ERNIL

Chapter 14 ~ The Shadow Falls II

Thranduil was awakened by a hand on his shoulder.  A candle lent a soft glow to the room which was otherwise deep in the gloom of earliest morning.  A heavy and incessant drip outside was all that remained of the spring rain, weak thunder lingering in the distance.

“My lord,” Gwaelas said, standing above him and already fully dressed, “the king awaits your immediate presence in the Hall.”

“At this hour?” Thranduil protested, blinking the sleep from his eyes, but not yet with any intention of lifting his head from the pillow.

“I am afraid so.  A courier has come with word from Lord Amroth, and the king would address it without delay.”

Thranduil dragged himself upright and pushed back his hair.  “Has he sent tidings of the war, then?”

“I cannot imagine what else it may be.  Eriador can afford to entertain little else at present.”

By now Thranduil was up and in search of a shirt.  When his father got the idea into his head that something was important, he could not rest until he had investigated it, which more often than not included stirring the whole house to join in his scrutiny.  He dressed half-heartedly and threw on a robe.

Gwaelas followed him as he strode across the bridge and down the winding staircase.  The city amid the trees was aglow with small patches of light even now, though the night was quiet.  Pricks of starlight shone down through the breaking clouds above.  They came to the royal hall together and saw that Oropher, Luinlas, Baranor and Noruvion had already preceded them.  The latter three rose to greet their prince as he entered.

Thranduil was rather surprised to see them present.  The interior Council of the Four Lords was rarely convened in full anymore, particularly at such short notice.  Oropher disliked bureaucracy and was inclined to keep representation at a minimum.   As the practical duties of the administration had evolved, Luinlas, Baranor, and Noruvion had begun to function more as local intermediaries of the crown in the territories surrounding Amon Lasgalen itself, and they were usually away in their own jurisdictions.  Thranduil himself was not considered a member of the Council in the strictest sense, but he wielded an authority in his own right greater than any two of them.  The full Council of Six would include both himself and Brilthor, the former chieftain of the wood.  The other crowned princes of the king’s house, Linhir, Galadhmir, and Anárion, had not been delegated any particular duties in the government, and were left to live the life of privilege without responsibility, though they always found useful ways in which to busy themselves.  Thranduil was certainly not sorry to see the others now but he was quite unable to account for their sudden presence.

“I summoned the Council yesterday,” Oropher explained from the throne, answering the unspoken question.  He held an open letter in his hand.  “I was inclined to discuss these matters even before we were honored with this particular communication.”

As Oropher finished reading the letter silently to himself, Thranduil stepped onto the dais and took his place beside him.  He glanced again at the others, this time with a more discerning eye.  Luinlas in particular looked tired as they resumed their proper seats, as though he had only just arrived and had been looking forward to spending the remainder of the night in bed. 

The courier himself was quietly seated in the corner, or so Thranduil assumed based upon his travel-worn appearance.  He seemed a resilient sort, but there was a weary look in his eyes.  He was obviously one of the woodland people of Lórinand, now tempered by war.

At last, Oropher had read to the end, his expression dark and unfathomable.  “Read it aloud, Thranduil,” he said, handing him the pages.  “You may find it rather grim, but informative.”

“It is addressed to Oropher, Elvenking of Greenwood,” Thranduil began obediently, albeit reluctantly, “and to Thranduil, Prince of Lasgalen; from Amroth, Lord of Lórinand with Amdír our brother.  Greetings beneath the blessed stars of Elbereth.”

By this time you may already be aware of much that I would relate to you.  The expanse of the mountains alone is not great enough to contain it.  But I thought it best to confirm for you the truths of the matter in my own hand, and thereby lay rumor to rest.  The truth is difficult enough to endure.

