Oropher refused to look back. Head held high, he pushed through the underbrush, trying to keep up with his mentor. Amdir, who led them forward from Doriath, sent guards to the back of the rag tag column to protect the women and children.

Oropher could still hear the cries of the dying as Doriath fell to the enemy. He knew the Noldor were the cause of Thingol's death, though rumour had it that Dwarves had murdered his king. The young lad batted away tears. He would some day seek his revenge against the Noldor. His mother and father lay dead in the city's streets; his brother and sister lost.

The Silmaril – they were the cause of Doriath's fall. The sons of Feanor – once again wrecking havoc on any who opposed them, any who would claim, and rightly so, those cursed gems. Did not Beren himself wrest the jewel from the very halls of Morgoth! Did not he bring it to Thingol. The Noldor had lost it. They had no further claim on it. Yet the curse followed it, followed it to fair Doriath, and the kingdom was lost. Along with Elves innumerable.

He found he was breathing hard, not from the exertion, but the anger and frustration that welled deep in his heart. That accursed stone brought the Dwarves down upon them, and then... 'Enough of this!' he swore to himself. There was no sense in looking back, neither physically nor mentally. Doriath was ruined. The Elves were scattered, and his people were sick to death of it all. They had decided to return to their roots, to the land of the Silvan Elves, to unfettered lives of peace and quiet.

As they approached the Ered Lindon, their path was blocked by mound upon mound, as far as the eye could see. Oropher shivered. It was the graves of the Dwarves who had killed Thingol and then run, with the Necklace, back to Nogrod. His people became quiet. His skin prickled and he knew that the same was felt by all in his party. The death of these Dwarves had infuriated the Dwarves of Nogrod and they had amassed an army and destroyed his beloved home.

They regrouped at the River Ascar. Amdir knew it would be foolhardy to go by way of the Dwarf Road, so he turned his people north. They followed the River Gelion to the Greater Gelion and through the mountain pass north of Mount Rerir. Oropher kept his hand on the hilt of his sword for what seemed to be months. The mountains were inhospitable, cold and forlorn, and the few Elves left, escaping Doriath, were disheartened.

Amdir called a halt. "We have survived the last battle we will ever be part of. I promise you, my people, we will never again fight battles that are not our own. We will no longer pay homage to these Noldor. We now sever our ties, as Thingol did, and leave this land behind us. We will find our kin, the Silvans, and be at peace. This road we take is hard and long, but I promise you, we will rest, once we reach the Great River, till the end of our days."

Oropher was caught up in the hope that stirred in his heart from Amdir's words. They would have peace. They would no longer fight. He breathed a sigh of relief. If only they had left earlier, his parents would still be alive. A sob shook his body and another Elf, standing next to him during Amdir's discourse, gave the lad a quick hug.

"Amdir is wise. He knows where he is taking us. You have naught to fear, little one."

Oropher drew himself up, trying to stand as tall as possible. "I am near unto fifty years old," the boy said, "and I have been taught how to wield a sword. I am not afraid."

The Elf looked at him in sorrow. "You have lost someone in Menegroth?"

Holding his head down, Oropher nodded, but kept quiet.

"Some one close?"

"I do not want to speak of it… or them. I only look for Amdir's peace."

The Elf did not leave his side that day, nor the next.