A/N - WARNING - Some parts of this chapter may be triggering for some people.
Second Age of Middle Earth – 1575
Anatho nín, iest nín an le, sen dû min buig.
Celyndailiel missed the ocean, and the ocean breeze.
Even the moist wind blowing across the hills from rivers did nothing to satisfy her craving, and a deep sense of homesickness gripped her. She shifted the reins in her hand, and sighed as the mount danced beneath her as though he could feel her restlessness.
She looked over to where her companion rode, then looking skyward for a moment called over to her.
"Celebrían," she said, "The hour is growing late. We should return before we stray too far from Ost-in-Edhil."
Celebrían reined in, her fair face creased into an expression of disappointment.
"But Celyn—"
"No buts," she said, and shook her head, "I promised Celebrimbor I would watch out for you if he allowed us to ride out of the city and I do not intend to fail in that responsibility."
"I'm not a child," Celebrían insisted, and Celyndailiel could not help but feel sympathy for the younger Elf, certain that she felt just as confined as she did within the Elven stronghold where the traders and artisans worked tirelessly, and two young Elf maidens sent under the auspices of learning from a Master remained at the mercy of their own ability to occupy their own curiosities.
"I know you are not," Celyndailiel said, "but you are subject to Celebrimbor's word, as am I to his and to the King's, and to both I have pledged that I will let no harm come to you. They'd have my head Celebrían, not to mention your mother and father would—"
"What if we were to pay a visit to King Durin, and sent word from Moria that we were safe and—"
"No."
"But we are not so far from the Redhorn Pass now, and the Gates of Moria stand—"
Celyndailiel reached across to catch hold of Celebrían's hand, a smile upon her face, knowing that her friend merely gave sport in an effort to delay their inevitable return. The moment her fingertips met Celebrían's skin, the present faded and a distant thunder rumbled, and in the sudden and cold dread of fear that had come from nowhere and taken up purpose in her heart she heard voices.
Hateful and harsh, in the corrupt speech of the Morgoth's servants the ancient fears rekindle in her again at simply hearing it spoken, but the words... "Take what you want then... and be quick about it. Where there's one, there's more."
...and the emotions, and the feeling, as if of a run of blood, all proved too much – too real.
"There's no more coming – and there's plenty here for everyone. You—"
The touch of a cold talon at her ankle startled Celyndailiel, and with a cry she pulled away from Celebrían, and pulled so suddenly and so hard on her mount's rein that the animal shied, reared, and as unbalanced as she already was, Celyndailiel tumbled suddenly backwards, slipping from the horse to land winded again a bolder in the rocky hillside. The horse, startled, bolted away.
For long moments she sat dazed, fighting for breath, fighting for the present and not whenever it was she had seen; to shake the impressions which, even now, were settling into her memory as if they had already and always been.
"Take what you want then..."
Fear and anger bubbled together, akin to the elements in Celebrimbor's laboratory and she could not contain them – would not, not if she could change what she had seen. She pushed herself to her feet, hurried to her friend's side and without warning, reached up to pull her down, almost shaking her the moment her feet touched the ground.
"You are never to go to Moria," she said, and she pierced her friend's startled expression with the focus of her ocean-blue eyes. Then shaking her again, pressing her against the horse from which she had all but dragged her and added, "And promise me you will never travel alone through the Redhorn Pass—"
"Celyn..."
"Never! Do you hear me? Swear it."
"You're hurting me."
"Swear!"
"Celyndailiel, let her go!"
Celebrimbor's voice came from behind and above the both of them, still mounted as he was, and she turned, releasing the grasp of one hand from Celebrían as she did, and felt the other Elf pull away from her single handed grasp.
"I will not ask you the meaning of this," he said, and Celyndailiel looked down as his shadow fell across her, before looking over to where Celebrían had retreated. "Only trust you to sort whatever differences you may have between you in a matter more seemly for ladies of your station."
"Forgive me, my Lord," she said, still looking at her friend, to whom she added, "Celi, please... I only worried. I saw—"
Before she could go on, Celebrimbor interrupted.
"You are overdue, both of you, and it is some way yet back to Ost-in-Edhil." He began to turn his mount, and nodded to Celebrían to climb back onto her horse. "Make your peace later. Celyndailiel, you are with me."
She expected a lecture, especially as, after drawing her up in front of him, he set a slower pace than the care-free lope at which Celebrían rode. The words, when they came, were soft and spoken with sympathy.
