The snow showed no signs of letting up.  For some time Thranduil could not move, a part of him so miserable that he would have preferred to freeze to death rather than take another step.  Then he remembered his father and mother, the last words Dior had spoken to them, the trust he had given them.  At last, he turned back and saw Galadhmir and Lindóriel looking at him with tear-streaked faces, waiting for him to lead them.  They were all adrift in the world, and they were trusting him.

He could not afford to despair, although the feeling threatened to sap whatever strength he had left.  With an effort, he hauled himself to his feet and beckoned them to follow.

They continued south through Region forest.  It took Thranduil only a moment to get his bearings in the dark.  They avoided the road, walking parallel along the marchwardens’ paths.  After what seemed like a long time in the silence, they came to one of the guardsman’s outposts, really no more than a sheltered flet high in a beech tree.  Thranduil’s nightingale signal call produced no reply.  It seemed to be abandoned.

“Wait here,” he instructed the others as he bounded up the well-worn hand and footholds.  Pulling himself up through the hole in the center of the floor, Thranduil saw the post was indeed abandoned and stripped of almost everything useful.  He considered staying the night there, then thought better of it.  If the Fëanorionnath spread through the wood, he did not want to be trapped in a tree.  He was able to salvage a small wood hatchet and one torn bedroll before returning to the others below.

They pressed on through the darkness at a brisk but sober pace, anxious to put as much distance as possible between them an any pursuit.  Thranduil also very much wanted to find and rejoin his father’s party; he knew Oropher would not compromise his duty to the king by lingering unnecessarily even to find his own son, though the conflict would sicken him at heart.

Thranduil wondered about his parents.  Where they ahead of him in the dark, marching through the snow with Lady Elwing?  Had they even survived the sack?  There had been no time to discuss any plans beyond escaping Menegroth before they were separated.  He knew that if they were alive, they were wondering about him.

Their family had once enjoyed such a strong spiritual connection that they had been able to sense one another’s joy or pain, but that had deteriorated after Thingol’s death, and since Melian’s departure had become so faint as to be indistinguishable.  It had been like walking through a fog, and now they were lost in it.

Oropher’s most likely path would be toward Nivrim and the Fens of Sirion, so Thranduil resolved to keep on in that direction and hope to meet the others along the way rather than search for them.  They stood a better chance at survival together, and there was no safety to be had in Doriath any more.  It made him sick to think it, but Doriath itself was dead as well.

He was dozing as he walked, drifting in a wretched sea of grief, shock, and monotonous cold.  All at once he came back to himself with a start, halting the others for a moment to listen.  They all heard it, foreign voices on the wind.

It was still dark, just before dawn.  The Fëanorionnath were likely fanning out through the woods, searching for stragglers.  There was nothing to do but run.

They fled like deer through the wood, swift and nearly silent, but driven by a relentless fear.  Every so often, Thranduil halted their flight to listen for any sounds of pursuit, then turned to run again.  They all knew how vital it was to remain out of bowshot.  Lindóriel had lost her doeskin slippers somewhere along the way and was obviously suffering from the cold, but she made no sound.  As much as Thranduil imagined he and Galadhmir both wanted to carry her, they could not afford to slow their pace, not if they wanted to live.

The sun began to burn on the horizon, but it brought no warmth.  Thranduil paused again to listen, and Lindóriel slumped against her brother, almost unable to support herself any longer.  They seemed to have eluded the Golodhrim for the moment, but as the slanting rays of dawn illuminated the wood, the reality of their position became shockingly evident.

Both Thranduil and Galadhmir cursed at once.  Lindóriel’s bare feet were lacerated by the ice, and she had left a trail of red footprints across the otherwise pristine landscape.  Even a novice tracker could not fail to find them. 

Lindóriel began crying, weakened by pain, cold and despair.  Thranduil tore a strip off the hem of his undertunic and began quickly binding one of her feet.  Galadhmir, as his sister’s direction, tore strips from the hem of her chemise for the other foot.  Thranduil’s shoulder smarted, reminding him that he was also wounded.  They had to move.  The idea of how far back that trail might extend was turning his stomach. 

“Softly, softly,” he said, attempting to soothe Lindóriel as she began choking on her sobs.  They could not fall apart now.  His own heart was beating frantically, every instinct imploring him to run.  Her feet bandaged as well as possible, Lindóriel stood up as best she could, but Thranduil did not trust the bandages to hold.  They would have to carry her.  Galadhmir moved to take her up.

“No, give her to me,” Thranduil insisted.  Galadhmir had been a weedy youth, and Thranduil was still the stronger of the two.  He swept her into his arms, and she took firm hold of his neck.  Galadhmir took up their satchel of meager supplies, and they were off once again.

They ran due south, abandoning their westward progress.  They ran until Thranduil felt the cold air burning his lungs.  He was not able to move as lightly as he had been, burdened as he was, and he knew he was making obvious tracks of his own.  Their only hope lay in speed, and he would run until his heart burst if he had to.

They finally stumbled into the center of Bar-en-Faroth, a hunting village near the south road.  They paused for a moment to catch their breath.  The village was obviously abandoned, and at first glance it seemed unusually bare of weapons and supplies.  This Thranduil interpreted as a hopeful sign, assuming his fellows had left their homes prepared for the worst. 

“Look!” Galadhmir pointed with an excited whisper.  On the door of one of the empty homes, it seemed Oropher had left his mark in charcoal.

Thranduil was elated.  He put Lindóriel down for a moment to look at the series of cyphers scrawled underneath the initials.  They were marchwarden’s abbreviations, less likely to be interpreted by hostile eyes. 

“They are headed for Nivrim,” Thranduil confirmed, new energy shooting through his veins.  “Elwing is still with them, and they are nearly one hundred strong already.”

“Do you think we can catch them?” Galadhmir asked.

“They cannot be too far ahead of us,” Thranduil reasoned. 

Galadhmir hoisted his sister onto his back before Thranduil could object, and they began running again.  It was becoming more difficult to maintain speed, but at least they knew they were heading in the right direction.  A gray wolfhound ran after them, preferring their company to the emptiness of the village.

The forest seemed endless.  Little though they could afford it, their minds became numb to the pain and fatigue, and indeed to everything besides the effort of going on.  Eventually they were reduced to walking.

Thranduil relieved Galadhmir, taking Lindóriel into his arms once more.  They trudged on through the silence, occasionally disturbing a pheasant or a wandering stag.  Even the squirrels were hushed in their trees, seeming to sense the invasion of their wood.

At midday they paused to eat, rationing what Lindóriel had managed to salvage from the family larder.  She and her brother were silent, uncomfortably reminded of their mother.  Thranduil allowed them to grieve in peace, ineffably grateful his parents had survived, and all the more anxious to catch up with them.

By that afternoon, even his nervous energy had ebbed, and it was enough to simply put one foot in front of the other.  A deep chill was descending once again, promising a frigid night.  Lindóriel had made a valiant effort to walk on her own, and as a result her bandages were wet with melted snow, surely even more uncomfortable than before.  Thranduil swept her up again without a word.

Dusk was falling quickly.  It was as though the wood had swallowed them all.  The only sound was the crunch of the snow beneath their feet and the snuffling breath of the hound beside them.  All at once he stopped and tensed so abruptly that they all stopped with him.

The low call of a nightingale cut the air.

Glancing around, they quickly stumbled toward the copse of fir trees from which the call had come.  Strong Mithrin hands helped pull them inside, out of sight, and Thranduil was gratefully caught up in his father’s firm embrace.