Chapter 20 ~ Hopeless Courage II

The next morning dawned gray.  The clouds had spent their fury during the night, but had not yet quit the valley, hanging low in a mist that had only just begun to lift.  The air smelled of wet earth and leaves, something Thranduil usually found refreshing.  This morning he stood aloof from the others on the open terrace as they awaited Elrond’s arrival, his breakfast sitting in his stomach like a stone.  He already felt uncomfortably scrutinized, though that may have been his imagination.  Gwaelas and Dorthaer had stayed with him as long as they could, and even now he knew they were hovering nearby, just out of earshot.

The others had formed themselves into small groups, milling about and murmuring to one another in subdued voices.  The wizard Mithrandir met his gaze and nodded.  With him was another of his kind, clad in white and with unpleasant piercing eyes.  He was called Curunír.

Celeborn was there with his wife.  He and Thranduil had not yet exchanged so much as a word.  A strange distance had grown between them again which Thranduil in his current frame of mind did not feel inclined to be the first to bridge.  He had heard nothing from him since they had parted in Eregion, almost a lifetime ago.

Lord Gildor was present, along with several other august personages of Elrond’s house whom Thranduil did not recognize.  As usual, he felt a complete outsider in this company, regretting the distant solitude Oropher had sought in Greenwood and at the same time feeling an intense desire to return to it.

When Elrond at last appeared on the terrace, all extraneous conversation immediately ceased.  “Welcome, guests and kinsmen alike,” he said briefly, though the subject of this meeting was too grim to allow much levity.  “I thank you for responding with such alacrity to my invitation.”

The available seats were quickly taken.  Thranduil took the one nearest him, at the end of the semicircle.  Chance or design put Mithrandir beside him.

“As we are all surely aware by now,” Elrond continued, “a nameless evil has appeared in the south of Eryn Galen, called the Necromancer by those who must speak of him, and his pestilence has all but overtaken that wood.  Whatever or whoever it may be, it behooves us to investigate all possibilities.  To that end we are gathered here.”

“Lord Amroth has observed this foul shadow from the time of its inception,” Lady Galadriel interjected.  “At first, he dismissed it as an unfortunate blight on the wood, but in time it was not overgrown, and its insidious spread suggested that it was indeed of evil origin.  Whatever its purpose, it has not yet dared to touch any flower of Lórinand.”

“How far north has the contagion advanced?” asked Curunír.

“It has engulfed the old road and passed well over the mountains,” Mithrandir informed him grimly.  “It may well have overtaken the entire wood were it not for the doughty folk who make their homes there.”

“Doughty folk?” the other asked incredulously.  “Are they not merely Wood-elves?”

Thranduil realized a dour look must have crossed his face, because Elrond hastily introduced him.

“Lord Thranduil, King in the North, has graciously made the journey to advise us on the matter,” he said.  “Tell us what you have observed, my lord, for it concerns you nearest of all.”

“Mithrandir is correct,” Thranduil said flatly.  “The blight spread ever northwards, and we withdrew before it to a more defensible place.  It and the vile creatures which live in its shadow have been halted at our borders and have not been able to shift us further, though we have endured grievous incursions by Orcs.”

“Orcs go in the shadow of many dark things,” Curunír observed.  “Perhaps it is one of the Nine.”

“The Nazgûl have indeed been seeking to establish a stronghold,” Mithrandir confirmed, “and I have encountered them in Mirkwood.”

Thranduil shook his head in spite of himself.  The voice in his dreams had been no illusion, and had certainly not been the work of a mere ringwraith, no matter how terrible they may be.

“Have you some insight to offer, Thranduil?” Galadriel asked, noticing his agitation.  “Please, you may speak freely here.”

Thranduil sighed deeply.  At the risk of appearing presumptuous, he must speak his mind.  “I, too, have seen the wraiths,” he ventured hesitantly, “but for reasons that are my own I cannot believe they alone are the cause of Mirkwood’s ills.”

“You suspect some new sorcerer has arisen?” Curunír asked.

“What I suspect,” Thranduil said, more urgently, “is that he is all too familiar.  Many years past, I had the misfortune to encounter ‘Annatar’ in Ost-en-Edhil.”  Galadriel, Celeborn, and Gildor stiffened in their seats.  “The memory has haunted me.  I recognized his voice in Mordor.  I recognize him now when he speaks in my dreams.  I feel his gaze upon me.  For myself I have no doubt, though I can offer no proof, that Gorthaur has returned to the world.”