"If what you saw was a measure of her fate, you cannot speak of it... not to Celebrían, perhaps not to anyone." He shook his head as if he could guess her objection before she even tried to make it.
"But if we see a fell fate and leave those we love to walk blindly to it—"
"Who is to say that in speaking of it, you will not bring it the faster, or more certain," he said.
"I won't accept that," she said, "I can't. All my life I have been... plagued by insight and have stayed silent, and still those things that were sent as warnings to me assailed those I care for. If I can do nothing why do I see?"
He chuckled then. "A true riddle, Celyndailiel. You remind me of Elrond."
"You could compare me to an Elf of lesser renown," she said. "I am honored."
"Don't be," he said curtly. "Between he and the King they bring nothing but added troubles to my door – and added complications, and my work is complex enough as it is."
Celyndailiel tried, and failed, to suppress a shiver that passed through her at his words, at the mention of his work. He noticed and sighed. Many times of late she had voiced her objections, her warnings about becoming more involved in the alchemy Annatar proposed in order to make the jewels he was crafting stronger, more enduring; the rings more effective and with greater power; was guided by the other Elf.
"I only... worry, my lord," she said, "the sense of him... his intent... What do you know of these things?"
"I know that under his guidance, we can craft as our ancestors did, Celyndailiel."
She turned her head to look at him, and arch expression on her face, her mind filled with thoughts of her Féanorian ancestors, and he gave her a soft smile.
"I am careful, I promise you," he said, "My memory is not quite so short as you seem to think."
** ** **
"Garo i hâd!"
Thranduil stood, poised beside the warriors at his command. Outnumbered at least three to one, his company faced the swarming nest of Orcs they had uncovered – disturbed as they would have bedded in at the western edge of Greenwood – caught in the process of defiling the living wood; tearing down trees. Now they stood a disciplined force, coiled and ready as the rabble made their charge, heavy, primitive weapons leading, sneering and growling as they came.
"Garo...!" he repeated, drawing himself up and shifting his grasp slightly on the hilt of his blades, he let out a slow, calming breath, counting heartbeats as the rush of snarling madness closed in.
He sensed fear – not his own, for he had little care for his own fate – but from within the ranks of his company, some as yet warriors untried in true combat; young enough to have not seen war.
"Garo...!" he repeated a third time, trying to instill a tone of confidence in his voice that would lift the warriors of the company. There was no more time to do more, or give more than the counter order as the first or the Orcs came within reach.
"Maetho!"
As if coming to life after a dream, he moved with deadly grace. He struck with his swords, once held still in dangerous potential. They struck, one up, the second down, their actions a mirror of each other and an orc, near cloven in two in the ferocity of his attack, fell before him.
The tide of Orcs flowed like stinking water around him, but it mattered not to him that they surrounded him. He would prevail... or he would fall. Those were the only options.
Instinct turned him. His sword flashed again in the moonlight and another Orc fell amid a spray of black blood, while his off-hand he angled up and back, diagonally across his own shoulders – an expert parry against the descent of a thick blade of Orcish iron aimed for his back. He turned again, spinning beneath his own sword, still locked with the heavier Orc blade and punched forward. The tip of his primary weapon found the weak point in the crude armor the Orc wore, and he drove the fine, Elvish steel through his would-be assassin, before pushing with both arms to send the dying Orc stumbling into the still fighting ranks of its nest-mates. He watched for barely a moment before he whirled away, striding once more into the chaos of the battle.
He was order within that chaos. He reached deeply within and centered himself within the heartbeat of Woodland, and with the whole of himself, fought in its defense. Where there was Shadow, so he struck; where the filth of a corrupted soul despoiled the Land, so he cut away the lingering blight, and around him, Orcs fell. Those that did not began to seek a way to retreat, regroup; to come at him now in twos and threes.
He did not falter; simply reached deeper within the Land, connected with greater focus to the spirit of the world.
In his mind an urgent cry burst upon him, as if from a tiny voice, and far away; sent up a plea for escape and aid.
It was for a moment only, but it filled him with a deep seated fear and he mis-stepped, his foot turned on the uneven, corpse littered ground, and rather than wheel to regain his balance, he dropped one knee beneath him, angling both blades up to catch the strikes of Orcs who – thinking their fortunes had changed – all attacked as though they thought him vulnerable.
