ERNIL

Chapter 13 ~ The Shadow Falls

Years passed, many quiet and uneventful years that left little or no mark on life within Eryn Galen in their turn.  No word came of either Celeborn on the far side of the mountains or of Galadriel in Lórinand.  Thranduil had long awaited it; he at least would have expected some indication from Amroth of how they were getting on.  During the long silence it had been tempting to trust again to the barrier of oblivion that had seemed to shelter Greenwood up to that point, as though Annatar had been little more than a bad dream.  The voice of his better judgment had forbidden such naivete.  Still, he had made very little mention of his private fears to either his father or his peers, save to insist that the military capabilities of their realm be not neglected.

All the Galennath were admirable hunters and foresters, but they had previously lacked the necessary organization and discipline to make respectable soldiers.  Now it was evident that the time and resources Thranduil had seen allocated to that purpose had been well invested.  Their small army was deployed as a standing guard for the woodland borders, and a greater number of reserve ranks were presently undergoing their training.  He privately suspected that if Oropher knew his true motivation for strengthening their defenses he would have been less supportive of the effort, and so he found himself playing several metaphorical games of chess at once to achieve his ends.  It was well that he had begun when he did because the storm in Eregion finally broke.

Thranduil stood on a lower balcony of the King’s Hall, leaning sullenly against the lattice.  The clouded sky threatened a good rain, and a fresh, wet smell was on the air, but what arrested his attention was another straggling group of families being led into Lasgalen by the palace guard.  Old men and boys in little more than rags, bereaved women and children, they were doubtless among the few who survived the periodic destruction of the rude but industrious villages clustered along the shores of the Anduin, adrift now in a wide and hostile world.  The momentous war that had engulfed Eregion in the flames of Celebrimbor’s forge had begun inflicting decidedly hard times on the rest of Middle-earth, destroying the countryside and worsening the current dark age of Men.  These were not the only desperate exiles who had come to Greenwood in their need.

Rumor from Lórinand had served well enough when official news did not, and Thranduil was already aware of the basic particulars of this new war, the first since the War of Wrath.  It would be called the War of Sauron and the Eldar by the historians, regardless of who emerged the victor.  Sauron, Gorthaur the Cruel, Master of Werewolves, adjutant of Morgoth, the adversary who had uncloaked himself at last and taken his right name, had devastated Ost-in-Edhil with a host of creatures almost as demonic as himself, and now seemed intent upon dragging the Second Age back into the dark chaos of the First.  The warning of Eregion’s fall had been far from unheeded there beneath the trees, for Thranduil could not believe that “Annatar” had forgotten him and his wood.  The mark of the hound’s jaws on his forearm had long healed, yet a persistent scar remained to remind him. 

Oropher did not yet seem disposed to take the situation wholly seriously, but he had not looked the fiend in the eye and felt naked beneath his scrutiny.  The king still trusted in the barrier of the mountains to shelter them from the woes of the west.  Despite their recent efforts, Lasgalen could not yet muster half the defense the Noldorin city had boasted.  They could not commit themselves to the field even if Oropher had been disposed to consider such intervention.  It had become a quiet race against time to prepare themselves for the worst.  Thranduil himself had seen to that, and Oropher had not objected.

Compulsively, Thranduil fingered the silver ring on his hand, finding some comfort in the thought that it was pure and powerless.  Made of the mithril of Celeborn’s gift, his father had presented it to him upon his return from Eregion long ago, a visible indication of his office.  It was inscribed for the Ernil o Eryn Galen, the counterpart of the one marked for the Aran upon his father’s hand.  He much preferred it to any of those complications of Celebrimbor’s making which had allegedly been scattered to the winds.

“Who are they?” Lindóriel asked him regarding the people in the courtyard below, slipping her arm around his.

“More of the same,” Thranduil told her.  “They have nowhere else to go.”  He felt a profound pity for them, for he understood what it was to be worsted from his own home and driven into exile.  They all understood.  “I fear the world is no longer a safe place.”