It may suffice to say in beginning that Ost-in-Edhil is destroyed.  But that alone would hardly do justice to the events as we saw them.  Sauron, the dark lord, returned to Eregion over Calenardhon two years ago when Celebrimbor renounced him.  Celeborn, my father, led the first defense of the border, and was soon able to join his forces with those of our kinsman Elrond Peredhil beneath the banner of Gil-galad the High King.  But the numbers of the enemy were too great and entered Eregion despite them, barring any return thence to the city, which to our shame was quickly besieged and overrun.  We know little of the last defense within the walls, save only that it was fierce and bravely done, but to little effect.  Sauron returned out of the forges once more, ‘Annatar’ no longer, bearing as his battle standard the body of Celebrimbor upon a pole.  I spare you many details.  The entire city was irreparably lost and its halls profaned, breeding only Orcs and their filth.  Elrond would then have been destroyed had I not led my Elves with the Dwarves of Durin out of Khazad-dûm.  Elrond thereby escaped into the north, but all Eregion is lost.  Khazad-dûm is closed, and I am driven back into Lórinand, whence I write to you.

Word has come to me that Elrond has established a new stronghold on the Bruinen river, and that Sauron moves to besiege Lindon and Gil-galad.  In that event, we may expect to call upon the Men of Númenor in our need.

All Eriador is laid waste.  I shall refrain from describing to you the horrors of that ravaged land, for both of you have lived longer than I in this world and have seen many horrible things.  To see it is to imagine the bowels of Angband spewed into the light of day.  I feel compelled to warn you that Sauron may not be content to remain in Eriador, seated on the ruins of the white city.  We have discovered a fortified retreat he has established for himself south of Rhovanian, a wretched, barren land that has come to be called Mordor.  The Hithaeglir are no obstacle to him.

As we await the advent of the Númenórean ships, and watch the black hosts of the enemy covering Eriador like a plague, I take the liberty of requesting that you, as the sovereigns of the last Elven stronghold to have escaped the hand of the dark lord, join your efforts with ours in whatever manner may be possible.  Even if you will decline to enter into open war, it would be a comfort to the defenders of Eriador to know they may be received by their brethren of Greenwood in their need, if indeed any escape to the east will be possible.  Your position in relation to the land of Mordor is obviously poised to be a strategic one.  In the hopeful—if now unlikely—event of Sauron’s retreat, it has been agreed in council that to fortify both Lórinand and Eryn Galen against the Black Land would be most advantageous to all concerned.

In these matters, I trust you will consider well your many duties and the consequences of your decision.

“In good faith and everlasting kinship,” Thranduil concluded, “Amroth, Lord of Lórinand.”

There followed a moment of heavy silence.  Little of what they now heard came unexpectedly.  Still, some truths they would have preferred to believe exaggerated.

“Your pardon, my lords,” the courier said then, standing and producing a second letter.  “My lord sends word also to his kinsman, the prince, in particular.”

Gwaelas received it from him at once and brought it to his master.  Thranduil stood as he took it in hand, slowly pacing the length of the dais as he broke the seal and opened the page.  If Amroth had troubled to send him word entirely separate from the first, he suspected its contents might not be intended for a general audience.

It was brief and to the point, but its voice was more intimate.

I cannot overstate the urgency with which I write to you, my lord and cousin.  A dread shadow is falling over all Middle-earth, and each day in passing diminishes our hope of repulsing it.  All our efforts seem in vain.  Some begin to fear that the fate of Eriador shall be that of Beleriand, yet I wonder if your father will be disposed to see it so.  The reserved strength of Eryn Galen is sorely needed.  I write almost without hope, save in your power of intercession. ~ Am

Closing it again, Thranduil crossed his arms and resumed his slow pacing, running the edge of the paper pensively against his lip.  A thousand thoughts were turning through his mind.

“And what has he to say to you?” his father asked.

Thranduil hesitated.  “Nothing of consequence,” he replied vaguely.

“Very well, then,” Oropher dismissed it, returning to other matters at hand.  “Of course, the idea of sending our own forces into Eriador is quite unsupportable.”

“But if the need is so dire—” Baranor began.

“If it is so dire, then I am even less inclined to strip the wood of its defense,” Oropher stated firmly.  “Our strength is best left concentrated where it is, not spread over a barren hell and back.”

“Such was Thingol’s strategy,” Luinlas observed, his voice low.  He would know about such things if anyone would, once a marchwarden of Neldoreth.

“Is that supposed to inspire us with confidence or despair?” came the somewhat bitter rebuttal.

“It was not Morgoth or his Orcs who ravished Menegroth.”

“And who present here is supposed to be our Melian?”

“Who is Amdír?” Noruvion asked, in another vein entirely.