On one knee he turned, swords wheeling – striking out in a deadly spiral as he began to rise, freeing his attention as he did, from the lingering voice and accompanying fear that was suddenly a part of him; a plea for ease, for release.
** ** **
In spite of the chill in the night air, Celyndailiel had insisted her maids leave the balcony doors ajar. She could not stand to be caged, and sat gazing at the rippling of the drapes as her ladies brushed out her hair until it shone like spun mithril in the lantern light.
Slow, measured footsteps came to a halt, prompting a brief outburst of nervous mewling, before the deep voice, filled with quiet disharmony, ordered, "Leave us."
Celyndailiel all but leaped to her feet at the scurrying of her maids, and turned in near outrage to face the figure still lingering in the doorway.
"How dare you presume—" she began, taking a few, outraged steps toward him.
"My presumption holds no daring," Annatar said, peeling away from the doorway to stalk toward Celyndailiel, his tone and his manner murdering her outrage where she came to a sudden, startled halt. "Lady Celyndailiel, why do you persist...?"
He reached out toward her then, being within reach, and she cringed inwardly, though found she could not move, as he allowed the fine strands of her hair to run through his fingers.
"...continue to resist," he continued, dipping his hand to find hers, to raise her fingers in his, running the tips of his along the slender length of her fingers, "when you are possessed of a heart free, no ties that bind, no bonds of soul nor light..."
Warring warm attraction and chilled disgust spiraled around her, leaving her mind sickened and reeling with confusion, but deeper within, at a level more primal, a visceral sense of being, her soul cried out, pleading for a way to escape, beseeching for aid – reaching for a single fëa...
"You have," she began breathlessly, then snatched a breath and began again, "You have neither right nor invitation to be here!"
She pulled against the hold of his hand on hers, unable, at first, to free herself. The more she fought to free herself, the more tightly she became entangled, until at last she raised her other hand to push at his chest. As she did, he released her, and off balance – in order to avoid stumbling – she caught herself on the lapel of his outer robe.
"You see, Artanisnya," he murmured, stepping closer even as she backed away, following her and cupping his hands beneath her elbows, "You need me..."
"I despise you!" she spat.
"Even so," he breathed, leaning toward her, and the raw, untamed energies of him covered her, whirled around her leaving her breathless, dizzy; a yearning beginning deep in the seat of her being, "you will welcome me to cover you; open your fëa, that has been so cruelly betrayed... to me."
She snatched breath after breath, trying with eveyr part of her being to close herself to his essence, but she had never felt such energies in an Elf before, not even among the Elders of her kind... even Maedros and the unfettered power of the Silmaril had not been so. Nothing she could do allowed her to deny the dominating press of his will, and the answering betrayal of her body.
...And willingly...
Her eyes flew open – before she even realized they had closed – and for the briefest of moments, seeing beyond the physical it seemed to her that all the winds of the word blew around Annatar, blurring reality and ringing him with fire – dark fire – terrible as the fiercest storm. Armies marched, and died upon a blood soaked field, and she saw herself thrown weeping over the figure of an Elf she could not see, but knew she loved.
Then, abruptly it was gone – all gone. The energies she had felt were gone, the threat, and he was just Annatar, the Elven stranger, standing far too close, holding her entirely too familiarly, his mouth barely a breath from hers, breathing her breath.
"Never will I reach for you!" she hissed, and pushed at him again, and this time he released her. She stumbled, reaching out to catch herself on the post of her bed – realizing only then just how close they had been to it. "Celebrimbor—"
"Will hear nothing of this," he said, cutting her off. "You will speak of it to no one."
** ** **
Thranduil tossed his bloodstained cloak to the young steward that was running to keep up with him as he strode across the courtyard toward the inner confines of the fortress in the foothills of Emyn Duir. He ached, with many cuts and bruises from the recent battles that were drawing ever nearer and nearer to the refuge of his people, and fouler things than just Orcs and Goblins had begun to cross the paths of his Company.
But these Orcs, among all the others, he felt they had a plan, read almost taunt in their actions as they had attacked, as if some fell power were guiding their hands, or at the very least commanding their purpose. Yet at the same time there was little organization. They were scattered, their attacks random... as if designed to confuse.
Guards moved to open the double doors into his father's council hall, and he did not even have to break stride as he moved within, the words of a senior captain reaching him as he did.
