Second Age of Middle Earth - 50
Nal thand le sui i gam o Iluvatar insë
The cry of wheeling gulls from the nearby Havens drifted in through the open windows. Celyndailiel sighed and set aside her book. She smoothed the folds of her skirts as she rose to her feet, and waved away the maid who had looked up from her needlework, ready to rise in attendance on her.
"Go on with your diversions," she told not only her, but others of her companions who had also begun to set aside their own works.
She was restless. The feeling had been growing with increasing insistence since the building and planting, and the establishment of the court at Lindon was now all but completed, and life settled to kind of rhythm in the half century since the ending of the War of Wrath.
"The king will be displeased," the maid reminded her. "He does not like to see you about unattended."
Celyndailiel sighed again.
"I will deal with the king," she said, shaking her head. She knew the maid was right. Only the day before, Ereinion had found her at liberty in the court and alone, unattended...
"It is not fitting, Celyn," Gil-Galad said as he moved to her side and offered her his arm in courtly fashion, waving the other to dismiss his own escort, "for you to wander through the halls and gardens of court unaccompanied by either companion, maid or escort."
"Escort?" she questioned, laying her hand over his and walking at his side. "Jailor you mean."
"Guard, I'll grant you," he said with concern in his tone, "but 'jailor,' Celyn?"
"Ereinion, I had greater independence when I was hidden away from all the world with our Nandorin allies in the east!"
"You were safer then," he said.
"Safer, hanaren?" she argued softly, "How could I be safer than now? Morgoth is long since defeated and cast from Middle Earth, his minions scattered and many of our Kin, that might have posed a threat to you, to us, have returned to the West answering Manwë's summons. Here we are fully established in our new havens among friends. What could be safer?"
"There are still those abroad in Middle Earth who would like nothing more than to see the line of Finarfin broken and at its end."
"Any among our Kin have either answered Manwë's call or else are too busy establishing their own place in this New Age to bother after ours," she contradicted, repeating herself, though she knew there was a grain of truth in what her brother said.
"Celyn—" He sighed as she interrupted him again.
"Ereinion, enjoy this moment of peace." She came to a halt and turned so that she could lay her hand against his chest. "I know you seek only to protect me. I understand that you feel the loss of our mother greatly, and feel you must be both mother and father to me now, but... beloved, you cannot be all this to me and king to our people. You must trust me, and trust our counsellors to uphold the decision mother made. If you continue as you are, people will wonder, people will question – and then where will we be?"
He sighed a second time, looking down at her and she could tell that her words had reached him. Her expression softened and for a moment she closed her eyes at the soft brush of his lips as they whispered across her brow.
"You need a husband," he said a moment later, almost teasing.
"And you a wife," she countered, though as she suspected her would, he ignored her diversion.
"Is there no one upon whom your favour falls, Celyn?"
This time his words were full serious, and melancholy. She shook her head, though her belly flipped to accompany the lie, even as her brother further expressed his concern.
"But so long unpledged, nethen – I fear what fate awaits you."
"Ereinion," she made herself chuckle though she could see that her affected mirth did nothing to allay his fears, so let the sound of it die away into the softness of a sigh. "I am only now returned to the world after my exile. Would you have me throw myself into the arms of the first elf I meet that is not too close among our kin?"
As her tongue formed the question, her mind conjured the image as though before her eyes, tall, with hair as silver-blond as starlight, ice-blue eyes that pierced to the very soul of a matter and yet at once held the promise of so much more.
"I would have you happy, little one, not weighed by destiny as yet unknown," he said, and the image before her shattered into many pieces that lodged beneath her skin like welcome splinters.
"The only destiny that weighs me, my King, is to carry the Line of Finarfin, an occult responsibility born of blood. Our mother and father had their reasons, we cannot know what mother saw before she passed from this world, but we must respect it, and be content in wake of her wisdom."
"And what do you see, Celyndailiel?" he asked softly. "What fate is it that yet remains over us– a crystal dagger waiting to fall?"
She shook her head, pushing against a sudden cold that began to close an unyielding fist around her lungs, a breathlessness creeping over her, and a veil, like a shroud to cloud her vision, yet beyond it a ring of fire, burning like some foul gaze in the darkness.
"No," she told him sharply. "Do not ask me that, for you know I cannot say."
"It is not over then?" he said, "That reason by which our mother kept you hidden all these years has yet to come to pass?"
"Gil-Galad, you are High King, and the last of the line of Finarfin," she said in answer, voicing the deception that their mother had wrought, "that is what the world believes, that is the safety mother wished the world to believe, and we will never know what reason moved her to hide herself away when she knew that I was to come after you. It grieves my heart that I never knew her in life. Please do not ask me to reveal what warnings she sends to me from beyond her death."
"Forgive me," he breathed, and drew her into a gentle, but tight embrace. "I know these years have been hard on you, and I have visited you only seldom."
"But I know you are my brother; I love you, and I hold you not to blame for embracing your duty as I have embraced mine." She looked up at him, "We are at least together now, and for this time, let us rejoice in that, albeit we must obscure the reason."
... She took a breath, the memory of her walk with Gil-Galad changing her mind about walking alone, if not calming her restlessness. The air felt expectant – almost pregnant with some event yet to come, and it left her prickling with uncomfortable awareness that all she knew was about to change.
** ** **
Arriving at the head of the small hunting party, Thranduil tossed his rein to the groom, and dropped lightly from the saddle. His cloak brushed lightly over the new fall of leaves in the courtyard, and as if the sound of it hushed the bustle of the busy court, he felt eyes turn his way as he strode toward the doorway that led inside.
