ERNIL

Chapter 15 ~ The Shadow Falls III

They filled the valley around Amon Lasgalen in ranks, row upon row of the new army of Greenwood.  Today they numbered exactly three thousand, roughly a sixth of the force that had been thoroughly trained thus far.  Fully armed, they stood irreproachably beneath the scrutiny of their lords and commanders.  They were the best of the best, drawn from the most promising warriors the wood had to offer, and they were gathered on this occasion to officially form the newest and most prestigious legion recognized beneath Oropher’s banner.

Their growing forces were organized into four distinct legions based upon merit, ability, and accomplishment.  The Brown, Green, and Silver legions were the largest and exacted a grueling standard for advancement.  The most exemplary among them were now set aside into the Royal Legion, the King’s Guard, into which only absolute perfection gained admittance amid fierce competition.  A kind of militant enthusiasm had been kindled in the hearts of the silvan people, who were now willing to take up arms in the service of their lord the king.  To be numbered among the King’s Guard was a much-coveted honor.  A Guardsman was not a Guardsman for life, but only so long as he remained equal to the standards by which he was admitted.  They would never number more than three thousand.  Each one would be willing to sacrifice his life without hesitation for that of his sovereign.

Mounted upon Elurín, his great gray stallion, Thranduil was as fully armed as they were, but with a royal flair.  He rode down the line at a restrained canter, his diadem glinting on his brow, green and red ribbons streaming from the horse’s mane and tail. 

It was full morning when they had all assembled, and several hours of that day were spent in high ceremony.  Oropher and Thranduil stood together in all the majestic trappings of their office, flanked by Queen Lóriel and all the royal household.  Thranduil knew he would never remember all the Guardsmen today, proudly wearing the red collars on their tunics which distinguished them from the other divisions, but he did make an effort to associate some names with faces.  A few of them he already knew, the children of Lasgalen who had once sought him for a playmate and now pledged their lives to him unreservedly.  Their loyalty was touching.  He could find no fault in their will to serve, yet all of them were still raw and untried.  They had never yet seen a true battlefield.  That would have to come in time.

One, however, he was certain to remember.  His name was Dorthaer, and both his excellence in arms and fanatical devotion to his king were unsurpassed.  He stood patiently at the side now, hands clasped behind his back in a posture of relaxed attention, the red collar of his tunic generously embellished in silver.  He was the senior commander of the entire Royal Legion, and therefore the epitome of Greenwood’s soldiery.  He looked on with tireless patience, his keen eyes taking the measure of each Guardsman as though committing him to memory.  His fine black hair was bound in a heavy ponytail, a bow and laden quiver rode easily on his back, strapped to his well-muscled chest and shoulders.  A hint of a contented smile touched his lips now, despite his naturally severe expression.  He was well suited for the tasks at hand.

After the ceremonies, Luinlas and Dorthaer partitioned the ranks and delegated the particular duties the Guardsmen were obligated to fulfill.  Several of them were to be stationed in Lasgalen itself, others would be sent to various patrols.  The majority would wait in reserve, stationed in a protective ring around Amon Lasgalen at a league’s radius when they were not rotated off duty and granted leave to return to their own homes for a time.  Their responsibilities were heavy, yet while quartered at Lasgalen they would be treated almost as nobility themselves, the envy and admiration of the others. 

The entire population of Amon Lasgalen came parading down the winding path and into the valley, each singing, playing music, or bearing great dishes of food prepared for the occasion.  They came from the wood as well, watching the ceremony from afar before joining it now.  Within moments long tables were erected throughout the field, bearing the celebratory feast.

“Come, Thranduil,” Oropher smiled as organization completely dissolved into general merrymaking.  “Standing in the sun all day has given me an appetite.”

It was an idyllic afternoon, and Thranduil found that it gave him greater peace of mind to be surrounded by competent soldiers.  He and Anárion discussed the rotation schedule with Dorthaer, an arrangement that seemed as reasonable as it was practical.  Dorthaer’s daughter, a child of no more than six summers, maintained a possessive hold on her father’s leg throughout.  Only half of the Guardsmen were fathers of growing families, but all their children were there that day.