"...down the Forest River, My Lord, which would suggest their origins from Ered Mithrin, or even the iron hills." The captain said, "I would advise we trace these foul beasts back to their source and—"
"That would be a mistake," Thranduil said without preamble, cutting off the rest of the captain's words.
His father raised his head to look on him, and frowned deeply, gesturing to serving staff at the side of the hall, who rushed toward Thranduil bearing bowls of warmed water that steamed in the relative cool of the stone surroundings.
"These Orcs," Thranduil said. "They do not act alone, and I fear their presence and their actions mask either a greater plan, or more insidious actions elsewhere."
"A distraction?" he father translated, and Thranduil did not miss the note of disbelief in Oropher's voice.
"To all intents and purposes, yes," Thranduil said as he washed his hands and cleansed his face as best he could, patting his sore, scratched cheek dry on a cloth that was instantly replace by a second, softer towel as he repeated the action. He would have to remove his armor and bathe completely to rid himself of the lingering blood – both that of the Orcs, and his own – but that would wait.
He dismissed the servant from his side and strode over to the map over which his father leaned, of Greenwood and Rhovanion, and Esgaroth, and beyond the lands of Rhûn to the East. His fingers as he came closer, settled and lingered near the Sea of Rhûn, and he refused to allow his eyes to move westerly enough to take in Lindon... love and duty still at war within him. He took a breath and forced himself to focus.
"Just today, my Company and I have faced a dozen or so separate encounters with their foul nests, and yet the largest of them, and most fiercely fought we met here, right in the heart of Greenwood, keeping our attention firmly fixed upon our own lands."
"As it should be," snapped his father.
"Agreed," Thranduil said, though in that moment his eyes flicked west toward Lindon, and he was not as sure that he was convinced for his belief in that. "However does it not beg the question: what are they trying to hide?"
"Perhaps this will give you the news from other lands that you crave," his father said, somewhat testily, and slid a sealed missive across the top of the map and into Thranduil's hand. For a moment he held his breath, trying not to hope too much that the message hailed from Lindon, even from Gil-galad, would help to make him feel... more connected; less like an Elf in exile.
"It is from your betrothed," his father announced, and as if he felt that Thranduil had forgotten, added, "Queen of Cuivienen."
"I see that," he snapped, and reaching for the seal, broke it with his thumbnail, scanning his eyes over the hurriedly written Tengwar as he opened the letter.
My dearest Thranduil,
If you are receiving this letter, then all is not well for us here in the East, and I would wager, little better for the western lands of Middle Earth in our wake. I had hoped that whatever unrest it was my people faced would long since have passed and you and I would, by now, be united. This wish I expressed when last I wrote, but day by day, and year upon year, matters have grown ever more restless, and I begin to despair that we might never see one another again.
And now, I must prevail upon you to carry out an urgent warning and become my emissary before your Lord Father, and your High King, which I know will not please Oropher, for you to travel west again, but I must insist, not only as the one to whom you are pledged, but as your Queen and ally.
I fear Cuivienen may not entirely stem the tide that seems to be gathering, to what purpose I know not. They hunt our woodlands, these men – Easterlings, and Haradians come up from the south, as well as the Corrupted, and other fell creatures. I send my loyal servants to discover their intent for they seem to gather, and hunt as though to supply a long journey, but do not yet advance westward as you and your father had suggested they would.
It is in my heart to think that they will strike first at Cuivienen and destroy us utterly. If Cuivienen falls, only Greenwood will stand between this host and the West, and until I can discover its purpose – and discover it I will, my beloved lord, I promise you – we must assume, do you not think, that their sight is set upon the strength of Elvendom upon Middle Earth, which lies ever westward, and more civilized than we who stand more dangerous and less wise than our High Kin – yet you, my lord embrace that which is best among the both, by some divine grace, and it is that grace on which I needs must draw.
Warn them, Thranduil. War is coming, and as soon as I can tell its nature, I will speak of it only with you, for my trust is in you, and in that you are well.
I remain your faithful Queen
Válinsillúle
He looked up from the letter, his jaw tight, knowing that his father would be waiting on his word. Knowing, too, that Válinsillúle was correct in that his father would not be pleased, nor yet eager to send him westward again.
"She warns of an army gathering on the plains of Rhûn, against which our allies must be warned, my lord," he said.
"Allies, Thranduil?" Oropher raised an eyebrow. "In other words she would have me send you back to the very jaws of ruin from which I dragged you these several centuries past? No. Out of the question!"