“Merely another lord in Lórinand,” Thranduil answered him absently.  “We are not yet intimate with him.”  He had heard the name before, yet did not know the silvan lord personally.  Despite the intercourse which flourished between the two woodland realms, many of the deeper concerns of each remained obscure to the other.

“Eregion nursed Sauron’s plotting for years, and now it is their own misfortune to suffer the consequences.”  Oropher continued.  “Eryn Galen had no part in their complacency, and therefore I do not feel we are obligated to bear their burden.  Thranduil saw through Annatar at their first meeting.  Were the others truly so blind?”

Thranduil stiffened a bit, feeling his father’s eyes on his back.  He had intentionally reserved many details of his visit to Eregion, perhaps more than he should have in good faith.  He had told no lie, yet he had severely diluted the truth.  He felt Oropher was oversimplifying the issue now, but for the moment he held his peace.

“They have given us nothing, but suddenly they would ask us to empty ourselves on their behalf.”

Now Thranduil frowned.  “If they had offered, you would not have accepted,” he muttered cheekily.

“I will not tear the heart out of Greenwood to right another’s wrong,” Oropher insisted with a curl of his lip.  “When entreaties will not move me, I see young Master Amroth presumes to threaten.  ‘The mountains will not protect you,’ he says.  A statement of that sort will certainly not induce me to lend him my own guard, or to starve my people that his may eat this winter.”

“These are desperate times,” Baranor said simply.  “Sacrifices must be made by all in war.”

“But this is not our war.”  Oropher would not be moved.  “Let them sacrifice if they will.  Rather, it seems they would sooner presume upon our hospitality and leech us dry.  We cannot possibly support a displaced population in addition to our own, and obviously Eriador has nothing to offer us.  Shall we all go hungry together?  If they want asylum, they should disappear into the labyrinth of Hadhodrond and impose upon their friends the Dwarf-lords.”

“Father!” Thranduil snapped, turning with a dark look that unexpectedly silenced him.  He had heard enough.  His own conscience was already twisting his heart without having to listen to that.  There was also something about the scorn in Oropher’s voice that had struck a nerve.

Luinlas had apparently had enough for the moment as well.  “For myself, sire,” he said shortly, “I believe no resolution will be possible at this hour, and that further debate is futile while tempers are short.  Perhaps we shall each see our way more clearly on a few hours’ sleep and a full stomach.”

The king was plainly wroth with his son, but did not argue.  “Very well,” he said, conceding the point.  “This council will retire for the moment, and resume immediately following breakfast.  We must draft our reply to Lord Amroth and send his good messenger back to him as soon as possible.”

The others did not object, and gradually dispersed.  Thranduil remained, turning toward the open lattice and leaning against the rail as he debated within himself.  It was too late to return to bed anyway, and he doubted he would be able to sleep if he tried.

Oropher remained behind as well, and approached him when the others had gone.  The burning lamps were extinguished at his will, plunging the room back into soft shadow.

“Would you like to tell me plainly what is festering in your mind, Thranduil?” he asked, suddenly more a father than a king.

To mince words now, Thranduil realized, would be pointless.  “I cannot help but feel we must do something,” he said, unburdening his heart.  “All Eriador is crumbling, and we would turn a blind eye?”

“My eyes are not blind,” Oropher insisted solemnly, “nor are my hands idle, but my life is no longer my own, and my first responsibility is to our own people.  I cannot ask them to go marching gallantly off into the horizon with me to rescue each of my friends from dilemmas of his own making.”

“I would consider a conquering rampage by a fiend to be of a bit more import than that.”

Now Oropher smiled, a strangely weary expression.  “You obviously still have the fire of youth in your blood which makes patience a trial.  Stop a moment and ask yourself, what good would we accomplish by throwing together our army and marching it valiantly into Eriador?”

Thranduil was sullen a moment.  “Very little,” he admitted at last.

“They would fight very bravely and come to ruin very quickly,” Oropher agreed.  “They are better reserved here.  If Eriador cannot stand, then let it go; the damage is already done.  It is not our place to right it, for we could not.  Let Númenor see to that.  As Amroth troubles to remind us, this Mordor is indeed on our side of the mountains.  On a clear day you can see those black peaks from the forest’s edge.  We must address our concern there, the nearer threat, and be ready when the time comes.”