As afternoon was wearing on to evening, Thranduil turned to find Gwaelas at his elbow bearing a sealed document.  “Another courier has come from Lórinand, my lord,” he said, extending the letter to him.  “I have seen him quartered in the city to await your convenience.”

“Thank you, Gwaelas,” Thranduil said, turning it over in his hand.  His father would doubtless want to know of this immediately, despite the festivities.  It was not addressed in Amroth’s hand this time.

“Very well, what have we now?”  Oropher opened the letter with a deliberate air.  The family had been hastily gathered in impromptu council to witness its contents.  They were all together in one of the guardhouses at the edge of the wood.

Thranduil sat with Lindóriel, their hands fondly twined together as they waited for the king to share the latest report.  After only a few moments, however, Thranduil knew something was wrong.  He could read it in his father’s changing expression.  The blood drained from Oropher’s face and a fearsome anger was growing behind his eyes.  They could all see it.  The fragile silence was increasingly uncomfortable.

“Malgalad!” the king roared at last, slamming the letter to the table.

The name struck Thranduil like a blade to the heart as well.  “He is alive?” he gaped, leaping up to snatch the letter for himself as his father began pacing furiously.  It was impossible; Malgalad had died in the Kinslaying in Doriath almost two thousand years ago.

“He is Amdír!” Oropher snarled bitterly.  “The mysterious lord of Lórinand, all these years my own cousin!  I wonder how much young Amroth knows of his silvan companion.  Has Celeborn ever set foot in that wood?”

“Are you certain, Oropher?” Queen Lóriel asked, concerned.  “Perhaps it is merely a coincidence of name.”

“I have no doubt whatsoever,” Oropher snapped.  “In his own hand he owns himself my kinsman.  What I cannot understand is why he chose to forget that until now!”

“What could possibly induce Malgalad to hide himself from you?”

“Ill will?  Cowardice?  Shame?  How am I to know?  He does not explain himself.”

Thranduil was furiously reading as his father continued to rage.  As strange as it was to rediscover a long-lost relation under their very noses, the letter bore other tidings than the identity of the sender.

“Imladris is besieged,” he said at last.   “Amroth has not adequate force to move north and secure the High Pass so he writes to beg our assistance.”  Amroth, Celeborn, Elrond, they all flashed through his mind in a single moment, and suddenly he could not bear the thought that he would be made to sit by, empty-handed, as Sauron moved to crush them.  “Father, give me leave to go.”

“Absolutely not,” Oropher forbade him without a moment’s consideration, already hot with ire.  “You will remain in Lasgalen and attend your duties here.”

“The decrease of a mere thousand will by no means cripple your defenses now!” Thranduil persisted.

“It is out of the question,” Oropher maintained sharply, silencing any further requests.  “I forbid you to leave this wood with so much as a horse that owes itself to me.  You will not run here and there as you please, wasting the lives of my men in ill-advised and hopeless warfare!”

Thranduil could scarcely contain his raging frustration.  “Hopeless?” he shouted.  “Certainly it is hopeless so long as friends and kinsmen are content to do nothing!”  He was too agitated to consider the consequences of his own contempt and too angry to care.  “You have made it hopeless!  Am I to bear the stigma of your indifference any longer?”

Oropher turned on him with a black glare and an equally black temper.  “I am your father, and your king,” he rumbled fiercely.  “Do you dare defy me?”

A thorny silence was his answer.  Almost trembling with fury, Thranduil could do nothing but crush the letter in his fist and throw it at the king’s feet.  Without another word he strode out of the guardhouse and leapt astride his horse, turning sharply toward the dense forest.

Everyone else was afraid to speak as Thranduil disappeared into the wood at a furious gallop.  Each looked to the other, stunned by the swift but incredibly bitter confrontation they had just witnessed.  Tears glistened in the queen’s eyes as though her heart would break.

Oropher was standing as stiff as marble where Thranduil had left him, but at last he sighed heavily, lowering his eyes.

“Shall I go after him, my lord?” Galadhmir asked hesitantly.

“No, let him go,” the king advised softly.  “He will return in his own time.”

Elurín’s great strides struck thunder from the ground as they flew over the woodland path.  Thranduil cared little for where he went so long as he was some distance removed from his father.  The wood always welcomed him.  He had not stormed away to be petulant, but rather to let his frustration rage in solitude before he could say or do anything else he would regret.

