ERNIL

Chapter 20 ~ Banners Unfurled II

The short days of preparation flew by.  New waves of soldiers continuously congregated around Lasgalen, stationed there and in the near territory.  Blades were whetted and polished, countless arrows fletched and bound, horses groomed and shod, banners completed and mounted on their poles.  No one was without some duty to occupy him.

Now night fell on their last day in Lasgalen.  Every one of their army of thousands was accounted for.  The morning would see their departure.

Thranduil lay awake in bed, unable to sleep except superficially, never truly closing his eyes or forgetting the subdued noise of the troops below.  This would be the last time he slept in his own bed before he had endured many nights of fitful rest upon the ground.  The hollow he felt in the pit of his stomach seemed to grow only deeper, the impossible conflict between an eagerness to be gone as soon as possible and the dread of going to war at all. 

He had already taken precautions to preserve the bloodlines he had painstakingly refined, his horses and his wolves, but what of himself?  Uncomfortable thoughts of Lindóriel continued to plague him.  They had not spoken since their spat the night the summons came.  Her frustration was not unjustified, but he was unable to reconcile his internal conflict even now.  In many ways, he was glad to be childless at a time like this.  Yet there was also a keen disappointment in the thought that if he did meet his end there would be no one left to succeed him and bear his name.

That thought had fanned his paternal instincts into new flame, reminded of his own vulnerability.  Annatar’s words had often returned to haunt him, and the memory of that unearthly voice deeply unsettled him each time.  Now he was prepared to challenge Sauron again, and this time he doubted he could expect any condescending mercy.

Even if he had a son, he would most likely be going to war as well, which was exactly what he had been trying to avoid.  Celebrin had not been detained with the third of his fellows who would garrison Lasgalen, and did not regret it.  How long would this war last?  Thranduil could not deny that he wanted a son, yet he did not want that era of his life marred by a climactic war in Mordor.

He could hear Gwaelas’ steady breathing, and was glad that he at least was finding the rest he needed.  Thranduil simply lay awake, contemplating the stark realities of death and the wonder of fatherhood.  The mystery of procreation still fascinated him.  Did a part of the father live on in his son even after his own death?  He considered his parents, the two distinct forces that had been combined to create him.  What sort of child would come of his union with Lindóriel?  He imagined he could almost see him, embodying the best of both of them, those qualities which complemented one another so well.

For a moment he must have drifted into sleep, but what returned to him was the final shard of his horrendous dream in Eregion, and Sauron was crushing the boy by the throat.

Thranduil woke with a start, filling his eyes with the dark of the room to dispel the dreadful memory.  His own dreams rarely had any prophetic value, but that one disturbed him.  He had long tried to forget it, but now it was back in all its nonsensical clarity.  Did Sauron already have designs on his son?  He could not guess why, but now he was even more grateful that he had not yet produced one.

A hesitant movement at his door caught his attention in the dark.  He pushed himself upright on his elbow as the door opened slowly, revealing a slight but lovely figure.

“Lin!” he hissed, sitting up, surprised and concerned.  She was deathly pale, stifling a thin sob as she ran to him and fell trembling into his arms before he could so much as get out of bed.

“Lindóriel, what is it?” he demanded, glancing furtively across the room at Gwaelas and hoping not to wake him.

She could not answer for several moments, shaking uncontrollably and clinging to him as though for her very life.  He did not press her further for an explanation, consenting merely to hold her.  His own eyes were suddenly pricked with welling tears, though he did not yet know the reason for all the rampant emotion.

“A hideous dream,” she said at last, her voice weak and unsteady.  She could not go on after that, but continued to heave silent sobs against his shoulder.

Two great tears escaped him and were lost in her hair.  A certain measure of propriety was certainly lacking at the moment, but he hardly cared.  She wept as though he were already in his grave, convinced that this must be their last night together.  She had almost convinced him of it as well.  The possibility was there, looming in its inevitability.  A repressed urgency and desire were growing within him, fed by her desperation, and for a moment he considered consummating their marriage then and there.  But in the next he dismissed the thought.  It would be licit, but it would also be petty.  She deserved better.

“Please stop, love,” he said at last, smoothing her hair away from her face.  “You know I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“You were dying,” she gasped amid her tears, “Orcs were smothering you.  There was so much blood.”

“Enough,” Thranduil stopped her, suddenly afraid to hear more.  “Enough.  It was only a dream.”

The way she continued to hold him made it clear that she could not dismiss it so easily.  Neither could he, but he could not admit that to her.  He held her until she had calmed herself, but nothing more.  When at last she lifted her head and tried to kiss him, he stopped her with a light hand on her lips.  The way he felt at that moment, he could not trust himself to exercise the necessary restraint.

“Go and try to sleep, Lin,” he bade her instead.  “I love you, and I promise I shall still be here in the morning.”

She did not want to go, but she seemed to know it was for the best.  She left him as quietly as she had come, closing the door behind her with hardly a sound, leaving him alone again.