Thranduil swallowed his own objections, for he had to admit that his father’s reasoning was unassailable.  “You realize that posterity will flay our memory if we do nothing,” he said simply.

“Do not trouble yourself with the opinions of historians, Thranduil,” Oropher advised.  “Rather it could be that they commend us for guarding our own affairs.  Or they may forget us entirely.  Your responsibilities are of the here and now, and your first duty is to the crown you wear,” he said, tapping Thranduil’s forehead with the folded letter, “not that which has fallen from the brow of your cousin.”

Thranduil could only sigh and nod.  Oropher seemed satisfied, leaving him there and returning to his queen.

More soft lights were beginning to illuminate Amon Lasgalen as the early risers greeted the new day.  The eastern horizon had begun to glow as well.  Thranduil stood and watched as their city returned to life—their city, the vast population that had been entrusted to their care.  And in that, he could understand his father’s reluctance to force the ugly aspects of life upon them.  Oropher held a very fragile peace in the palm of his hand.

Yet the ugly facts of life would not be ignored for long.  Though they may try to avoid it, the war would come for them eventually, and at this rate it would be sooner rather than later.  They had already been unprepared for such things too many times before.  With that thought, Thranduil turned and climbed the staircase that led toward the guest quarters far above the King’s Hall.

It would perhaps be cruel to disturb him again so soon, for of all of them Luinlas had seemed the most eager to retire, but Thranduil was plagued by a touch of the same burning determination that had seized his father.  Gaining the arboreal threshold, he rapped firmly on the door.

He had to repeat the summons before he was rewarded with an answer.  Luinlas opened the door in what was obviously prepared to be a foul mood, hastily clad, his dark hair in disarray.  Yet a new light flared in his tired eyes as he recognized his prince.  “Yes, my lord?” he asked, standing aside to admit him.

“I will be but a moment, Luinlas,” Thranduil assured him, declining to enter.  “Would you object to being removed from the north and recalled to Lasgalen?”

Luinlas seemed slightly taken aback.  “For how long?”

“Indefinitely.  I have a mind to request that the king finalize your reassignment today.  The training of soldiers here proceeds far too slowly, and I believe we ought to see an army standing in Greenwood as soon as possible.  I would have you devote your energies to that task.”

Luinlas hesitated for a single moment.  Thranduil realized that he was asking him to give up a great deal, yet Luinlas remained the most experienced and capable candidate for the task.  Luinlas himself was far too disciplined to truly object.  “I am at your command, my lord,” he said.  “Place me where you will.”

 

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That day passed in some measure of rushed tedium.  The Council reassembled, drafted and ratified Oropher’s reply to Amroth, conceded Thranduil’s point in regard to their martial preparations, and established Luinlas’ pending return to Lasgalen.  Attending all the details cost them several hours, scarcely allowing time for dinner.

Thranduil himself woke the courier shortly before the next dawn.  He led him down to the stables where fresh provisions awaited him.

“Your own good horse seems to have seen enough hardship,” Thranduil said when they had arrived, producing a dark bay mare from among the best of his own hunters.  “Harthad will bear you on swifter feet.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“As regards the reply you are to bear back with you,” Thranduil continued, producing two sealed letters and handing him the first, “It galls me to say that this is Lasgalen’s answer.  Your lords will find little pleasure in it.” 

It was a document of formidable appearance, though confined to a single page, addressed to Lord Amroth and bearing the regnant signature around Oropher’s seal at the back.

“However,” Thranduil said, entrusting the second to him as well, “this is my own explanation to him, quite independent of my lord the king.”  It was merely an apology for his own inability to make any promise save that he would do all in his power to see that Eryn Galen would be able to answer if called upon.  There was little else he could say.  “I trust you will see both to his hand.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Thranduil nodded, and gave him the reins.  “Now go, and may the Belain ride with you.  I am sure Lórinand cannot spare you long.”

With a quick but courteous bow, the young soldier leapt astride and was soon gone.  The drumming of fleeting hoofbeats seemed loud in the stillness, but soon faded.  For a moment Thranduil keenly regretted that he could not go with him, but other duties called.  Their military resources had still been virtually untapped despite their recent inflation of the ranks, but no longer.

The carefree days in Greenwood the Great had ended.  It was time to spur the sleeping giant to its feet.