He finally slowed to a halt in a small clearing beside the ancient willow tree overlooking the stream.  Lindóriel often took him here to talk together and watch the birds flit through the swaying branches, all the while listening to the soft but restless voice of the water.  It had always been a very calm place.  Perhaps part of him was seeking that calm now, though the rest of him seemed quite content to burn for a while yet.

He dismounted heavily and leaned against the tree for a moment.  Heaving a deep sigh, he hoped to release his anger with it.  The wood itself was silent, seeming to sense the unrest among the powers that governed it.

Thranduil sank to the ground to sit against the willow’s generous trunk.  After a moment, he wearily pulled off his diadem and pondered it a while, turning it to glint and gleam in the dappled sunlight.  Oropher Thoronion was indeed his father and his king, and he owed him his obedience no less than did Dorthaer or Erelas.  He could no more defy his commands than he could remove him from his own blood.  He had always known that.  But it was difficult to remain calm when lives hung in the balance.

Thranduil could still remember a time when he would have never dared raise his voice against his father.  When had that changed?  Possibly it was after he had lived so long without him in Lindon.  He had allowed it to develop into a real vice in recent years.  Perhaps it was a result of the growing stress he had scarcely acknowledged even to himself.  He had lived all his childhood in a pocket of peace surrounded by evils, yet he had not been aware of it at every moment, for it had not been his responsibility to maintain that small and almost unnatural peace against the forces that would destroy it.  His role was very different now.

He sat there brooding until dusk began to fall over the wood, and the fleeting lights of fireflies danced just above the ground.  It was then that he heard the snort and plodding approach of another horse.

“They are waiting dinner for us, Thranduil,” Oropher informed him flatly, dismounting and coming to stand beside him.  “Will you be joining us tonight?”

Throwing down the twig he had been twisting, Thranduil just sighed and looked up at his father in the deepening twilight with an expression which eloquently explained the situation.  He was relieved to see much of the same mute but apologetic sentiment on his father’s face despite the initial tone of his voice.  A slightly uncomfortable silence followed, during which they both looked away.

Oropher shifted where he stood, propping his foot on a large root.  “Am I forgiven?” he asked at last, broaching the subject with an effort.

“Of course,” Thranduil said, rather pathetically, staring blindly ahead.  “Am I?”

“Yes.  But I must confess that you worry me.  Too often I see you look askance at me now.  You know I am only trying to protect you and all you love.”

“I know, but . . .”  Thranduil still would not look at him.  “I know.”

“When are you going to marry her?” Oropher asked at last, almost pleading.  “You should, you know.  Lindóriel has waited for you long enough.  You should have seen the look on her face when you jumped up to march into Eriador.  All the world is crumbling, I know, but I try to hold this peace for you in a world that will never truly have peace.  It is not much, but I had hoped it would be enough to let you claim the woman you love and experience fatherhood for yourself.  None of us are getting any younger.”

“I am sorry, Father,” Thranduil said, feeling rather helpless, “but I cannot so long as Gorthaur is bent upon continuing this war.  We would want children, Lin and I, certainly.  I do not think we would be able to resist them.  But if I am to bring a child into this world, I will do it when I no longer believe the world to be in imminent danger of complete destruction.”

“Thingol managed to keep the peace in Doriath even with a demon running amok in the world, and Luinlas was correct to observe that it was not Morgoth who wrought our ruin in the end.”

Now Thranduil did look up, his voice assuming a respectfully condescending tone.  “Take no offense, Father, when I say that you are not Thingol.  Eryn Galen has not the strength of Doriath, and even Doriath was not invulnerable.  And if worse comes to worst, I would sooner have Lindóriel preserve her full strength for defending her own life rather than sap her prematurely through childbearing.”

“An admirable purpose, but where would you be if I had taken that attitude?”

“Morgoth was at least established in Angband when I was born,” Thranduil insisted.  “Let Gorthaur settle himself somewhere, preferably far away, and Lindóriel will be hard pressed to prepare her wedding gown before I will be willing to relieve her of her maidenhood.  But not now.”

Oropher seemed willing to take that for an answer, at least for the time being.  “Very well, then,” he said, showing him a wan smile before turning back to take his horse in hand, “so long as you are thinking of it.  Come, the family is waiting.”