"Thranduil," He stopped mid-stride at the sound of his father's voice from behind him. "You are come late. What word from the woodland?"
He stiffened, not at what he father had said, but at the tone. Oropher had been waiting for him. It meant he had some task for him yet – and likely one he would not have chosen willingly, but would obey none the less.
In the decades since they had travelled east across the Great River many an arduous task had fallen to him as to all of them that had followed his father. Granted, their settlement with the Sylvan elves had been quickly established due to his father's already existing friendship with the woodland folk, and, soon after, the clans had taken Oropher as their lord and king, recognising, perhaps, his kinship with Thingol, however distant and tenuous. It had been an uncomfortable transition for Thranduil, at first, for although nobility was in his blood, to consider himself a prince was as yet foreign to him.
"The woodland is at rest, Adar," he answered, and slowly turned to face his father, taking in his appearance at a glance. The robes his father wore reflected the style of their woodland subjects, simple and functional – their function at present to hide the fact that beneath, his father wore the crafted armour of his Sindarin origins – and yet elegant. Thranduil knew that his father was not yet at ease, did not yet trust that peace had truly fallen upon Middle Earth, or if it had it was but temporary yet. It was a sentiment that, in spite of the evidence to the contrary, he shared. "There is nothing in the Kingdom that should not be for many leagues around."
Oropher inclined his head in acknowledgement of his words.
"Good then," he answered and gesture to the doorway behind him. "Walk with me. Attend me."
Thranduil gave a polite bow to his father, and then moved in his direction, following the older elf in through the ornate doorway of the fortress.
"Something troubles you," he guessed once they were alone. Oropher handed him a folded piece of parchment even as he answered.
"We are summoned to a council," he said.
"Where?" Thranduil asked, shaking open the letter with a frown, and reading exclaimed, "Eregion? By whom?"
He scanned the letter to the bottom, seeing there the cause of his father's irritation. The letter was signed by Celeborn and was a summons to all of the leaders and Elven lords that remained in Middle Earth.
"By what right and in whose name does he set such words and charge us all the appear at his behest," Oropher exploded, at last voicing his ire, and rounding on Thranduil as though he had born the unwelcome tidings. He flicked a hand out to tap the edge of the parchment, almost taking it from Thranduil's hand. "Does he think us all vassal lords to his great—?"
"Perhaps I should attend in your name – and to represent our Sylvan kin of Eryn Galen," Thranduil interrupted smoothly. He could not, at the time, explain why he had made the suggestion, for the journey was of many days, and would pass through territories now becoming settled by men – and therefore not entirely safe, but some impulse, drew the words from him.
"I am gratified to see we are of one mind in this," Oropher said, calm once more as they ascended the stair of the highest tower and emerged out onto the wide stone balcony atop it. As his father continued, Thranduil walked to the stone wall and leaned upon it, looking west. "It is in my mind, Ionen, that you should be the one to carry the voice of Greenwood's diplomacy between us, and others of our kin, for you are much alike to your mother in that regard."
Briefly, Thranduil looked back at his father at that, the mention of his mother drawing an ache from deep inside of him to settle in the frown upon his face.
"If such is your wish," he said after gazing long upon his father's face. "I will speak for Greenwood."
"It is my wish," his father said, and turning away from Thranduil started to return in the direction from which he had come. "Rest well this night. Needs be you must leave before first light in order to reach that peacock's court by the appointed hour, and I would not have you arrive late."
Thranduil turned back to gaze out across the tops of the trees, westerly and a little north, almost content to allow his father to leave without another word between them, but then the memory of soft words drifted through his awareness, and he could not hold his tongue against them, though he did not turn.
Battle now, and you will spend your life in conflict and war. Will you not spare yourself?
"Is that why you send me from your sight?"
He heard his father's steps pause as he asked, and for a moment thought he might answer, but after a moment of silence, heavier than the falling night, the footsteps resumed, without a word passing his father's lips.
"But perhaps that is answer enough," he murmured, soft and melancholy into the gathering dark.
Fifty years, barely any time at all to settle the turmoil of the last several centuries, and now it seemed duty called again, without hope of reprieve. Had his mother been right? Had Maedhros...?
"I warned you..."
Picking his way across the pitted field where remnants of countless battles had stained the once green grass a rusty brown, and unburied corpses lay, fodder for the ravens, filling the air with the putrid sweetness of corrupted flesh, Thranduil froze.
The battle may have ended many weeks since, and all the refugees now safely at the new havens or already travelling West, but he had been among those to set out once more to ensure that the lingering and scattered hosts of Morgoth's army did not try to free their lord from justice at Eönwë's hand, and the hand of the Valar.
...watch for the hand of the Valar....
Yet, there was another pressing concern among the war host of the Eldar, and to this task they had set their most trusted warriors... for in capturing Morgoth, the Maia had also in his possession the Silmarils that the Dark Lord had stolen, and that simple fact imperilled them all.
The words once more pricked at his memory, and in response the phantom pain in his shoulder flared, biting and swift, the voice behind him as a dagger in his heart that still ached for so much wrong, done in the name of avarice, greed... pride.
"I warned you," Maedhros said again, "that if we were ever to meet again with no debt of life for life to hold truce between us, I would kill you, Oropherion."
Slowly, his hands going to the hilts of his swords, Thranduil turned, his voice measured as he said, "Maedhros Fëanorion, you have no quarrel with me, nor with my family. Leave now, and live."
He belied his own words with the sibilant hiss of his blades clearing their sheaths, and with the truth in his heart that there was indeed much quarrel between them... for Doriath; for Dior and his queen; for Elwing and her sons, Elros and Elrond, and for his own mother – beloved and sorely missed.