"I adar lín, u-gerich cilad," he snapped, then tossing the letter so that it skittered across the table toward his father, he quoted, "...I must insist, not only as the one to whom you are pledged, but as your Queen and ally."
Oropher snatched up the letter, scanning the text rapidly, his expression darkening with each word he read.
"I would also suggest we sent the same warning to Amdir in Lorien," Thranduil said, serious even as he felt a small measure of perverse triumph at his father's inevitable defeat. "They too stand in the path of danger, should this expected storm break."
** ** **
Wisely, so his father told Thranduil, King Amdir refused to allow any ingress into the woodlands of Lorien, not even other Elves; those ever before considered friends. Messengers returned instead demanding that the meeting be set upon the banks of the Silverlode within the shadow of the Misty Mountains. It seemed a plan entirely unwise to Thranduil, as he sat atop his horse watching as the shadow of clouds shifted across high hillsides entirely too busy to give him ease.
"I like not the feel of this," he said quietly, shifting in the saddle as he addressed Galion, who rode at his side to the meeting, and who now awaited their companions, should they come, representatives from Lorien, and from the High King in the West. At their back a small company of Greenwood's Guard stood in readiness. Still, save for the fluttering of their russet cloaks in the breeze.
Galion shook his head in apparent agreement, both watching the pass over which any representative from Lindon might come.
"There!" Thranduil pointed high into the hillside, where a shadow moved against the motion of the scudding cloud above. "Movement."
"An ambush," Galion said, "And from the Western side of the pass, they would be much better hidden. The party from Lindon..."
"Would not stand a chance," Thranduil finished darkly. He turned in the saddle to quickly scan the nearest edge of Lorien, before raising a hand to call his second forward.
"Quietly - divide your company," he ordered, "Have half of them prepare to take the hill, the others as archers... we will flush them out like pheasants at a hunt!"
"Yes, my Lord," the company commander said, and returning to the ranks began to move among them, murmuring softly.
"You're going up there, aren't you?" Galion asked suddenly.
He arched an eyebrow as he turned to Galion, then frowned as he saw real fear in the eyes of his ever faithful steward, realizing, perhaps for the first time, the depth of the connection the other Elf felt with him, not simply as Lord and subject, but as a friend, and not for the first time did Thranduil realize how few of those he truly had.
He reached over and lay his hand onto Galion's lightly armored forearm.
"Galion, if I am to be a leader to our people, and to succeed my father as their king, I cannot expect that they would endanger themselves where I would not. I cannot ask of them anything that I am not prepared, myself, to give."
"I..." Galion faltered, "I know my lor—"
"Thranduil."
"I know, Thranduil," Galion began again, tears rimming his golden eyes, "but my fear for you mounts with each day – with each battle into which you throw yourself. This union with Cuivienen, this alliance, it has taken the very heart of you and molded it into a bitter recklessness that I fear will be your undoing. You cannot lead our people, nor succeed your lord father as king if you are dead."
Thranduil closed his eyes and sighed, a knot in his throat that prevented an answer for a long moment, before he tightened his grasp on Galion's arm, and speaking softly said, "Ride with me then. Fight at my side, and I promise you we will prevail... now and for long years to come."
"Maethathan uireb na forvo lín, ernil o cuilen," Galion whispered, and with a breath straightened in the saddle.
"Meldiren," Thranduil breathed.
Behind them, the portion of the company that would fight with them had assembled at their backs, the archers subtly shifted off to one side, and with a final nod to Galion, Thranduil straightened and flicking his rein, set his horse into a slow, forward motion, sensing that behind him, the Warriors of Greenwood, moving as one, had readied their blades, and were pressing forward. In half the distance, the sigh of arrows drawn and set to bowstrings reached Thranduil's ears. He did not need to turn and see to know that the Warriors that remained downhill of them had to the last drawn and already aimed their weapons.
He left it as late as he dared, before he let out a single command.
"Leithio!"
The air was filled with the song of arrows in flight, which soared over the heads of the advancing Elves and up into the concealing shadows. Out of the patches of dark came cries, and at the second volley of arrows, like ants from a disturbed anthill, snarling Orcs.
Without pause, Thranduil spurred his horse into the forward, suddenly swirling chaos, feeling Galion at his side. He narrowed his focus, his blades becoming an extension of his will, striking at the milling Orcs, guiding the horse by pressure of his knees alone, ducking or dodging where he could not parry their desperate counter strikes.
