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We Were Young Once ~ II  by Conquistadora

ERNIL

Chapter 19 ~ Banners Unfurled




“Perhaps in the spring of next year?” Lindóriel suggested hopefully, running her fingers through her mare’s white mane.  “Everything could be prepared by then, and it is such a beautiful time.  It always reminds me of you.”


“Why not autumn?” Thranduil asked, turning his stallion aside from the beaten path.  “Your roses would be out.”


“Very well,” she smiled.  “If you wish it.  Next year?”


Thranduil sighed, idly reaching out to touch a leaf as they passed.  “Let me consider it, Lin.”


“You have been considering for a very long time,” she protested softly.


“Yes,” he admitted.  “But you know that whatever I do I am thinking only of us.”


“Yes, I know.”


Together they reached the small clearing in the wood and dismounted to allow the horses to rest and water there beside the stream.  Meanwhile, Thranduil took Lindóriel aside to sit with him beneath the tree.


It was true that he had been “considering” the date for their marriage for a very long time since their betrothal.  He had not yet admitted that he was deliberately stalling, but she had long guessed it.  It was not that he did not share her glad expectation, but rather that she obviously did not share the strong sense of foreboding that had hung over him like a cloud since the demise of Númenor.  She did not feel it, so how could he justify it?


Marriage was in the air.  Everyone expected Linhir to propose to Illuiniel any day, and Anárion had begun making fond overtures to Menelwen.  Lindóriel had contained her impatience admirably, but now even that was beginning to wear thin.


“I do not know, Lin,” he admitted as she sat down beside him.  “The world is simply not a safe place at present.”


“Has it ever been truly safe?” she asked pointedly, smoothing his hair away from his face.  “Ever since Gorthaur returned to Mordor you have distanced yourself again.  Is that the reason?”


“I must confess it is,” he said.  “Can you think of a better one?”


“You should not allow Sauron to govern your life, Thranduil,” Lindóriel admonished, settling nearer him in the shadows.  “He has not yet troubled us here.”


“What of the wraiths?” he reminded her.


“Have they ever returned?”  Lindóriel sighed and lay her head against his shoulder.  “I know you think only of me,” she said, “but it will be a grief to spend our lives apart, waiting for a perfect peace that may never come.  Are you truly content in that?  Are you content to be alone?”


He had to admit he was not, which was probably why he sought her company in every spare moment.  It had been enough for a time, but now such light intimacies could not satisfy his deepening need for her.  He did not know how much longer he would be able to deny himself her love, yet he was prepared to endure anything for her sake.  Still, in moments like these he could not help but wonder if he was being overcautious.  Why, indeed, did he allow Sauron to smother his happiness?  The Dark Lord held a great deal of Middle-earth in his iron fist, and it was presumed that war was imminent.  But how imminent?  They had received no summons, and only seldom did official word come from Gil-galad.  Any war could be years distant yet, barren years spent waiting, and waiting, and waiting.  For what?  Must he spend that time alone?


In answer he simply slid his hand around hers, reluctant to commit, yet unable to set her aside.


“Can we not stop this waiting?” Lindóriel pleaded.  “What good has it done us?  We could be so much happier if we would not await the whim of Mordor.”


“And what if the worst should happen once we disregard it?” he asked, his will weakening.


“What will happen will happen,” she said.  “We cannot hope to anticipate everything, but at least we should be together when it comes.”


He looked at her there beside him, her lovely mouth set with determination and her eyes full of love.  Thranduil silently cursed Sauron and kissed her.  Just that was enough to lighten his burden of worry for a moment.  For good measure, he kissed her again.  She seemed a bit surprised by his sudden vehemence, but by no means displeased, and she settled herself contentedly against his shoulder when he released her.


There was a peace there, an unmistakable sense of belonging.  He felt he had been wandering from a home he had never known.  Suddenly he had lost his will to wander.  It had been slipping away from him for the past several years, but now he freely let it go.  The release was beautiful.


“Very well, love,” he said at last.  “You have conquered me.  Shall we tell the household to prepare for this autumn?”


In the next moment he was enfolded in her gleeful embrace, and they were both laughing.  Life seemed so full of promise.  Yet life was still full of many other duties besides the planning of a wedding, and soon they went back to gather their horses.


Rather than ride back, they walked hand in hand, leading the horses behind.  The voice of Thranduil’s better judgment spoke in feeble dissent, but he refused it.  He was sick of living with the specter of Sauron haunting each day.  For the moment he had chosen to be rid of it.  Let Sauron rot; he would finally take a wife and make up for lost time.