Not a moment before time, Thranduil raised his blades, as crying denial, Maedhros rushed at him, heavy sword leading. Sparks flew as Elven steel clashed at the parry of the wild attack, and Thranduil made a repost, missing his mark as Maedhros turned aside.
Flowing like water, Thranduil followed the failed strike, half turning with Maedhros, keeping him within reach of his blades, and with an angry and embittered snarl, Maedhros answered, and the two Elves engaged in a battle that reached far beyond mere revenge or honour, but struck at the very heart of each of them.
Thranduil knew better than to underestimate his opponent, though Maedhros was possessed of only a single arm. He remembered from their last encounter that Maedhros used underhanded tactics, and cruel strikes to compensate for his disadvantage, but even in spite of his caution, as the fight gathered momentum, Thranduil found himself facing increasingly dangerous attacks.
He ducked beneath a wild, fierce thrust that Maedhros swung against his head, but the Fëanorian reversed direction almost at once and his studded wrist guard connected hard against the underside of Thranduil's chin. Such was the force that Thranduil flew backward, landed heavily against the rocky ground and was forced, immediately, to roll aside, barely a heartbeat before Maedhros' blade sliced the ground where he had lain, and sparks clawed at his cheek as the metal struck flint-bearing stone.
Thranduil rolled again to his back and thrust up with his sword, forcing Maedhros to give ground, or to become impaled upon the sharpness of his blade, and in the time afforded to him he shifted his weight back toward his shoulders a little, then pushing hard, flipped to his feet. He followed his own momentum, lunging at Maedhros, who on his back foot could do nothing by give more ground, remaining on the defensive as Thranduil swept his sword from one side to the other, forcing him still further back.
He should have expected a reversal of fortunes, for in the next moment Maedhros stepped up to meet his attacks, lashing out with his knee guard, kicking high. It was too late when Thranduil noticed the hidden blade, a short, narrow tongue of double edged steel, and he angled one of his swords down to try and parry the danger – too slow, and as he missed the steel slashed across his arm, slicing through the leather arm guard and cutting into the flesh beneath.
Thranduil shifted his hands on the hilts of his swords to angle the pommel so that he could deflect Maedhros' repeated attempt at injury. This time Maedhros tried to drive the blade into his side. Thranduil lashed out hard, pushing back and, circling his offhand blade around his head, attempted a rapid, downward strike, which Maedhros parried at first, but Thranduil swept his primary blade upward, disrupting the parry, and allowing the second stroke of his offhand sword to breach Maedhros' guard, to cut a bloody line across the other Elf's breast.
Maedhros' eyes flashed in anger, and roaring he lunged at Thranduil, sword leading, whirling as a dervish before the oncoming wall of rage that Maedhros had become. Thranduil ducked, then turning bent backwards, almost parallel to the ground to keep beneath the whirling blade. Just as he felt his back would give way under the strain, a break in the deadly rhythm allowed Thranduil a sidestep, bringing him inside Maedhros' reach, and he grabbed the Elf's outstretched arm, but his opponent was ready, as if he knew that was Thranduil's intent, and wrapped a leg around his ankle, pulling him backwards, to spill them both to the ground.
They hit hard, and Maedhros turned as they did, completing the roll to bring him up over Thranduil, driving all the air from Thranduil's lungs. Before he could recover, Maedhros, baying for savagery and murder, drove the barbed cross guard of his sword deep into Thranduil's shoulder, through the narrow gap between pauldron and breast plate.
Thranduil's answering cry echoed off the nearby hills and cliffs and in reflex he twisted beneath the older Elf, swallowing the added pain as the barbs tore his shoulder. Half blinded by the bite of the pain, he thrust upward with his open hand, catching Maedhros beneath his chin, pushing at his head, pushing back with all his strength until he could clasp the Elf's throat in trembling fingers...
Absently, Thranduil ran a hand over his shoulder. It was as if a madness had taken Maedhros, and madness indeed it was, for he had not known then, until far too late – as he knew now – that the elder son of Fëanor had in his possession one of the two Silmarils that had been stolen from Eönwë.
He let his gaze linger in the north western sky, uncertain of how he felt about returning to the place where – but for the grace of Eru – and the touch of fate... watch for the hand of the Valar... it might well have ended differently than it did and he may not have lived to ride east, at his father's side, away from the grand affairs of his High Elven kin, though it seemed that those affairs had followed him yet. Was there no peace to be had in any corner of Middle Earth?
The sky cleared as if upon his thought, and its silvering light kindle another memory, that he had believed long forgotten – the memory of a hooded figure, gentle in her countenance, moving among the needy and offering what comfort she might.
How many nights had he woken from Reverie in want of a touch from her hand?
** ** **
"I know there are many in further flung lands than these that will not like such a summons," Gil-Galad argued softly, turning to face the minor Sindarin Lord from among his counsellors. "What in the name of Iluvatar possessed him--?"
"He merely thought it wise – prudent and necessary, one might say, to—"
"To what? Alienate half the Elven lords and nobles this side of Rhun?"
"If you're referring to Lord Oropher—" the counsellor said, evidently trying to ignore his obvious sarcasm.
"I'm referring to half the Elven lords and nobles that did not answer the Summons," Gil-Galad countered, his temper beginning to fray, until a gentle wash of energy, almost as a cooling balm washed over the unravelling edges, and turning his head, he saw his sister appear in the doorway.
"Lady Celyndailiel," he greeted her formally, however, and she in turn lowered herself into a respectful curtsey, before he continued, "Tell this strutting peacock the extent of the harm this... this... missive will have wrought among the many Elven fiefdoms and kingdoms."
