ERNIL

Chapter 18 ~ The World Is Changed II

The long-awaited day had finally come.  When every tree had burst into spring bloom and all Galadhremmen Lasgalen was bedecked in banners and flowers, Prince Thranduil Oropherion of Eryn Galen was to be formally betrothed to Lady Lindóriel Dorlassiel Oropheriel.  All agreed that it was high time it happened, and the king spared no expense on the ceremony and celebration.

High in her chamber, surrounded by her friends, Lindóriel was anxiously preparing herself, scarcely able to contain her glowing happiness.  She wore an exquisite gown in the delicate green of the youngest spring leaves, and the emerald he had given her so long ago still hung at her throat.  She was presently sitting and examining her reflection in her hand mirror as Geliriel her maid plaited her long hair into a masterpiece befitting a princess.  What would her parents say if they could see her now, prepared to become a lady of Greenwood second only to the queen? 

“You see?” Gwaelin smiled, taking the mirror in her own hands to afford Lindóriel a fuller view.  “You are the princess among us, I said, and promised that one day we would be your maids.  I knew Thranduil would not disappoint you, even if I can be a maid no longer.”

“I love you more the way you are, sister,” Lindóriel assured her, accepting a fond kiss, unable to move while her hair was yet unfinished.  “I would sooner have your darling Celebrin running underfoot than an entire train of maids.”

“As it is, I shall be glad to fulfill my part while I may,” Illuiniel assured her.

“And I,” Menelwen said.  “I dare say you may count upon me for a good many years yet.  There is hardly a suitor to be found in all this wood.”

“None that suit your fancy, you mean,” Gwaelin amended.

“They are all frightened of you, my dear,” Illuiniel informed her serenely, but with a lurking smile.  The same was probably true of herself, cool beauty that she was, but she seemed more content to accept it.  “I hazard to guess that there are dozens of young Galennath who are absolutely smitten with you, yet without nerve enough to approach the king’s daughter.”

“I would appreciate a husband who stands at least as tall as myself.”

“In that case, you may choose between Anárion and Noruvion.  Take your pick.”

“You do not name Linhir,” Lindóriel observed.  “Is it true, then, that he is growing fond of you?”

“Perhaps I of him,” Illuiniel condescended to admit, smiling demurely.

A thin veil held in place by her jeweled comb lent an additional glimmer to the thick blond hair that fell in waves as far as her girdle.  The final preparation was a touch of the precious perfume made from her roses.

“Perfection,” Illuiniel decreed.  “Come now, we have all been waiting long enough to see this happen.  Go enamor him before he receives any more bad tidings from Dorthaer and changes his mind again!”

Descending from her chamber with all her entourage of maids and ladies, Lindóriel was suddenly a child again, if for only a moment.   She remembered her father, his soft admonitions to her.  Do not climb toward the stars, child, he had said; you cannot reach them, and they cannot see you.  She did not hold it against him.  Who, indeed, could have foreseen this?  There was but one among all of them who was most responsible for her startling change of fortune, and he had not truly come down to find her but had lifted her up so that now she found herself among the stars that had once been so hopelessly beyond her grasp.  And even if she did not quite belong there, she would always belong at his side.

As they entered the crowded and gladly festooned hall, she saw him again with the eyes of her childhood.  The king’s son awaited her wearing a full mantle over his broad shoulders, a magnificent figure of gray and green accompanied by an immaculate honor guard of six.  There were diamonds on his collar and the sharp flash of silver on his brow.  He was still the most beautiful man she had ever known, glowing with a vibrant and virgin strength that had preserved him in a second youth, even as hardship had aged him in other ways.  Thranduil turned to her and smiled, and she almost felt her heart would burst for joy.

Gaining the dais, she took her place opposite him.  What truly pleased her, despite the elegant trappings of royalty, was that she could feel that his heart was as deeply aglow as her own, that there was no condescension in his affection, honestly excited and generously bestowed.  It was all she had truly wanted.

The actual ceremony passed in a lovely haze of fine words and pleasant memories.  She and Thranduil exchanged their silver rings just as Galadhmir and Gwaelin had done, and the king and queen blessed them and their eventual union wholeheartedly.

The celebration that followed below the trees was meant to last all day and possibly far into the night.  In addition to her ring, Thranduil could not resist proudly presenting her with a wolf pup to commemorate the occasion, a snowy white one she immediately named Fanuilos.  Yet the one among them who probably received the most loving attention that day was Galadhmir’s son, Celebrin.  Now almost a year old, he was walking and talking admirably for his age, and the little princeling had easily won the hearts of all Lasgalen.  Oropher was openly pleased with the silver hair on the boy.  His presence added the much-appreciated spice of youth to their lives.

Lindóriel swept her nephew into her arms as he tried to run past her.  “Grant me a kiss, little one?” she asked fondly.

“If he will not, I know someone who will,” Thranduil assured her, tousling Celebrin’s already unruly hair.

Their eyes met in a moment of pleasing intimacy, each imagining that someday the child between them would be their own, someone who was at once both of them and neither of them.  Lindóriel would wait while Thranduil asked it of her, but more than anything else she looked forward to bearing him a son of his own.

“Oh, there were times I thought I would never see this day!” Queen Lóriel confessed as she embraced her son.  “You have been alone too long.  You hardly know what it is you have been denying yourself.”

“I shall find out soon enough, Mother,” Thranduil promised.  “You know I could not bear to disappoint you.  But where is Father?  I expected him to have a great deal of advice for me at least.”