He lay back in bed, determined to make himself sleep despite everything that burdened his mind, more now than ever.  It would only grow worse the nearer they drew to Mordor.

 

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The next morning a hundred standards fluttered beneath the trees of Lasgalen, the grounds thick with standing soldiers.  A nervous anticipation was in the air as they prepared to march from home to what would be their first real war.  They had been prepared in every possible way, but there were few veterans among them, and many had never set foot outside the confines of the wood.  This was their opportunity to prove their worth to themselves and to the world.  The rising sun glinted upon a forest of burnished lances, gleamed on the rims of many thousand shields.  The wealth of the entire realm had been given to the building of that force until it was itself the treasure of Greenwood.

In his room, Thranduil stood quietly as Gwaelas armed him.  His soldier’s tunic was a deep royal green, highlighted in bold white tracery.  His only real armor was of reinforced leather, an especially sturdy pair of boots, vambraces on his forearms, and spaulders on his shoulders.  Metal was conserved for weaponry.  On his belt he bore his sword at one hip, his dagger at the other.  On his back the bow and laden quiver rode supported by his right shoulder, his oblong shield supported by his left.  Half of his hair was pulled back into a herringbone plait, the rest left to flow free.  On his brow he wore the distinction boasted by the king and all the princes of the royal house, a militant circlet of twisted steel.

When Gwaelas had armed himself as well, they left the room and descended to the King’s Hall where they would take their standing breakfast and then be gone.  A strict marching order had been drawn up, and it would require both coordination and cooperation to move the entire army efficiently.  The vanguard would probably reach the forest’s edge before the rearguard had left Lasgalen.

The army had been organized into six new divisions.  Thranduil, Linhir, Anárion, Galadhmir, Luinlas, and Baranor each represented one such division to the king.  Oropher himself held command of a third of the King’s Guard, the others scattered throughout the rest of the army, pockets of ruthless efficiency.  All six of them were present now, standing about and eating what they could on nervous stomachs before leaving for their posts.

Farewells were quietly being said.  Everyone had someone they would pine for when they had gone.  It was with some measure of forlorn impatience that Thranduil waited for his lady to meet him.  The hour was drawing late, and his division was appointed to follow immediately upon the king’s vanguard.

At last, she appeared beside him, yet he was stricken speechless for a moment.  “Lin, what have you done to yourself?”

“It will have grown out again for your return,” she assured him with a weary smile that could not disguise the grief in her eyes.  She had cropped her hair as short as his own.  “You asked these of me.”

She placed in his hand ten woven bowstrings, five of his own hair and five of both his and hers, a lovely contrast between the pale and vivid gold.  Atop them all, she placed another lock of his hair braided with two of her own, her token to tie on his standard, bound in green ribbon plaited into love knots.

“Take these and think of me,” she said, “as I shall keep yours and think of you.”

Her eyes glistened with silent tears, and the sight brought flooding back all the desperate longing he had suppressed the night before.  Elbereth, how he loved her!  In a few moments he would have to leave her, with no certain expectation to return. 

Suddenly more sobering than death was the thought of spending years apart from her, wasted years without the sound of her laughter or the scent of her perfume, unable to speak to her, hold her, kiss her.  Only those few precious moments remained to them, and even now they were slipping away.  She stood quietly, steeling herself to endure his leaving.  The rhythmic roll of the drums could already be heard in the woods below as the first division took its place on the road.

Taking her firmly by the hand, Thranduil pulled her away to the stairs behind the hall where they might have a moment in peace.  There he smothered her with kisses as though he would never kiss her again.  She returned his embraces with the same intensity, her love aflame with despair, holding him desperately around his awkward battle gear.  Those kisses soon became salty, mingled with many unbidden tears.

At last he pulled back, stemming the tide of his emotions once more with an effort.  She stood before him breathlessly, still holding his arms as though she could not bring herself to let him go yet.  But he should have been gone already.

“I cannot stay,” he apologized, his own breath still coming short, unable to help but wonder if he was indeed going to his death.  He descended the few steps gradually, lingering as long as he dared, but finally he had to take the wound and tear himself away, whether he was ready or not.

“Thranduil!” Lindóriel protested, stopping him before he had gone, tears glistening on her pale and perfect face.

Relenting, he turned back and kissed her one final time with enough force to let it linger, for he knew it was the last they would share before the war had ended.  When he released her, he released his freedom as well, for now he belonged elsewhere. The rumble of the drums would not be gainsaid.

“Remember to feed the wolves, love,” he said.  This time when he turned away he refused to look back.

Galadhmir still waited for him in the hall.  “Come, Thranduil,” he bade in a voice of grim comradeship and some measure of urgency.  “The king has already gone.  He expects you to follow.”

“I am coming, Galadh,” he assured him dourly as they rushed out together to find their horses, flying down the stairs.  “When this is done, I believe Sauron will have tormented me quite enough for one lifetime.”