He held out his hand to her, and she slipped her fingers over the back of his hand, coming to his side, still without a word having passed her lips, and gave a nod of recognition to the counsellor as she came to a stop.
"If you are referring to Lord Oropher," the counsellor began again, all but ignoring Celyn's presence at Gil-Galad's side, "then—"
"Then I believe you will find that since our Sylvan kin have accepted his rule in Greenwood the Great, he is King Oropher now," Gil-Galad interrupted again, frowning slightly as Celyndailiel's fingers tightened, just slightly, upon his own.
"Celyn?" he asked softly, but she shook her head in denial of his query and instead addressed the counsellor.
"Whilst I understand why Lord Celeborn might have felt it necessary to call together the heads of all clans and kingdoms to ensure that whatever stewardship we might offer to Middle Earth, newly emerged from Shadow as it is," she took a breath, and raised a hand just as the counsellor opened his own lips to respond, to prevent his interruption, "I do believe an invitation to gather together in open discussion, perhaps coming from court here at Lindon, rather than a summons to a council at Harlindon might have been better received."
Then in a rare display, exercising her station she gestured toward Gil-Galad and continued, "But what is done, cannot easily be undone, and therefore I ask you, leave us. The King requested my presence, and I am anxious to attend his wishes."
She fixed the counsellor with a meaningful gaze, which she did not lower even when the counsellor looked toward the king for confirmation, not until he bowed, and started toward the door did she let her gaze slip. The counsellor swiftly closed the door behind him as he left.
"If I did not know better, Celyn, I would say that something is bothering you," Gil-Galad said.
She sighed.
"He would only have kept you talking round in circles for hours and nothing would get past his inability to see but right and good in all that Thingol's kinsman would have done. Pre empt this madness, Ereinion, send counter messages of your own and invite the lords and kings to attend a celebration in honour of the season and the settlement of our many Elven lands. It may not heal all insult that Celeborn will have given with his letters, but some ruffled feathers may be smoothed, even if your heralds meet the lords' parties travelling upon the road."
"Come with me Celyn," he craved, even knowing what her answer would be.
"You know I cannot," she said. "Not and maintain the illusion of a distance between us. Ereinion, I know that you will say you need my wisdom, but you have seen all that I have in this letter that Celeborn has sent. You have all the wisdom you need and you, not I, are ruler."
Gil-Galad sighed. He knew she was right, but the more time he spent in his sister's company, the more worried he became for her safety in this unfolding future. He had tried to see behind what it was that troubled him... and tried to sense what it was that disquieted her, but in either case had failed, short of asking outright of a suspicion he held.
He shook his head even as the words fell from his lips before he could stop them.
"It would not be the first time a king has attended such a meeting with a distant relative as his companion. What – or who is it you re trying to avoid, Celyn? Has some minor lord offended you or—"
"No," she answered quickly, and he narrowed his eyes, tipping his head, "No, it is not that. All that I have met since leaving the Nandor in the east and returning to your side have been more than courteous; generous and kind."
"Then what...?" He frowned, "Celyndailiel, what have you foreseen?"
She shook her head.
"Shadows in the dark," she said. "Nothing more... and too distant to make sense, like... clouds on the horizon, the slow moving herald of a storm. There is nothing tangible. I would tell you if there were."
"I could order you to attend at my side," he tried, though without much sincerity.
"You could," she agreed, "but you will not... and I will welcome you upon your return, whatever the outcome of this council, Ereinion; whatever the lords believe in the wake of the Valar's salvation of Middle Earth from the yoke we wore at Morgoth's behest – remember those clouds... counsel a watchful peace – please."
At her words, a shiver passed over his spine, and in a rare display of brotherly affection, he drew her into a gentle, but tight embrace.
"Tiriathan i beth lín, muinthel."
** ** **
At the head of the small patrol, Thranduil reigned in his stallion, and raised a hand to halt the warriors at his back. Smoothly and silently, like leaves arrested mid fall from autumn trees, their movement ceased, allowing their lord and prince to gather himself as they crested the low mountain, coastline and the settlement of Harlindon came into view.
It was not, however, toward Harlindon that he turned his gaze, but further northward, to where – even now – the seemingly perpetual, dark smudge of cloud could be seen above the rise of low hills, clouds that were painted almost indelibly upon his memory... memory that had haunted him these several days since his father first told him he must take his place at the council...
With his fingers tight around Maedhros' throat, he levered the other Elf off balance and Maedhros was forced to release his sword, to claw at Thranduil's wrist to free himself. Thranduil fought to hold him long enough that he could free the barbed cross piece of Maedhros' sword from his shoulder, before pushing it – and Maedhros, to the side.
Breathless himself, he rolled the other way, reaching for his one of his own fallen blades, fighting with his own weakness to gather his wits; to recover before Maedhros. Grasping his sword's hilt, Thranduil rolled and swung hard at his opponent, even as the other Elf began to climb to his feet.
The jarring clash of metal on metal as the Maedhros parried the blow, angling his sword diagonally across his back to deflect the strike, passed down Thranduil's injured arm, numbing it still more. It happened faster than Thranduil hoped were possible and added the fuel of frustration to the burning fire of his anger, and gathering the strength of that anger, he pushed hard as he fought to get his feet under him, and snarling wordlessly he launched the Fëanorian away across the field.
It afforded him only a brief respite, but enough to allow him the chance to climb to his feet and centre himself. He began circling Maedhros, as the other Elf moved to keep him in sight. It was a tense stand-off, and Thranduil knew it would not last. He shifted his blade to his un-injured left hand, and sidestepped round and around, waiting for the sign that would show him Maedhros was to attack, or retreat enough to encourage his own move against him.