A particular well-coordinated, concentrated strike from a small group of Orcs broke through his seemingly impenetrable shield, the blade of one Orc bouncing across his arm guards before he managed to throw himself aside, rolling from the back of his mount before slapping it quickly to send it to safety, to stand, surrounded by Orcs in a small, rocky clearing.
He held to stillness for a moment, counting heartbeats, assessing his foe, then as the first move, so too did he, blurring into motion, he cut the first Orc down before it could even raise its crude weapon in defense. Reversing the direction of his attack, he jabbed backwards, beneath his own arm, stabbing the creature behind him in the top of its chest and releasing a spray of blood into the air as he turned again, freeing his blade from the second Orc to meet the attack of a third that dared to challenge him.
More skilled than most, it took Thranduil several decoy strikes before a fourth, slashing arc of his sword sliced through Orcish flesh and sinew, and he turned aside from the spray of arterial blood, as foul as the creature it sustained, as he all but severed the Orc's head, ducking in time to save a strike to his own from one among the dwindling number of foes. Even as he straightened, he resumed his attack, driving the Orc back toward a gap in the rocky surround. It snarled, finding courage from somewhere to reverse its fortune, pressing an attack that it could not possibly hope to win. Thranduil countered, forcing the Orc to parry higher and higher, until he caught its descending blade on his offhand, and with a diagonal, downward swipe of his primary hand, Thranduil gutted the creature where it stood.
A sound from against the rock to his left made Thranduil turn, left arm across his own body in an additional defensive attitude, drawing blades up and back in preparation to strike, poised above his right shoulder.
"I ûr... hír... nín..."
He froze.
...Easterlings, and Haradians come up from the south, as well as the Corrupted...
It was an open, and rarely spoken secret among Elves that the genesis or Orcish kind came from among Elves who had been tortured, and corrupted by magic. Válinsillúle had spoken of it in her letter, but to see it there, so clearly before his eyes – the young Orc, and female by the look – held against the rock by fear of him, and pleading for mercy, it chilled him in a way that little had in many millennia.
His breathing came in short, pained and angry gasps, and faster than a blink he brought his blade to rest at the Orc's throat.
"Manmin herdireg?" he demanded, then more forceful still as she shied away he added, "Speak!"
"No... please..." she whimpered.
"Who!?" he asked again, his voice like thunder.
"Shining... west and... east," she turned enough to almost reach for him with filthy, imploring hands, "Always... everywhere..." Her half-transformed eyes screamed in agony for release from torment, and she reached for him again, repeating, "Mercy!"
He twitched his wrists, and followed through the motion to throw out his arms to each side of him, his crossed swords taking the Elf-Orc's head from her shoulders, then he stumbled, catching himself against the side of the rock by his right wrist, still fisted about his dripping blade, fighting for breath, and to control the nausea rising in him as the thought of another face, transformed, washed over him.
Another volley of arrows flashed overhead into the brush behind him, drawing him back from the edge of horror, and vaguely he recognized that their color was not that of Greenwood, but the gold of Lorien, and from behind him, a strong, sure voice addressed him.
"I believe, Greenwood, that this is yours."
He turned, keeping his back against the rock-face, not yet trusting his legs to hold him completely, drawing in breath after breath, his expression still one of anguish.
"Elrond," he let out the name of the Elf that had addressed him as though a sigh of relief.
"And well met, Thranduil," Elrond answered, reaching down to take his arm in greeting even as he kept Thranduil's mount close. "I found him wandering the trail as we arrived – late to the party it seems."
Without letting go of Elrond's arm, indeed using it to aid his slow-to-return composure, Thranduil moved to swing himself back up into the saddle, finally taking in the sight of the Elven victory that had occurred around him.
"You were ever late, Elrond Peredhil!"
Elrond chuckled, and bowed slightly in the saddle, releasing his hold of Thranduil's arm.
"Prince Amroth," Elrond greeted the newcomer. "I see that Lorien, also, spent their arrows only when the battle was all but won."
"We cannot always be the ones," Amroth teased, reaching up to clap Thranduil on the back, though Thranduil noticed, his expression was one of concern, "to steal Greenwood's thunder."
"It is good to see you, Amroth," he managed, and Amroth nodded.
