ERNIL

Chapter 21 ~ Dust to Dust

Mordor loomed before them in all its grotesque majesty.  Its fortified peaks were thick with Orcs, the sky above obscured by the dark fume belched from the fiery mountain.  Inflamed by their victory on the plains of Dagorlad, the massive armies of the Last Alliance lay camped at some distance, preparing the assault upon the great black gates which barred their entrance.

As gray afternoon wore on to gray dusk, Thranduil walked Maethor slowly through the dust around their crowded camp, trying to disregard the ominous and incessant rumble that issued from that great mountainous fortress.  The stallion was recovering well from a severely bruised foreleg, but could still endure only gentle exercise.  Horses were too scarce in that place to be ruined lightly.  His wolves patrolled the horizons against skulking skirmishers.

The swollen army of Eryn Galen had been joined to the smaller forces that had issued out of Lórinand.  Thranduil had not been present at Oropher’s first meeting with Malgalad.  He gathered that it had not been bitter, yet he also noted that his father still made no great effort to share their cousin’s company.  Thranduil himself had seen him only once and spoken to him only briefly.  It had been strange to see him again after thinking him dead for so many years, yet on closer study Thranduil had realized that this was hardly the Malgalad he had known in his youth.  The luster had long ago left his eyes, and he was a shadow of his former self.  He had fled into the east at the fall of Menegroth, leaving Beleriand and Curse of the Exiles.  But rather than finding solace among the silvan people of Lórinand, he had allowed his despair to consume him.  He had wished only anonymity, peace and obscurity in which he could bring himself to forget his sorrows.  Yet the world he had left had rediscovered him, and now he had been constrained to return to war.  He had fully expected Mordor to be his grave.  Now he had his wish at last, lost with half his command in the marshes beside Dagorlad.

That initial battle of Dagorlad had shaken Greenwood’s ranks considerably, yet in the end it had strengthened their confidence.  Oropher had rallied them beautifully and the Alliance commanded the field in the end.  Their casualties had not been heavy in relation to their numbers, yet any loss was hard to bear.  Thranduil himself had emerged essentially unscathed, though knocked around quite a bit.

Dorthaer had all but claimed their portion of Dagorlad for his own, proving his worth ten times over.  It seemed that nothing would frighten him, and Thranduil was often tempted to forget the commander’s relative youth.  Like many others, Dorthaer did not remember the dark days of Greenwood, yet they were enduring these new horrors as best they could, taking them in their stride.  He moved now among his wounded, attending them tirelessly before he returned to the field.

Leading Maethor to his picket, Thranduil found Celebrin giving the horses their water rations.  It seemed that the battle had aged him, purged him of the last of his boyhood.  The shadow of war was upon him now, but it had been a relief merely to see that he had survived.

“Thranduil,” he asked thoughtfully, “did you truly slay your first Orcs when you were as young as I?”

“No,” Thranduil admitted, tying Maethor in his place.  Water was too precious in that land to allow horses free rule of it.  “I was younger.  My father released me to the marchwardens when I was but half your age.”  He sighed wearily.  “There are times when I doubt the wisdom of that decision.”

“I cannot believe they were sprung from Elves.”

Thranduil heard the deliberate incredulity in that voice, and remembered a time when he would have shared it.  “I can,” he said heavily.  “One kinslaying is enough to confirm many unpleasant truths, Celebrin.”

The other said nothing for a moment, then elected to change the subject.  “It seems the Noldorin armies do not think too highly of us,” he observed indignantly.

“That is to be expected,” Thranduil said, gazing out over the plain thick with soldiers.  “I am afraid they have never been disposed to hold a high opinion of us, which is why it will be doubly shameful if we should fail.”

“We repulsed Sauron’s army once,” Celebrin insisted.  “I am certain we can do it again.”

Thranduil had no desire to burden him with his own streak of pessimism.  “You go on believing that,” he said fondly, leaving him to his work.

In the heart of their post, Thranduil found his father enduring the attentions of Noruvion as he had his bandage changed.  Oropher had been mildly wounded in the last battle, suffering a slight gash in his side, but that was no great grievance considering the many Orcs and wicked Men that had fallen to his blade.

“Are you all right, Father?” Thranduil inquired.

“You may say so,” Oropher replied, easing painfully back into his tunic.  “It is impossible to keep wounds clean in this wretched country,” he complained.  “Filth everywhere, and hardly enough water for drinking.  They are likely to scar terribly.”

“Perhaps,” Thranduil agreed, finding that his father’s familiar irate voice afforded some relief from the growing strain upon his nerves.

“Come,” Oropher beckoned at last, donning his sword belt.  “Gil-galad has given us our placement for the assault.  I would acquaint you and the others with it before the hour is out.  Imrathon!”

“Yes, sire?”

“Summon the other princes to my pavilion at once.”