The moment came and Maedhros charged toward him, his sword already moving to strike. Steel grated against steel high, low, then high again, first left then right, more quickly, as another burst of fury expanded within the crazed son of Fëanor.
"You and yours sought to deny me... deny us!" Maedhros spat between strikes.
His sword swung wildly and Thranduil jumped back, leaned away, then spun back full circle, to come on again, driving his sword toward the Maedhros' throat. Maedhros grinned mirthlessly, and raised the hilt of his sword to angle his own blade down, thrusting into the path of Thranduil's assay. The resulting collision sent a universe of sparks to spiral into the already waning day.
"An assault to the very heart of our birthright!"
Blood ran in rivulets from Thranduil's injured shoulder, the ache spreading with it, down over his chest, along his arm. At his wrist, blood pooled and then sprayed the air crimson with each move he made, yet undeterred, he came on once more, harrying his quarry with a series of quick, light thrusts, never serious enough for the need to be turned aside, yet licking ceaselessly at the Maedhros' defences, determined to break his resolve, and from the distance he thought he caught the frantic pounding of horses hooves.
"You laid waste to our honour!"
Maedhros concentration finally slipped, as the incoming riders drew closer, and as he mistimed his parry, Thranduil flicked the tip of his blade upward through the opening that remained, carving a slice upward on Maedhros' cheek, even as the cry of warning reached his ears.
Maedhros mingled pain, outrage and unhinged, mocking glee sang into the red misted evening, in laughter that made colder yet the words of the warning.
"Thranduil, gâr e i Silmaril... I Silmaril!"
As Maedhros' wild laughter faded, the red haired Elf leaped toward Thranduil again and Thranduil was forced to give ground, to angle his sword awkwardly to deflect Maedhros' furious assault, knowing that Gil-Galad, who had called the warning – and those he had no doubt brought with him – were not yet within range to assist.
"Weak!" Maedhros mocked, turning his blade to strike from above Thranduil's injured shoulder.
Thranduil met the attack and countered its descent toward him, circling his blade around the incoming, deadly slice. Maedhros steel slid inexorably toward his own sword's forté. Hilts clashed and locked together, and Thranduil rallied all his strength behind the effort to hold back the point of Maedhros' upwardly curving, barbed and sharpened quillion.
"You sully yourself," Maedhros accused, nodding toward the incoming party of Elves, "with your associations."
Thranduil pushed harder against the locked blades, his arms straining, increasing the flow of blood to run like rain down over the front of his armour and pepper the narrow strip ground between their feet with red, mercurial balls.
"You should have given them to us when you had the chance," Maedhros voice was sarcastic, suggestive, hungry, "Then you would still have your mother... the princess... the children."
Thranduil's answering roar redoubled his strength. He suddenly dipped his elbow beneath the locked hilts of the swords, pulling the vying blades across his own left shoulder. Drawing Maedhros closer, he drove his forehead into the other Elf's descending face, once and then again, until he heard the satisfying crunch of splintering bone.
Maedhros snarled and pulled back, blade hilts unlocked and Thranduil stood for barely a moment, breathless with the ferocity of his anger, before moving in again. Dark steel flashed in the gathering gloom, as wordless now, the fight resumed. No tense circling, no tentative, testing strikes, blades clashed, and spark-spittle flew to light the dismal evening.
To the left, blades hissed through treachery and deceit, to the right through honour and tradition, but between them, Thranduil knew, the ringing of steel on companion steel was nothing but the voice of death, singing out a desire for the taste of freedom at the hands of the victor. It was only a matter of time.
Maedhros' sword swung upward and across, Thranduil parried swinging his blade to deflect the strike off to his left, but Maedhros stepped in, and before Thranduil could fully realise the error he had made, the ram of the Fëanorian's leg collided with the back of his right knee, and it buckled forward. He stumbled and Maedhros reversed the direction of his sword-blade, and grasping the ricasso just below the hilt of the sword, and with a downward thrust, forced the point of his sword deep into Thranduil's shoulder from behind and twisted the blade.
The agony was blinding, and for too-long a moment Thranduil faltered... his buckled knee connected with the ground as the Maedhros drove him down.
On the threshold of defeat his thoughts turned to the journey his life had been: a ceaseless struggle through centuries of scheme and counter-scheme. Who could have foreseen where that tide would lead them? Few; tremendous few, enlightened minds pierced the veil and for their thoughts were tested, sanctioned... murdered by the very kin they sought to save.
"Maedhros," he gasped. "Why...?"
"Because we can."
The words were like a bell to him, ringing out the approach of the time all would lay down the grasp held on the strands of the future; pass their care into other hands than theirs.
Approaching... but not yet now...
His cry of denial was that of a wounded beast, a great eagle rising up on tattered wings. He grasped the hilt of his sword and swung it up one-handed, gathering momentum in the swing to bring the full force of it across Maedhros' arm, slicing into sinew and flesh, and glancing off bone as the other Elf pulled away, snarling in torment as he straighten, and stumbled back... away... and Thranduil felt the breathy kiss of flight feathers stir the air beside his cheeks – he – on his knees before the spectre of a once proud and noble line of Elves – disempowered, ineffectual... lost...
Arrows struck Maedhros... driving him back... away.
Even as Thranduil felt the raw, unfettered power of the sacred stone as Maedhros uncovered it – felt the shaking of the very Earth itself – the voice of Eönwë breeched the gathering magical power.
"None with Evil in their heart may know the touch of the Light of Valinor and live, Maedhros... surrender!"
