For a long moment Oropher would not let him go.  His father did not say anything, but Thranduil could feel the worry and concern which had obviously been plaguing him.  Despite all the horrors behind them, all the pain, grief, and loss, they were still alive, but life had never before felt so fragile.

“Come,” Oropher said softly, at last composing himself.  “We have not many comforts here, but at least you may have your wounds tended.”

Thranduil moved to follow, but only made it a few steps before he was met by his mother, Lady Lóriel, who had hurried to meet him from the other side of the glade.  She fell into his arms without a word, though her anxious relief was plain.

The entire camp was unnaturally silent, cold and dark.  No more than the occasional whispered word was spoken, and no campfires had been kindled, though there were plainly more than one hundred Elves huddled about in the snow.   There was still a thick air of fear about the place.

Silently, Lóriel led Thranduil, Galadhmir and Lindóriel deeper into the camp, indicating that they should sit on the truck of a fallen pine beside a collection of makeshift surgical supplies.  Gingerly, Thranduil removed his cloak and tunic to reveal the injury to his shoulder while another weary healer unwrapped Lindóriel’s feet.

“I have sent scouts from Bar-en-Faroth back to Menegroth,” Oropher explained, hovering nearby as Lóriel attempted to clean Thranduil’s wound with ice water.  “They will tell us whether we need bother returning to the city.”

“Do you think there will be anything left?” Thranduil asked miserably, biting back the pain.

Oropher sighed.  “No.  But it is our duty to make inquiries in the event the king survived.  It is our duty to Lady Elwing.”

Thranduil said nothing as his mother bandaged his wound as best she could.  He did not expect the scouts to return with encouraging news, but he was too tired to worry any more.  He pulled his blood-crusted tunic back on against the cold, but returned Dorlas’ cloak to Galadhmir.  It was painfully obvious that there were not enough provisions to go around.

In the center of the glade, a pine and spruce shelter had been made for Lady Elwing.  She lay inside sleeping as comfortably as she might, bundled in a large cloak on a bed of brown needles.  Oropher had positioned himself with his wife nearest her, beneath the same spruce which had contributed its lowest boughs for that construction.  Thranduil joined his parents there, all of them huddled together for warmth as the deep chill of night fell over the wood once again.  He did not expect to be able to sleep, but he tried to at least relax his mind, knowing the guards in the trees would sound the alarm if the Fëanorians drew near.  Galadhmir and Lindóriel sat against the opposite side of the trunk.  The night was perfectly still.  From outside the glade, one would never suspect the mass of fugitives sheltering there.

In fact, no one truly slept that night.  Those who were not crippled by exhaustion or severe wounds were always listening for the sounds of an approaching enemy.  Some scarcely dared to breathe, traumatized by the violence of the city’s fall. 

Thranduil was roused for guard duty before dawn.  Galadhmir joined him, uninjured as he was, leaving his sister in Oropher’s care.  Just inside the trees, they came upon familiar face, Linhir Lingaladion. 

Thranduil greeted him with as much familiar warmth as either of them could muster.  They had known one another in Menegroth, though their fathers had not been on the best of terms.  Linhir’s left forearm was heavily bandaged and barely functional, but under the circumstances Thranduil was glad to see him alive in any condition. 

Food was scarce, but most of them were hungry enough to eat anything.  Small bands of hunters had been dispatched at alternating intervals, few enough to be inconspicuous.  They had brought back whatever game they could, an assortment of snowy hares and two young does.  These were butchered immediately with huntsman’s knives while the less perishable provisions were carefully conserved.  The camp smelled strongly of fresh offal for a time before it was buried in snow.  Smells could betray them as easily as sounds.

Thranduil, Galadhmir and Linhir each chewed their raw meat in silence.  It had not had time to hang properly and was tough with the rigor of death.  They had not exchanged a word all day, none daring to break the silence.  At one time or another they had all been trained by the marchwardens, and that old discipline returned instinctively. 

It was nearing midday when they were relieved by other more or less able-bodied members of their company.  Thranduil returned to the center of the camp where his father was engaged in earnest conversation with Lady Elwing, who was bundled in Lady Lóriel’s lap.  The juxtaposition of the great lord in council with a babe in arms would have been comical had it not been so grim.

“If return to Menegroth should be impossible,” Oropher was saying, seated on a log, “which sadly I expect to be the case, we must determine where we intend to go.  Come, Thranduil; this concerns you as well.”

Elwing regarded them both with as much royal poise as a child could under the circumstances.  Thranduil came and sat beside his father, and he could not help noticing that she was bearing it all very well for one so young and under such duress. 

“There are few enough safe places in this world left to us,” Oropher continued.  “Doriath itself is obviously too compromised; for all we know, Maedhros may claim it for himself, and we have not the numbers to contest him.  Nargothrond is ruined, and the north is entirely peopled with Exiles.  As I see it, we may go either south to join the Falathrim, or east to Tol Galen.”

