranduil was eager to return to his own people, but he thought it best to give Gwaelas’ bones a chance to mend themselves properly before they continued.  They resumed their ride as winter was near to breaking, harried by wretched weather all across the plain.  They were glad to pass beneath the borders of Greenwood at last, though it was still another day’s ride to Lasgalen.

They were met by several sentries and other ordinary people along the way, and so word traveled on ahead of them.  Thranduil felt an immense relief as they rode up the winding approach to the crown of Amon Lasgalen amid the glad welcome of their people.

Lindóriel was waiting for him there, the first to greet him as he wearily dismounted.  “You have returned prematurely, my lord,” she said, but smiled.  “I am glad of it.”

Thranduil did not bother making a reply, but simply opened his arms to her.  She leapt into them gladly.

“Come,” she said, making as if to lead him away.  “Do not go to your father just yet.  You will soon be so busy again.  Can you spare a moment for me?”

“Always,” he smiled.  “Gwaelas, report to the king.  I shall follow shortly and give a full account of things.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Lindóriel led him away to the branching tree house adjacent to the King’s Hall.  It was one of her favorite places on the grounds, particularly when the weather dampened their many woodland retreats.  Some might have called it a library, but there were not enough books present to do the title justice.  It did contain an extensive archive of written records of Greenwood’s rule and maintenance, but they were only consulted on rare occasions.  What it did provide was a sense of peace and order, a place where one could come to clear one’s mind.  It was bathed in warm candlelight now.

When he had discarded his cloak and gloves, Thranduil sat down on the large cushion.  Lindóriel took her place beside him, contentedly laying her head against his shoulder.

“Tell me of your journey, Thranduil.  What did you see, and where did you go?  Who did you meet, and what did they say?”

“It taught me many things, certainly,” he began, putting his arm around her.  Yet as he remembered everything that had transpired over the past months, all the fantastic and disturbing incidents that had befallen him and which he had yet to recount to his father, he found himself at a loss for words.  Here in a familiar room with Lindóriel at his side he was suddenly acutely conscious of just how grateful he was to be home at last. 

Perhaps he should never have left at all, yet then he would still been ignorant of the timely lessons he had learned, unpleasant though they were.  He held her tighter, fearing the upheaval that seemed to be already growing like a canker in Eregion.  It was unbearable to imagine the waves of destruction rippling through Greenwood as they had through Beleriand.  He would shield her from it if he could.

Lindóriel seemed to notice his sudden unrest, and looked up with concern.  “What is it?” she asked.  “Tell me.”

Did he have to?

“All in good time,” he promised, willing himself to forget for the moment every rumor of the growing darkness as he gathered her into the first deep kiss he had enjoyed in far too long.