“It never truly has been, has it?” she said, turning her lovely eyes to his.  “I wanted to believe it could be.”

“So did I, Lin,” he said, pulling her closer against him.  “We must make the most of what we have, and if we truly value it, we shall know how to defend it when the time comes.”

“Do not speak of that now,” she pleaded, burying her face against the soft green of his shoulder.  “I know the day must come, but do not speak of it.  I cannot bear to think of war yet.”

Nor could he, but he could not afford to forget it.  Even so, he did not want his princess to lose sleep over the world’s instability just yet.  She held him as though she were afraid he would slip away from her again.  Thranduil did not let on that her embrace was as much a comfort to him as it was to her.  He maintained a show of strength for her sake, yet admittedly there were times when he, too, simply needed to be held.

He lifted her face and gazed at her for a moment, letting his fingers trail fondly along the edge of her features, into her hair.  She would be nothing to the great ladies of Elvendom, yet her simple and perfect beauty was still enough to take his breath away.  Perhaps, if Sauron’s war left them untouched for a time, he would finally make her his wife.  At the very least, it was high time they were formally betrothed.  It seemed they were already indelibly part of one another, for their love had deepened with every day.  But now he also saw a fear behind her eyes that he would banish if he could.  She had already seen too much of war.

He wanted to tell her that her fears were groundless, that the disaster in Eregion could never affect them, that Gorthaur would vanish into thin air and that the earth would swallow his Orcs once and for all.  He wanted to tell her that he would never need take up a blade again, that they would raise their children in the peace and rich heritage that had been stolen from them in Beleriand.  But he would not lie to her, and she knew it.

Instead, he kissed her, slowly, firmly, once, twice, again and again, driving all thought of war from her mind with the silent promise that she would be his own and that nothing would take her from him.  Could he even consider life without her?  The black ruin of Middle-earth could be yawning just beyond the wood, but they would meet it together if they condescended to meet it at all.

When at last he released her, he was gratified to see that the fearful gleam in her eyes had been quite overpowered.  She regarded him for a moment in lover’s adoration before contentedly wrapping herself around him again, her head against his heart.

He gladly held her there, needing to be needed.  They might have lingered a long while had not Thranduil felt eyes upon him and glanced back down into the courtyard.  The king himself, standing before his wretched crowd of suppliants, was looking up at him with controlled impatience.

“Excuse me, Lin,” he said, reluctantly pulling away from her.  “I believe I am being summoned.”  He left for the stairway at once, and she followed him.

As the scene before the palace presented itself, Oropher was attempting to extract brief particulars about the recent raid or battle from the old man who was apparently the appointed spokesman for the ragged band before even beginning the arrangements for granting them sanctuary.  Elven maids were already cooing in pity over the children, watched narrowly by suspicious mothers.

Thranduil had already surmised the reason he was needed, namely to overcome a communication barrier.  Although an admitted master of his own native dialect, Oropher had little mind for any other.  These people of mortal race knew little enough of the Elvish tongue, and the language of Men remained essentially unknown to any in Lasgalen.  The Men could follow Sindarin tolerably, but at present only Thranduil could affect enough of a Noldorin accent to make himself intelligible to them.  It was a regional issue.  Soon Gwaelas would be competent enough to assist them.

Thranduil was able to relay his father’s inquiries with little difficulty.  It had been a small raiding party of Orcs that had burnt their homes, but many of the men had been absent from the village already.  They could not hope to fight so they had fled, and more than a week ago.  They were tired and hungry and some had fallen ill.  These answers he returned to Oropher, who seemed satisfied.

“The children must have slowed them up,” the king observed, almost to himself.  “A wandering band of Orcs will never penetrate the western marches.  Erelas, tell Rochendil in the stable to shelter these people until we can find them a more permanent arrangement.  They will each bathe and receive new clothes.  Thranduil, deliver that to them in a palatable manner.  Guards, you will return to your posts.”

And so life went on.