“Any return of the Dark Lord would surely not have gone unnoticed,” Galadriel insisted, though she did not seem as certain as she might have liked.  “ Curunír?  Surely not.”

Curunír’s expression softened, and he looked at Thranduil with what could have been pity.  “Any personal dealings with Sauron can tax even the strongest spirit,” he said.  “The loss of the king, your father, can only have exacerbated those sentiments.  Now, my lord, with the untimely death of your queen, may I suggest that—”

“I have not been traumatized into this conclusion,” Thranduil insisted.  “I do not reveal it lightly.  I came to this council because we may require assistance if we are to survive in Mirkwood.”

“None who come to Imladris fail to find succor,” Curunír continued in that maddingly empathetic tone, “though it may not be the sort they expect.  Let the valley clear your mind, my lord, and you may yet have peace in your heart.”

“My heart is of no concern,” Thranduil said, becoming angry now.  “There is a demon defiling our wood.  What action do you, who style yourselves ‘the Wise,’ intend to take?”

“There is no need to take offense, my lord,” Gildor admonished, “nor to give it.”

“I did not come to give offense,” Thranduil said, biting his tongue, “but our plight is dire.  The darkness of Mirkwood grows deeper by the day.  The roads to the south are becoming impassible, and my people are trapped in the north.  I do not know how long we can expect to withstand this foe alone.”

“If your existence in Eryn Galen is so precarious, would it not be better for your people to abandon the wood entirely?” Curunír asked.  “There are many more peaceful places where they may yet settle.  Here in Imladris, or in Lórinand.”

“I have been set adrift in the world many times since the days of Beleriand,” Thranduil countered.  “I would not impose that grief on anyone.  So long as the Galennath intend to defend their homes, I will stand with them.”

“Perhaps it would not be in our best interests to so quickly relinquish the north,” Mithrandir suggested.  “Thranduil may be justified in his concern.  Were this enemy left completely unchallenged in the wood, Forodwaith and Ered Mithrin may soon be lost to us, or indeed everything east of the Hithaeglir.”

“Which enemy do you mean?” Curunír asked pointedly.  “Sauron has not returned, and even if he had, he would be little more than a wraith himself, entirely beneath our concern.  The Nazgûl have not the power even at full strength to topple entire kingdoms of Elves.  I fail to see the urgency or indeed the validity of your predictions.  More likely this Necromancer is but a foul little man dabbling in powers too great for him.  He will soon be consumed by his own machinations.”

“We must be prepared for the possibility.”

“If we would prepare for all possibilities, we would be ever at war.  Content yourself with vigilance and preserve the peace.”

“We are not at peace,” Thranduil interjected.  “We have been under siege for years.”

“And what do you expect to come of your plea for aid?” Curunír demanded.  “The great alliances are dead.  The Elvish armies are sorely depleted and cannot be spared for ill-advised raids against the stronghold of a feckless sorcerer.  Let him have his day and then he will be gone.  If you cannot hold your kingdom against him, that is no one’s affair but your own.”

The remainder of the council had not gone any more favorably.  For a moment, Thranduil had been too stunned by the blunt rebuff to say anything.  Moreover, no one else present seemed willing to question Curunír’s conclusion, however sympathetic they may have been.  He did have an insidiously persuasive voice.  Thranduil’s blood had been pounding in his ears too loudly for him to attend to the proceedings any further.

Now he was stalking through the gardens of Imladris, trying to collect his thoughts.  The path ended at the head of a cascading waterfall, affording him an unobstructed view of the vast expanse of the valley.  The raw beauty of Eriador and the roaring of the river helped steady his nerves for a moment. 

No aid would be forthcoming from any of the other realms; the bloodletting of the Last Alliance would not be easily forgotten.  They could possibly disband the kingdom and seek asylum elsewhere, but in his heart Thranduil knew the Galennath would never willingly leave their own wood.  They had been there almost since the dawn of Middle-earth. 

Could this indeed be the doom of everything?  Was Oropher’s legacy to be snuffed out as his life had been, suddenly and ingloriously?  He felt in his heart they were outmatched, whatever the wizards said.  Should they stay and face their ruin, or sacrifice everything to save their lives?