Thranduil knew in his heart that Maedhros would not heed such a command – felt the hatred Maedhros and his kin bore the Valar – understood...
He leaned forward again, breathless with pain, and reached over to grasp the Maedhros' blade, heedless of the edge that sliced his palm as he grasped the metal, still warmed from the friction of their fight, and mustering what remained of his resolve, crying out the agony of it, he drew the sword out from its fleshy sheath.
"My Lord Thranduil," Thranduil blinked as the captain softly called to him. "The hour grows late."
"Yes," he agreed softly, "Later than we believe and yet... not late enough."
"My Lord?"
He shook his head, pulling himself out of his melancholy. It would not do to meet the others in such a mood.
"Pay me no mind," he said, "We must reach the citadel before nightfall."
Without waiting for the captain's answer he put heel to horse and urged the mount forward, leading the army once more, turning his face away from the distant, unpleasant memories, until they were no more substantial than the dark clouds.
Once on the move again, the horses and the Elven warriors on foot seemed to devour the ground between them and their destination, and sooner than he would have thought possible, the sound of the hooves beneath him changed from a dull thud against loamy ground to the ring of steel horse-shoes upon paved roadways, and the outlying buildings loomed nearer still, aesthetic in their sculpting, and yet somehow oddly placed, an incongruity upon the landscape.
They passed between the outbuildings heading to the heart of the citadel, heads turning to watch as if curiosity as to their origins, comparison between what was known, and unknown lingered just beneath the surface of their feelings. Thranduil tried not to feel uncomfortable in that – having grown accustomed to – even having embraced – some aspects of his Sylvan kin.
Whatever he might have been feeling was driven from his mind as he brought his horse to a halt amid the bustle of the inner courtyard, grooms and stewards rushing in upon the small retinue from Greenwood the Great, though it was not that which so disturbed his already discomforted thoughts, but the voice that teetered on the polite edge of derision in its mode of greeting.
"Oropherion Thranduil, Ernil o Eryn Galen, mae govannen," Celeborn said, coming across the courtyard as Thranduil dismounted. The Elven lord pressed his right hand to his heart and dipped a shallow bow, before finishing, "We are honoured that your esteemed father entrusts us with so worthy an ambassador for his court."
Thranduil did not smile. As he pulled off his riding gloves, he regarded his kinsman with icy resolve.
"Galadhonion Celeborn, Ernil o Doriath, hîr o Harlindon nu Lindon," he said, his tone cool, reserved... almost dismissive, and certainly with a bite of disapproval, in naming Celeborn's position as being under Lindon, and thereby under Gil-Galad's rule. He offered no bow, and handed his gloves to the steward hovering at his side as he finished, "My thanks."
Celeborn tipped his head, a flash of mild irritation passing across his eyes which Thranduil watched him carefully school away.
"Come now, Thranduil," Celeborn coaxed, far more personal now than the formal greeting had been, "We were of a mind once, you and I. Can we not, again, see eye to eye?"
If his comment had been meant to soothe Thranduil's rapidly unravelling temper, the words had the opposite effect as he remembered the meeting in which his counsel had matched with his Sindarin kinsman.
"Prince Celeborn is right," he said, "We must first stand – united – against this most immediate threat, and only in defence, for so too my father speaks the truth, and we must stand ready to face the threat of Morgoth. We in the Haven of Sirion stand as the last bastion of safety against his hordes, and whether we have the strength to hold or not, war is coming. We must face it and remain free, even unto death, or fall to the poison of the Great Enemy's ceaseless malice that was cast upon the world ere it was yet realised in the music that has grown faint to our ears."
He took a step closer to Celeborn, lowering his voice so only he, and not the stewards and grooms still milling about them, might hear.
"My words held accord with you only because I knew what avarice and folly threatened us, "he growled softly, "because I understand. I owe my loyalty to my father, and my fealty to our High King, anything that may appear otherwise is mere coincidence and of no import."
He twisted his shoulder so that it narrowly missed the other Elf as he then strode on. He did not get many more than a few steps further when from out of the bustle of activity a familiar figure all but tackled him into a tight hug of greeting.
"Thanduil!"
"Amroth!" He returned the hug, and then as if worried he was forgetting himself in his relief at such a friendly greeting he began to pull back and added, "My Pr—"
"Don't you dare finish that honourific, Thranduil," Amroth reproached him, "Or are you forgetting that you too are now a Prince?"
He chuckled mirthlessly, and drawing back to look at his friend asked wryly, "How could I forget?"
He glanced briefly toward the now retreating figure of the Lord of Harlindon, and then shook his head.
"Ah, pay him no mind," Amroth said, "What did he want anyway?"
"To secure my support, I believe," Thranduil mused, "Or to at least turn me from supporting Gil-Galad."
"Oh, well easy done then," Amroth said, his voice at first teasing and then deadly serious as he added, "For you will support none but the wisest course for our future, whether that be by your father's will, by Gil-Galad's or none but your own." He chuckled then, and clapping Thranduil on the shoulder, said, "Come, speaking of Ereinion, he too is anxious to welcome you, as is Elrond."
"Elrond?" Thranduil blinked at Amroth in surprise, "I had not expected he would be here."
"He is here," Amroth said softly, "And you will hardly recognise him, Thranduil. Considered... learnéd... wise..." He shook his head, "Say what you will of Maglor, but the twins did not entirely suffer under his fosterage."
"He is of age now," Thranduil said as they walked toward one of the buildings that surrounded the inner court.
"And so like unto his mother, and his father – the best of the both of them," Amroth said.
"Hiro hon hidh..." Thranduil whispered, missing the gentle counsel that had been Elwing's, and he could not help but think this farce of a council would not be happening were she still a part of Middle Earth.