They had not gone far when he recognized the sound of another horse preparing to overtake them on the road.  They saw a rider approaching in the growing shadows of dusk, a travel-worn Elf bearing the mark of Gil-galad.


The messenger drew up his winded mount at the sight of the two of them.  The border guards had been commanded to stay at their posts, so he was yet unescorted.


“Greetings, my lord and lady,” he offered them, bowing slightly in the saddle.  “I bear tidings for King Oropher and Prince Thranduil.”


“I am Prince Thranduil,” he said, stepping into his official role once again.


The courier dismounted then, and offered a proper bow.  “I bring word to your father the King of Eryn Galen from the Kings Gil-galad and Elendil,” he told him again.  “It is most urgent.”


“You may give it to me,” Thranduil said crisply, holding out his hand for whatever message it was.


The courier seemed reluctant to do so, glancing uncomfortably at Lindóriel.  “I have already intruded upon you, my lord,” he apologized.  “Permit me to leave you in peace and bear this to the king.”


“You will bear it to the king,” Thranduil assured him, desperately afraid he could guess its contents, “but you were also empowered to give it to me.  Tell me what I am to expect, and I will be more inclined to take you directly to him.”


Squaring his shoulders, the courier drew a steady but unhappy breath.  “The Kings Gil-galad and Elendil call the Galennath to war,” he said at last.  “An alliance of the Edain and the Eldar marches upon Mordor.”


 



Galadhremmen Lasgalen was at once thrown into a frenzy of activity.  It would be a sleepless night.


“You wanted to go to war, Thranduil,” Oropher said as they walked together through the trees to the armory.  “I fear I must oblige you at last.”


Dorthaer was waiting for them there.  Hastily assembled with him were a scattering of gray, green, and brown-collared commanders.  They must begin standing the army at once.


“Beriadan,” Oropher addressed the latter, “Cull only a sixth of the Brown legion to remain and fortify Lasgalen.  Faeron, leave also a sixth of the Green, and Dorsidhion, a full third of the Silver.  Those with children under the age of ten years should be first among those exempt.”  He turned to Dorthaer.  “But I want the entire Royal Legion.  Spare only an honor guard for the queen.  Go, all of you, and report back to Lasgalen with your command in no more than six days’ time.”


“At your order, sire,” they answered, immediately going their separate ways.


“In the meantime,” Oropher mused when they were alone again, “we ought to look to our own preparations.  We have copious details to attend, and little time to do so.  Gil-galad must be assured that we have not forgotten how to fight.”


“You did make yourself his ally in peace and peril,” Thranduil remembered.  “He seems to be counting upon that now.”


“And I am determined that he will not be disappointed,” Oropher said, “provided, of course, he remembers that I am his ally and not his vassal.  It makes an amazing difference.  Go on; we are at war, so let us look the part.”


Leaving the armory, Thranduil turned back through the evening gloom toward his own room.  He probably should have expected Lindóriel to be waiting for him along the way.  She fell into step behind him, a thousand protests on her tongue.


“Thranduil, you are the king’s heir,” she said.  “You should not go to war with him.”


“Perhaps,” he admitted flatly, paying her little attention, “but nothing will stop me.”


“Not even me?” she pleaded.


He stopped and looked back at her for a moment in the dark before turning away again.  “Forgive me, no.”


She hurried after him, catching at his hair as though to catch at his affections, yet he pulled it from her hand with a brusque toss of his head.  She grabbed at his sleeve, but he brushed her off.  She was doubtless seeing her dreams poised to be shattered so near to fulfillment, and though he felt keenly for her he could not afford to indulge those sympathies.  He was by no means pleased by this turn of events, but wars waited for no one.


“This is my responsibility, Lindóriel,” he argued as they ascended into the king’s beech.  “Unpleasant though it may be, I cannot shirk it.”


“But you have other responsibilities as well!” she persisted.  “What of me?  What of your mother?  What will become of everyone here should both you and your father be lost?  Stay here and rule in his stead.”


“At the worst, Brilthor may easily resume the leadership of his people,” Thranduil said, growing impatient. 


“Do not brush me aside so callously!” she protested, a tremor in her voice.  “There is time yet.  Perhaps we could be wed now before you must leave.”


“No!” Thranduil snapped at last, rounding on her on the stairway.  “I will not cheapen us that way.  This is exactly what I feared from the beginning.  Consider Celebrin.  We might have had a child caught up in this!”  He stopped for a moment, realizing that he was shouting.  “If you were to convince me to remain behind, to betray my trust and stay here with you while the others walked into the jaws of hell, you could no longer love me.”


