The Last Elf Queen of Arda

Chapter 21 - A Shadow from the South

OoOoO

For many lifetimes of Man, peace descended on the Woodland Realm. Guided by the maturing leadership of Thranduil, and by extension the respective wisdoms of Nellas and Anthelísse, the folk of the Greenwood prospered. All came to know their fair measure of happiness under their Sindarin king and his Noldo lady. Even those who had once frowned in disapproval at the marrying of the Noldor into the monarchy or a predominantly Silvan and Sindarin realm came to admit that all was seemingly well with the world.

Like the phases of the moon and the waves of the sea though, all things move in cycles. Peace begets war just as much as war eventually begets peace. No amount of stability can deny the inevitability of chaos; indeed waters that become too calm almost seem to invite ripples. That is why the defection of Morgoth was so paramount to the making of the world. Without the utter darkness of chaos, the daylight of peace would seem a pale, wane thing. To truly appreciate the dawn, one must first walk the bitter reaches of the night.

It was a cool November when the first ripples of chaos touched the calm of the Greenwood. Thranduil and Anthelísse were at leisure in the palace gallery when a Silvan scout was brought before them. Her green tunic betraying dark shadows of blood, the scout delivered her report with deceptive calm.

"The ruins of Amon Lanc, Aran-nin, something foul has made its home there. I know not what, only that it is drawing all manner of evil to the Southern Greenwood. My patrol was ambushed by orcs not once but twice as we completed the old route. The first time we thought to be a fluke. The second we knew it could not be so. The orcs behaved too boldly...almost territorially."

Thranduil listened in grave silence, exchanging a look with Anthelísse. They both felt the cold prickle of a gathering storm across the back of their necks. The centuries of peace the realm had enjoyed had been purchased at the highest cost; the cost of blood. Elves' memories are long though, and their numbers slow to recover. Thranduil and Anthelísse both knew that they did not have the strength to repel an attack, even one festering within the Greenwood's own borders.

"Gurithon." Thranduil said, standing up from the coach on which he had been reclining with Anthelísse. "Why have we not been alert to such movements before now? How can darkness have crept past our eyes onto our very back porch?"

Gurithon stepped up to stand directly behind the still-kneeling scout. The captain's long face was grave such as it had not been in centuries.

"My lord, since the Last Alliance we have not had the scouts needed to keep up regular patrols in the south. Amon Lance has not been occupied by anyone since ere your father came here from Doriath. Some might be bold as to say it was only a matter of time before we either rebuilt the old fortress...or someone else claimed it for their own."

"Some might be so bold, but not yourself of course." Anthelísse rebuked Gurithon solemnly. When the Silvan captain did not flinch from his earlier statement she sighed. Long hands kneading at the red velvet of her dress, the queen-in-waiting spoke. "Unfortunately I agree with you Gurithon. It was out of the question that we should have had the resources to reclaim and maintain Amon Lanc."

Focussing the full force of his attention back to the scout, Thranduil leaned in. The years had sharpened away his youthful self-doubt, giving the king a deeply focused bearing. Thranduil had proven himself heir not only to Oropher's charismatic charm, but also to Nellas's fey power of character.

"Tell me, Thenniel...how close were you to Emyn Duir when the second ambush occurred?"

The scout inclined her pointed chin to look Thranduil in the eye. She was possessed of a head full of bright russet hair; a rarity among Silvan elves.