"Do not yet grieve for them, my friend," Amoth said and opened the door for him, ushering him within. "For they more than live on in their son."
"You took your time," Gil-Galad said as he enfolded Thranduil in the warmth of his welcome. "I was beginning to fear that we would have to begin without you."
Thranduil shook his head, "Surely you jest. Once my father knew of this..."
Gil-Galad chuckled, and glanced behind him, before releasing Thranduil and half turning to say, "You remember Elrond."
Amroth had told him that he would not recognise Elrond, but standing there, in that instant, it seemed to Thranduil that he knew the younger Elf far better than any he had ever met... and will continue through the ages to do so... the thought surprised him, but not so much as when Elrond stepped forward.
"Excepting one, my Lord Thanduil," he said quietly as though Thranduil had voiced his thought aloud, and his voice was deep, and rich, and full of the wisdom of earth, and the soft peace of air. He had matured to an agelessness, and yet his face, and his eyes – like a grey clear evening sky lighted by stars – carried the echo, as if in the ripples of a tide, of that which Thranduil had heard in his voice.
"Prince Elrond," he greeted the young heir to the line of Thingol, and gave him a respectful bow, but Elrond lightly touched his shoulder.
"No, Lord Thranduil," he said, "For I left behind that title, and the responsibilities it bears, in my youth. My fate lies in another direction from that expected at my birth – as always has yours."
** ** **
The footsteps were faint, and many others would have missed their coming, but Celyndailiel heard them and looked up from her embroidery, and her heart skipped, as a flat stone cast upon water, bouncing in her chest to leave her breathless and fighting for calm. She looked down to set her needlework aside. She had time yet, before her brother's guest would be upon her – an Elf that she had not seen for almost half a century, but knew she would never forget...
What should have been a ride for pleasure had been seized by shadow and dragged toward fear as the herald had come, bearing tidings, and Eönwë's was upon a path of wrath for the Silmarils were gone, taken by the remaining Fëanorians, and when last they were seen, Maedhros at least was heading for the north-eastern foothills, where her brother's friend had gone searching for stragglers among the servants of Shadow to put them out of their misery.
There was not time, nor manpower to see her safely back to the settlement. Ereinion had simply grasped her horse by the bridle, and brought her with him and the guard. So it was she came to witness the anger and hate held within each moment of that deadly dance the warriors wrought.
Arrows struck the red haired Elf... driving him back... away from the other, impaled and on his knees, whose back was toward them, then the Fëanorian reached with a bloodied hand into a pouch, took out a shining stone that pulsed with the raw, unfettered power of the sacred Light of Valinor as Maedhros uncovered it. The horse whinnied and danced nervously beneath her as the Earth itself shook... opening a fissure as the uncontrolled magical energies of the Silmaril were released.
"None with Evil in their heart may know the touch of the Light of Valinor and live, Maedhros... surrender!" Eönwë said.
The injured elf leaned forward again, and Celyndailiel could all but feel his breathlessness and pain. She moved as though to dismount, in spite of the danger, but Ereinion reached over and caught her arm, preventing her from getting off her horse... and she had to watch, helpless – her eyes filling with tears as he grasped the blade of the sword on which he was impaled, and with a cry that shattered her resolve, drew it from his shoulder.
Defying her brother, she tore herself from his grasp and dropped from the horse's back, gathering her skirts to all but fly across the space between them – feeling the waves of energy from the stone in Maedhros' fist around her almost pushing her back, but ignoring the danger, even of that, she all but fell to her knees in front of the stricken Elf, and caught him just as he would have toppled forward into the dirt. Her already aching heart reeled in recognition.
*-*
The voice was deep and rich, and though gentle, she had the thought that it would have carried, had such been his intent. She blinked up at him, taken aback by the strength and beauty mingled in his face; the light that shone in his eyes, as if the reflection of the icy firmament was somehow alive in him, surrounding him, carried in the starlit strands of his white-blond hair.
"My Lord," she called after him, softly, "Your cloak..."
He raised his free hand, the one that he did not guide the reins of his horse, as if the gesture were a shake of his head.
'Keep it.'
She felt the whisper of his words within her mind as he moved further along the track, and she heard the gentle murmur of them also, carried on the light breeze, then as if an afterthought three more words reached her mind and her ears, and though the words were simple and practical, the weight of them seemed so much more.
'...for the boy...'
*-*
One handed she tugged at her riding veil and pulled it from her hair, balling it up to press it to the wound, the pain of the pressure roused the Elf whose consciousness was fading. She hushed and soothed him with the softness of her voice, and the warmth of her inherent light.
"Nach beriad," she told him, "Le u-lavathan danno."
"Fall...? You will all of you fall, for I bring down the curse of my father upon you!"
As Maedhros spoke another pulse of energy burst from the Silmaril in his hand and he cried out as the power of the stone began to sear the flesh from his bones. Still in his agony he clung to the jewel, and still holding the Elf – who was trembling now – against her, Celyndailiel turned her head and her eyes found Eönwë's as she implored, "Help him!"
"He is beyond help, my Lady," the Maia answered. "Even mine."
She held his eyes for a moment, then shook her head.
"Damn you," she murmured, and with her free hand shifted her skirts around her as if to rise, jumping as a cold hand, slick with blood closed around her wrist.
"No," The Elf she still supported rasped softly in warning, "You cannot..."
"He has suffered enough," she said, her voice deep, speaking with the true-sight of her mother, then to Maedhros repeated, "You have suffered enough, all your life long by way of this affliction, this curse wrought against necessity – words spoken in heat and given life in anger. That is not the way... that is not our way."