Elwing said nothing for a moment, her small brows furrowed.  “I do not want to leave our wood to Fëanorionnath,” she said.

“It galls me as well, my lady,” Oropher replied with as much patience as he could muster, “but my first duty is to you and your safety.  To attempt to stay on here would be to seek peace with Maedhros and his brothers, which I suspect would be even more degrading and actually dangerous.  None of us suspected that their cursed oath would drive them twice to atrocities such as these.  Plainly, no peace can endure until they have what they seek.”  He frowned.  “Perhaps they have it already.”

Grief and anger clouded Elwing’s features.  “They do not have it,” she said hotly.  “Father gave it to me, and it is mine.”  Her hand had risen possessively to her breast, and for the first time since their harried escape, Thranduil and Oropher both noticed the smothered glow which her thick winter clothes were meant to conceal.

Thranduil opened his mouth to speak, but his father’s hand fell on his knee like a vice before he could manage it.

“Not a word,” Oropher commanded, suddenly twice as tense.  The Silmaril of Lúthien was indeed the most highly prized treasure of Doriath despite the grief it had brought them, and they were not sorry to know it had not fallen into unworthy hands.  All the same, suddenly realizing that it was in their possession seemed to make Oropher feel more vulnerable than ever.  They could not afford to compromise the secrecy of the camp with the raw emotion the revelation of the Silmaril would cause.  Not yet.

“The southern road to the coast is the shorter of the two,” Oropher said, thinking aloud.  “We have too many wounded to attempt a lengthy eastward journey.  We shall seek the aid of our kinsmen the Falathrim.”

Throughout the rest of the day Thranduil dutifully said nothing of the Silmaril, though he desperately wanted to confide in Galadhmir and Linhir.  The nervous tension in the air grew only thicker while they stayed in one place, though it seemed they had not yet been discovered.  Those who were able busied themselves doing useful things in an attempt to control their anxiety.  There was at least one bowyer among them, and he was teaching whoever was willing how to carve crude longbows from whatever material was ready to hand.  Anyone with any skill helped tend and comfort the wounded. 

Oropher was running a whetstone over the abused blade of his sword as quietly as possible, trying to partially repair the damage it had sustained.  Thranduil sat beside him once again, bringing both their rations of raw venison, frozen now and even harder than it had been that morning.

“It is of little use, I am afraid,” Oropher admitted, looking sadly at his weapon.  He accepted his meat disinterestedly.  “It will require one with more skill than I to put the edge back on this blade.  I gather yours fared even worse.  I have been meaning to ask where you acquired such a fine replacement.”

“Oh.”  Thranduil hesitated, though he had expected the question.  “It belonged to Caranthir Fëanorion,” he admitted. 

“Was it he who tried to stop us?”

“Yes.”

The worry lines reappeared on Oropher’s brow.  “The hand of Elbereth must have been upon you, Thranduil,” he concluded.  “At that moment I hardly expected you would return to us.”

“It was due more to instinct than skill,” Thranduil confessed.  Then he stopped, noticing that his father was struggling to suppress the tears which were being wrung from him, doubtless brought on by the stress of exhaustion, anxiety, and his own grief.  Concerned, Thranduil lay a steadying hand on his father’s knee.  Oropher in turn put his arm around Thranduil’s shoulders and drew him close.

“Your life is more precious to me than all the jewels of Valinor,” he said thickly.  “Remember that.”

Touched by his unaffected sincerity, Thranduil nodded, tears suddenly stinging his own eyes.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Linhir interrupted apologetically at some distance, “but the scouts have returned from Menegroth.”

Oropher quickly wiped his eyes and resumed the stony-faced demeanor people expected of him.  “Thank you, Lingaladion,” he said.  “Send them to me.”

As the four hunters approached, Thranduil could already read grim tidings on their features.  One held a folded sheet of parchment, which he lay in Oropher’s hand.

“My lord,” he said heavily, “Menegroth is burnt and ruined.  We found few besides Fëanorian soldiers in the wood, and no sign of the king.  That,” he said, indicating the parchment, “was affixed to the gates.”

Oropher unfolded it, and after only a moment his anxious grief had become smoldering rage.  He cleared his throat and read aloud, though his voice trembled.  “Behold the ruin of the Sindarin King.  His halls are destroyed, his power is broken, and his children wander fatherless.  He has burned in the fire of his own avarice.  So shall be the fate of all who willfully and maliciously deny and deprive the sons of Fëanor Curufinwë of their undoubted and certain property.”

For a moment Oropher was unable to speak further, visibly swallowing every vicious curse which rose to his tongue.  “Spread the word,” he managed to say instead.  “I want everyone to know we march for Nivrim in the morning.”