Blood and Fire

2. It was her choice and she chose it

Of course Galadriel knew her kinsmen well enough to know they would come.

For Lúthien and Beren’s sake, Oropher had come to Doriath.

The news had spread swiftly when the King’s daughter and her mortal husband had first settled on Tol Galen. Oropher, who had no little influence in the region, had taken it upon himself to pay them a visit. He had known Lúthien before, of course, but Beren Camlost was a stranger and a puzzle. What Man was this who could persuade the fair Lúthien to partake in love and death?

So many others had wondered the same thing that Dor Firn-i-Guinar, the Land of the Dead that Live, had swiftly become a singularly inappropriate name for the area. It could not be said that Lúthien had established a court of her own, but it would have been hard to say what other reason so many Nandor had for settling in that part of Ossiriand. Perhaps they told themselves, as Oropher did, that the couple and their family deserved protection, being Thingol’s kin. Or perhaps they were more honest and could admit that Lúthien’s fabled beauty had drawn them there and Lúthien herself, in all her grace and infinite charm, kept them at her fair side. And if there was a touch of weariness in Lúthien’s starlit eyes, seeing her courtiers gather, at least it vanished in the warmth of Beren’s smile.

In any case, there Oropher had remained. Later, after the messengers had brought news of Thingol’s murder, he had lent a hand in raising the Green-elves of Ossiriand against the Naugrim; and later still, after the battle was done and Beren had given up the Nauglamír to Lúthien, he had yielded to their unspoken wish and taken all who would follow to Doriath with Dior. If Dior’s kingdom was to endure now that Melian and her nightingales had gone out of Middle-earth, it would require a girdle of swords. So Oropher had left his quiet green woods and come to this stone forest beneath the beech and elm, where those who still endured in the plundered caves had crept out, a mess of nerves and terror, to greet Thingol’s heir.

Which was not to say that no one had attempted to introduce order into chaos. The princely Celeborn, kinsman to Thingol and Dior’s wife Nimloth, had already begun to set up some rudimentary form of organisation before the arrival of Dior and the Green-elves. He had been assisted in this by the golden-haired Galadriel, his Noldorin wife.

Galadriel was speaking now, low and musical.

“– not because I bear a grudge against my kin do I say this. It is the truth. Now is not the time to rehearse old evils and so I shall not cry forgiveness nor defend myself for watching Elvish blood be spilt at Alqualondë. Still: my kin did this. My hands, perhaps, had I been born a man. And that for white ships alone, since Olwë would not give up his heart’s work that Fëanor might cross the Sundering Sea against the Valar’s will. This were painful enough and the greater evil, yet still must I tell that Fëanor and his sons abandoned me and mine at Araman, and took those stolen ships across the sundering sea and burned them at Losgar. So then, since Fëanor’s sons would kill Elves for ships and abandon closest kin, I do not think that they will hold their hands from an attack, now that they know the Queen has gone and that a Silmaril of Fëanor burns again in the woods of Doriath.”

She fell silent, frowning.

“I thank you, lady,” said Dior and bent his head. He spoke with his usual courtesy and his expression gave no hint as to his thoughts. The star-bright stone suspended from the jewelled collar around his neck glowed steadily with a cool, silver-gold light. “Who else will speak?”

Celeborn stirred in his chair. “I must concur with my wife. Her kin will not give up the Silmaril. They are no allies of ours.”

“They will not give up their claim,” said Nimloth, who stood by Dior’s chair and had so far listened in silence. She rarely spoke when Dior called his counsellors together; Oropher suspected that her advice to her husband was delivered in private and carried more weight as a result. Now she lifted her chin and looked directly at her kinsman Celeborn. “Their kingdoms have fallen and their hosts are scattered. Will they not hesitate to attack us over a jewel? We are no enemies of theirs. We do not threaten them. Why need they take this further than idle threats?”

“They need not,” replied Celeborn, somewhat dryly. He seemed weary and his fingers were tapping a sharp, cross rhythm on the arm of his chair. “Yet I fear they will. As you say, their kingdoms have fallen. They cannot hope to claim Bauglir’s crown by force of arms and they dare not attempt to steal into Angband as Lúthien and Beren did. Now they hunt Ossiriand like wolves – and like wolves they will attack the weaker prey.”

“Why, though? It is only a jewel.”

Galadriel’s sigh was like a passing breeze. “Nonetheless, they will come.”

“Perhaps,” said Dior, his gaze remote. “What then would you have me do? Should I give up the prize for which my father gave his hand? Over which my forefather Thingol lost his life? Must Fëanor’s sons reap the reward of my parents’ labours?”

Galadriel winced. “I did hear the Queen say –”

Dior shook his head. “They have no more claim to the jewel. As they once claimed their kingdoms by right of liberation, so did my parents claim this Silmaril. Lady, your kin have no further claim to it.”

At about this point, Oropher lost interest in the discussion.

It seemed more likely than not that the sons of Fëanor would attempt to seize the jewel. This was not a happy prospect. Celeborn had described them as wolves and this fitted what Oropher knew of them; nonetheless, remembering the white flame of Lúthien’s beauty as she took up the Nauglamír, he could not have happily heard Dior agree to turn the stone in its gaudy gem-encrusted setting over to the lady Galadriel’s Noldor kin. No one who had known and adored Lúthien could have submitted to such a thing. Lúthien and Beren together had claimed the jewel from Bauglir; to give it up to Fëanor’s arrogant sons would have been a belittlement of that beloved couple and their quest, now that they had gone out of the world leaving only the pledge of their love to those who had loved them.

So Oropher would not add his voice to the dispute. Dior was already aware of his opinion and it would not change now. He slouched in his corner and let the words wash over his head, already planning how to rearrange the patrols and where to set watchers in the woods to best effect. Later he would talk to Celeborn and one or two others about the best way to fortify Menegroth in a hurry, should the need arise. At least he had done what he could to girdle Dior’s ungirdled Doriath. There were patrols and border guards. Anyone who could lift a sword or draw a bow had been given the appropriate training. Even the women carried knives these days and knew how to use them.

Close by sat Melian’s dark messengers, who seemed to consider the whole thing as pointless as Oropher did. The man was thoughtfully scratching patterns onto a piece of wood with a needle while the woman twisted her fingers crossly into her dark hair, her mouth askew as she listened to the various speakers. Oropher leaned towards them. “Long-winded, these Sindar,” he whispered, not quite under his breath. “I knew there was a reason I went back to Ossiriand after Amon Ereb.”

The man flashed him a wry smile. “Oh, indeed.”

“I suppose you think the Noldor –”

“Of course they’ll come,” said the woman impatiently. Her attention appeared to be focused on Dior, resplendent with the Silmaril at his throat. “You know that!”

She sounded very certain. Oropher could not blame her.

“And will you leave?” he asked curiously.

Now she did glance at him, her eyes dark. “No. Will you?”

The look on her face stayed with him after the discussion had ended and Dior had swept them into Thingol’s stone forest of a hall to tell the Sindar that he would not yield to the demands of Fëanor’s sons. He recognised something hard and bitter behind her clear resolve and could not quite put a name to it. At any rate, Erestor and Melinna were committed. They would not leave despite their clear belief that Doriath was doomed to be destroyed. Oropher had returned the same answer to her, although he suspected his reasons for staying in Doriath were different. He did not love that stone forest or the long-winded Sindar, as sweet as their songs might be. Nonetheless, he would not leave Doriath, even anticipating a Noldor attack.

For the sake of Lúthien’s son, Oropher would remain.

Of course we knew they would come.