“Erelas whispered in his ear and he got up at once,” she told him, obviously dissatisfied.  “You know he cannot forget his affairs for even a single evening.”

“Well, if it is as important as all that, it may be best if I look into it as well.”

“No, do not trouble yourself,” his mother pleaded.  “This day is for you.  All else will keep until tomorrow.”

“Ah, but you see,” Thranduil smiled, “now I shall be consumed by curiosity until I see for myself.  I shall only be a moment.”

Leaving the clearing, he went in search of the king.  Oropher’s most likely retreat would be his study above the hall, so Thranduil climbed the stairway again into their world amid the branches.

He rapped at the door.  “Father?” he called, already certain he was inside.

“Yes, come in,” was the almost reluctant response.

“What calls you away this time?” Thranduil asked lightly, closing the door behind him and nodding to Dorthaer.  “Has word come again from Lórinand?”

“No,” Oropher said heavily, seated at his desk and holding several sheets of a closely written letter.  “This comes from Gil-galad.”

“Does it?” Thranduil lifted his brow expectantly and leaned against the window frame.  “It has been too long since we heard from him.  What is it he asks now?” he smiled.  “To annex the east marches?”  Looking down from the window, he could see Lindóriel walking across the lawn below, laughing with her friends.

“He writes to inform us that all Númenor is destroyed.”

Thranduil felt he had been kicked in the stomach.  “What?” he demanded, turning back.

It was a rhetorical question, yet Oropher answered it anyway.  “Entirely destroyed,” he said again.  “Lost to the depths, as was Beleriand.  Few of that people were fortunate enough to survive its ruin.”

For a moment Thranduil was at a complete loss for words.  So, another great civilization had been summarily effaced from the earth.  Ai, the earthquake . . .  Just imagining the cataclysmic devastation and sheer loss of life left him lightheaded.

“Elendil, the leader of the Númenórean remnant in Eriador, has given Gil-galad the sordid tale of his homeland’s final years,” Oropher went on soberly.  “You know I would have kept this from you, Thranduil, especially today, but some things cannot be silenced.  What occurred in Númenor defies belief.”

“Gorthaur wrought this?” Thranduil guessed ruefully.

Oropher nodded.  “Sauron, uncloaked and revealed to all for what he was, still successfully seduced the mind of the king, Ar-Pharazôn.  The Law of the Belain was rejected by the heirs of Eärendil.  In time they turned wholly to darkness, even to the public worship of Morgoth.  In their madness they expelled the Eldar from their shores, and subjected to persecution those few who resisted their perversions.  Elendil tells of a temple where those Faithful were slaughtered and burned like cattle in blood sacrifice to the name of Morgoth.  We had heard of their pillaging the Men of Middle-earth in those years, yet at the time I found it difficult to believe.  What we did not hear was that they hunted their brethren here like game, took them for slaves, and burnt them upon their monstrous altars.  At last, Ar-Pharazôn dared to style himself the King of Kings, presumed to usurp the throne of Manwë and seize immortal life by force of arms, sailing with all his army to rape the Blessed Shores . . .”

“Enough,” Thranduil insisted, lifting a hand to forestall any further horrors.  He already felt sick.

Oropher sighed and lay down the letter, looking sick himself.  “Whether by the Belain or by Eru Himself, Númenor and its corruption is destroyed.  The Dúnedain are dispersed.  Elendil and his sons fled to Middle-earth with those of the Faithful that would follow them.  They are establishing themselves in both the north and south as kings of Men.  Gil-galad deems it to be in our best interest that we introduce ourselves into their good favor.”

A laden pause hung over the room like a pall.

“And Sauron?” Thranduil at last dared to ask.

“You might have already guessed that he escaped the ruin which ought to have claimed his wretched existence,” Oropher confirmed, “yet again.  He has returned to Mordor and resumed his rule in the South and the East.  Whether he will be content to remain there, none can say.”

Thranduil let the uncertainty go unanswered.  Instead, he turned back to the window and cursed bitterly.  Númenor, at the height of its glory, the power of the sea, kings among Men, noblest and wisest of all their mortal race, suddenly so perverted in their own nature that they would scarcely recognize themselves, destroyed by venomous words and their own lust for what was best left beyond their grasp.  Who would be next?  There would be no more turning to the sea for aid when Sauron again unleashed his terror on the world.  The Days of Flight had already depleted the population of Eldar in Middle-earth. 

He had been so blissfully content only a moment ago, and yet again Sauron had somehow managed to reappear to crush his happiness.  Now their situation was worse than it had been in all the previous years.  Now the fiend had planted himself in Mordor, not a hundred leagues from their southern border.

“Dorthaer,” the king was saying, “double the standing guard and the active scouts.  Mind in particular the southern road.  I will not be cut off from my people around Amon Lasgalen.  Send word that their king strongly encourages them to move as far north as possible.  Also, see that a guard is maintained on the southern marches with an eye towards Mordor.  I want them to report frequently to you, and you only to me.”

“At your command, sire.”  Dorthaer bowed smartly and turned immediately from the room, leaving his king and his prince alone in pensive silence.

“Thranduil, help me understand,” Oropher said at last.  “I can hardly stomach this myself.  How am I supposed to explain it to your mother?  How are you to look your Lindóriel in the eye and convince her that we can go on as we were?  Gil-galad is not blind; I can see that he is leaning toward meeting Sauron in open war before each of us can be taken piecemeal.  I have long avoided it, but now what else can we do?”

Thranduil could say nothing.

“We shall do what we must,” his father concluded grimly.  “I, at least, shall not wait to be sacrificed on a pyre.”