Thranduil slid the diadem off his brow, the one that had been his father’s, the sharp points pricking his hand as he closed it in his fist.  He could not find it within himself to surrender that trust, whatever their end may be.  Besides, he was sick of running.  They had run from Doriath, from Sirion, from Balar, from Lindon, and twice from the south of their own wood.

Fate was stubbornly determined to wipe him off the stage, but he refused to go.  It seemed incredible that there had been a time when all that he ever wanted was to play at being a prince in the gleaming halls of Menegroth.  Had all the incredible events of his life simply been preparation for this moment?  Was this to be his last stand, his final destiny?

“Surely you are not contemplating jumping.”

Thranduil turned away from the waterfall, recognizing the voice instantly.  “Do you think I should?” he asked wryly.

“It would not matter what I think,” Celeborn said, coming to stand beside him.  “You have always kept your own counsel, like your father.”

They let the silence linger between them for a moment.  It was enough to simply be in one another’s company again, that strange distance gone like mist in the morning. 

“You will not be asking anyone for asylum, will you?” Celeborn said at last, knowing the answer.

“I cannot ask them to leave Greenwood,” Thranduil insisted, “and I will not simply abandon them to their fate.  That wood is practically their soul.”

“I understand,” Celeborn said, “however, I cannot help but feel some concern regarding your situation.  I am not yet prepared to accept that Sauron has risen again, though I do not doubt your conviction.  Your suspicions may yet be vindicated.  What then?  In your current position, you lack the sort of ‘assistance’ which may be necessary to mount a successful defense.”

“Do not patronize me,” Thranduil said sourly.  “Celebrimbor’s rings are hidden only from those who lack the wit to see them.”

Celeborn looked away with a frown and the subject was dropped.  “Very well,” he said.  “What do you intend to do, then?”

“I may be outmatched, but I am far from powerless,” Thranduil assured him.  “If the Galennath are willing, we shall exact blood for every inch of ground, though it may be the death of us all.  What did you expect me to do?”

Celeborn unexpectedly favored him with a grim smile.  “I expect conduct befitting the last prince of the Meliannath,” he said, indulging in a rare effusion of kindred pride.  “Stand your ground, give no quarter, and send that fiend back to whatever hell he came from.”

It was a cold and crisp morning when Thranduil, Gwaelas and Dorthaer strode down the lamplit promenade to meet their escort and their horses.  They were leaving disappointed, but not completely disheartened.  They still had their pride.

“Lady Celebrían provided us with fresh lembas, my lord,” said Lancaeron.

“That was very gracious of her,” Thranduil smiled, taking the reins.  “You conveyed our thanks, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We may give it to the horses as well.  We must ride like the wind if we are to reach the mountain pass before the snows.”

Gwaelas touched him on the shoulder before he could mount, and Thranduil turned to see a cloaked lady rushing to catch them.  He sighed.  “I shall be but a moment,” he said, giving the reins to Dorthaer.

Elemmirë met him in the shadow of Elrond's house, breathless for a moment, her eyes glinting with unshed tears.  “For shame, my lord,” she said hotly, “that you would skulk away before dawn without bidding farewell to an old friend.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Thranduil apologized.  “Farewell it must truly be, for I do not expect I will live to see Mithlond again.”

“You are quite determined, then?” she asked, stiffening her voice with an effort.

“My people are determined,” he said, “and only death will take me from them.”

She nodded, though her resolve was tempered with a keen regret that pained him to see.  “Do what you must,” she said, “and when someday we meet again beyond the seas in a place where our griefs are no more, I shall be proud to name you my friend, Thranduil.” 

With that she put her arms around him in an inexcusably informal embrace which he found himself returning without a thought.  They held one another entirely too long, though Thranduil had ceased to care about improprieties.  Her touch did something to relieve the raw wounds on his heart, though he knew it would be brief. 

When at last she released him, Elemmirë’s face was streaked with tears but her features were strong.  “May Tulkas and Oromë ride with you, my lord,” she said.

“May they, indeed.”  Thranduil turned back to his companions, mounted his horse, and in a moment they were gone in a loud clatter of hooves.  His last sight was of her standing in the first frosty rays of dawn, raising her hand in farewell as they rode across the narrow footbridge over the river.  “May they, indeed.”