"You should listen to them, Lady," Maedhros said, but his voice had softened, as if some part of her words, or her presence had somehow touched him. "I am beyond your aid, beyond all aid."
"You only needs must set down the stone," she told him, the tone of a mother speaking to a beloved child. "It is that which binds you in the dark..."
"I... I cannot, I..." Maedhros faltered, and behind her, Celyndailiel heard the hiss of steel being drawn, tried to cry out in warning, though to whom she was never afterward certain, before Maedhros' softening expression hardened once more, and turning, she saw her brother and his guards with bared steel advancing upon the suffering Fëanorian. At this, Maedhros roared, "I will not!"
Eönwë's voice cracked like a whip to halt the advancing warriors.
"No! He will not be slain – he must not be," and for a moment Celyndailiel believed that he had granted her silent plea for clemency for the Elf, until the Maia continued, "For soon enough, he and his brother, both, shall see the error of their ways."
"Dihenad!" she cried as she realised there would be no aid forthcoming for Maedhros.
No one– save perhaps Mandos himself – would ever afterward know if it were that last, genuine sympathy, not pity, that was in her cry, that moved him, but with a wordless, echoing cry, Maedhros spun away, and moved with purpose toward the rift that had opened in the earth at the first burst of the Silmaril's unfettered power.
She felt the Elf's trembling arms circle about her, and even against his own grievous hurt, he drew her head down to shield her face against his uninjured shoulder, as Maedhros cast himself into the fiery chasm.
"Truly you are as the instrument of Iluvatar himself," he whispered as he held her.
"I think I have seen you here before?"
She looked up, startled at the apparently sudden appearance of the figure in front of her that jolted her out of the memory, for he had moved so quickly across the garden. As she remembered, he was tall, even for an Elf - Sindar, from the look of him, as she had been warned. This truly was the Oropher's son that she remembered, now the prince of the Woodland Realm that his father had established east of the Great River after the ending of the War of Wrath... but... how much did he remember.
"My Lord, Prince," she greeted him and dipped a low, graceful curtsy, but found he caught her hand softly to raise her to her full height once more.
"No need," he answered softly, and her eyes met his, their ice-blue lights shining, dazzling in her sight.
She felt herself blush, but would not give in to it, instead she said softly, "Would you care to walk, my Lord? The gardens here are very beautiful."
"I should like that," he agreed quietly, and shifted to offer her his arm. As she began to lead him further into the gardens, he said, "You have the advantage, my lady."
She swallowed, wishing she could have introduced herself to him more properly than to simply give him her chosen name alone.
"I am called Celyndailiel, my Lord Thranduil," she said softly.
"Thranduil," he corrected her lightly, and repeating himself said, "I need no honorifics here."
"Be iest lín." She turned her head to give him a gentle smile. "I am glad that you have returned with—" she caught herself in time, "—the King, I think that he has missed your counsel. Forgive me, I should not speak of such things as are the king's affairs."
"You may speak," he told her chuckling, "I do not think Gil-Galad would be offended to know that a lady such as you takes an interest in his affairs."
Celyndailiel blushed, and for the second time felt the chasing skip of her heart as she considered the Elf at her side, and worried, with growing dread that his heart may already have been claimed – and though she was uncertain that she did not feel or see the touch of another soul upon his light... she was not certain. Yet of herself she suddenly felt compelled to speak.
"You mistake me, my Lord Thranduil," she said, and telling only half the truth, the greater part of what she told him, a lie, said, "Though I am but distant kindred to the King it remains... too close an association for such an interest as you imply."
"Forgive me," he said at once, "I meant no offense."
"And I have taken none," she told him, shifting her hold upon his arm so that it became less courtly and more personal, slipping her hand between his arm and his side, and clasping both of her hands lightly at the crook of his elbow. "And you, my Lord, if I may be allowed to pry. Does some attendant heart await your return to Eryn Galen, or elsewhere, perhaps?"
She could not believe she had been so bold as to ask as forthright as she did.
"Do not fear, it is not prying, melhîril. There is..." he trailed off, and Celyndailiel's heart sank, until he said, "...but no..."
He turned his eyes her way, their clear, icy blue piercing to the very heart of her, shortening her breath even as she said, "You doubt she would return your regard?"
Holding her eyes as they walked, their pace slowing, he said, "There was a maiden that I met once... deep in Taur im Duinath... as we made our way eastward to this very haven. I gave into her care a foundling, and her gentle strength..." he trailed off, shaking his head but barely, still keeping her eyes captive with his, an almost coy or playful spark within, as he brought them to a halt and turned to face her. "...I gave her my cloak, to warm the little one."
Celyndailiel's blush strengthened, and she barely whispered, "And when he had no more need of it..." she took a deep breath and confessed, "I believe the Lady still has the cloak you gave her.... Thranduil..."
He took her hands in his, and held them tenderly, tucked between them both, as he answered her.
"...Celyndailiel..."
------------------------------------
Hanaren – my brother
Nethen – my sister
Adar – father
Tiriathan i beth lín, muinthel – I will heed your words, sister.
Ernil o Eryn Galen – Prince of Greenwood the Great
mae govannen – well met
Ernil o Doriath – prince of Doriath
hîr o Harlindon nu Lindon – lord of Harlindon under Lindon
Hiro hon hidh – may they find peace [lit: find they peace]
Nach beriad – you are safe [lit: You are protected]
Le u-lavathan danno – I will not let you fall. [lit: You I will not allow to fall]
Dihenad! – Mercy! [Lit: Forgiveness]
Be iest lín – as you wish
Melhîril– dear lady