She looked up at him bitterly, her eyes glistening in the dark.  He saw her breast rise and fall with her labored breathing, yet she returned no answer.


“This is of you,” she accused him at last, unable to contain her hot tears.  “It would have been far better if you had taken me long before this!”


The anger in her voice cut him to the heart, yet Thranduil gave no sign of it, standing over her with as impassive a face as he could manage in the uncomfortable silence. 


“Yes, I know,” he said desolately.  And there he left her, turning to mount the final steps and disappear into his room.


Once inside, he closed the door, lingering against it for a moment.  He conquered the urge to strike it.


“Lady Lindóriel is grieved by the war?” Gwaelas inquired, stating the obvious.


“Worse,” Thranduil groaned.  “I had only just promised her a wedding in the fall.  Ai, it is quiet for years, and then everything must happen at once!”  Now he did hit the door, but not so hard as he would have liked.  “I imagine you are little pleased yourself, Gwaelas.”


Gwaelas offered a wan smile and a shrug.  “You command me, my lord,” he said.  “I go with you.”


“Very well,” Thranduil said in return.  “The king has ordered us to turn out in military form as soon as possible.  Come, and I shall cut your hair.”


All the warriors of Greenwood would soon be shearing off their hair, a practical and militant sacrifice.  In the heat of battle, it was best not to allow one’s foe too convenient a handle to grab hold of, and a glossy cascade that had been a personal glory in peacetime easily became an unnecessary hazard on a battlefield.  Just keeping it clean would be trouble enough.  And once it was shorn it was not discarded.  In addition to its other virtues, Elven hair made superior bowstrings.


Gwaelas was at first reluctant to do the same for him, but Thranduil himself was unmoved, and presented a measure of at least two feet that he must be rid of.  Off it went, at once a wrench and a relief.  He felt slightly denuded for a moment, but he would grow used to it.


Tying what remained of his hair back out of his face, Thranduil folded his great severed braid into a box.  “Give this to Lindóriel,” he instructed Gwaelas.  “Tell her I would like at least ten bowstrings made of it, and she may do what she likes with the rest.”


He retrieved his sword and belt from the wardrobe and secured it around his waist.  He must grow accustomed again to wearing it.


Descending from his room, Thranduil returned to the King’s Hall, brightly lit in the night.  There on the long tables Illuiniel and her maids had laid out the banners the ladies had already made for their men at arms and were discussing the design for several more.  Galadhmir was there as well with Linhir.


“Father!” Celebrin called, finding them there and proceeding without preamble.  “If you are to march to war, I would go, too.”


“Absolutely not,” Thranduil interrupted before Galadhmir could answer.  Celebrin embodied the first bloom of a new generation, all their fondest hopes.  Thranduil could not bear the thought of risking that young life within ten leagues of a battlefield.  “You are much too young yet.”


“I am grown!” Celebrin protested, an indignant flash in his eyes.  “I came of age ten years ago, if you will remember, and I will not be left here like a child while you go to conquer the Dark Lord.”


There was so much confidence in that voice, bright and untried, untouched by the shadows that weighed upon the rest of them.  The thought of defeat had evidently never entered his mind.  In truth Celebrin was indeed grown, a child only in their hearts.  Thranduil could feel that Galadhmir would greatly prefer to leave his son safely behind, yet only a royal decree had weight enough to make that possible.


“You know nothing of war, Celebrin,” Thranduil said darkly.  “If you did, you would be grateful to be excused.”


But Celebrin was not to be so easily put off.  “Would you be, my lord?” he asked pointedly.  “That is not what I gathered from your bickering with Lady Lindóriel.”


Thranduil glanced aside to Galadhmir with a look of pained frustration.  War never seemed so ugly as it did when one had to commit the young.  A father’s fears were written behind Galadhmir’s eyes, but also a resignation.  There was nothing they could say that would truly justify excusing Celebrin from his military duties.  He had applied himself well and already attained his silver collar.  Their one hope now was that he would be chosen among the third of those left in Lasgalen in an official capacity.


“Very well, Celebrin,” Thranduil said at last.  “You may go if you are called to go.”


The boy beamed.  “Thank you!  I will not disappoint you, Father.”  And he turned on his heel to go set his affairs in order.


Galadhmir looked after him despondently.  “And I have only the one,” he sighed.  “What must Adar Oropher feel?”


“We shall look after him, Galadh,” Thranduil promised, though he shared the same dismal helplessness.  This war would be a trial for them all.






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