"Come, both of you," he said, "We will erect pavilions in the lee of the woodland to see to our comfort 'ere we speak of the serious affairs of Middle Earth."
Thranduil could not help but look back as he followed the others down to the side of the woodland by the Silverlode, still trying to calm his disturbed heart.
** ** **
She shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around her, even sticky and oppressive as it was, for her the world had grown cold, and waking from the nightmare, as she had, still chilled, had been more than enough to send her tiptoeing from shadow to shadow, to the stables, and then quietly leading out one of the mounts out of Ost-in-Edhil, before mounting and, in spite of the dangers in the land around Eregion, riding southwest toward Tharbad.
...She was held in his arms – in his thrall – and felt surrounded as though by a band of cold metal within which neither her thoughts nor desires were her own. Light became dark, darkness was light and all around was cold, as if in death or the deepest of storms. She looked at her hand, her right, and in it she held – as if precious – living water, air and fire – and she knew that if she surrendered, if he took from her what he wanted, everything they had fought for... everything since the fall of the Dark Lord would be nothing, would mean nothing!
Suffocated, she struggled against his embrace, escaped to the extent of her arm, toward the nine souls reaching for her in entreaty, before they too fell away, and she was caught in seven richly adorned arms – greedy for favor – who delivered her back into his waiting embrace, his waiting kiss...
She gasped, and came awake again, lolling in the saddle as she was, dangerously close to falling. Ahead the encampment became visible; looming shapes in an indistinct landscape. A steady rain had been falling for days, but had finally given way to a languid humidity which filled the air with a soup of shadowy fog, and blanketed the hills with an oppressive silence. Hooded, cloaked, she slipped through the spaces in between, spells of concealment barely a breath away from her lips, should she need them, but she need not have troubled herself – and that in itself was troubling – for the camp was at rest, the swordsmen and archers all huddled close about small braziers, lit for light and not for warmth.
The command pavilion was not hard to locate. Larger than most – save the healers tent – banners hung limp upon crossed poles at each corner and beside the main doorway, through which she slipped, into the dim lit interior.
Not until her feet were set upon the very ground on which he stood did the sense of Thranduil reach her, flood through her with an intensity that was almost debilitating, and yet, the greater pain came from the glint of the scant lantern light reflecting from the silver ring still about the index finger of his right hand.
"These battles are a distraction," she said without preamble, pulling down her hood as all within turned to face her, and many hands flashed toward sword hilts, until Thranduil threw out his arm to stand them down. "I bring a warning... you cannot trust Annatar."
Then facing Thranduil directly she challenged, "If ever you held a shred of affection for me, you will heed me, Prince of Greenwood and Cuivienen ..."
He brother's senses caught up to him then, and before she could speak another word, he grasped her arm and hauled her roughly, further into the tent, and toward the fire lit in his own grate, for a great shivering had taken her, and she felt suddenly unwell.
"Leave us!" Gil-galad commanded, and she felt Thranduil's reluctance even as he moved with the others to obey, and her relief matched the echo of his as the king added just as quickly, "Thranduil, stay."
Her brother released her then as he went toward where his effects were laid upon the low cot, and the folded blankets there. She followed him with her eyes, until an enormous sense of light and heat washed over her, and it was so unexpected, yet so welcome that her own light reached for it without realizing quite how far gone she had become; reaching for the needed – reaching for a clean, clear light to banish the lingering, invasive presence of another. She swooned.
Her loss of awareness lasted mere seconds, and when she took breath it was of the familiar sweet, spice scent of her heart's love. The warmth that surrounded her, the arms that held and carried her, were his. Still she struggled, unable not to.
"Celyndailiel," he whispered, "Breathe, all is well. You're safe."
His fingers at her throat unfastened the clasp on her cloak, and only when he lifted her to pull it away, did she realize how sodden it had become in the too-humid air.
Her brother settled at the other side of her, and the light weight of a warm, dry blanket settled around her, and Thranduil tucked it into place. He would not, it seemed, let go, and nor did her brother insist that he should.
"What in Eru's name were you thinking!?" Gil-galad demanded, urgently, moving away again to pour a cup of wine, which he brought to her and steadying the cup in her hand, ordered, "Drink."
She sipped from the cup, and then gulped until, as her memory of the dream returned again, she drank too deeply and began to choke. Instinct turned her toward Thranduil as Gil-galad took the cup away. She pressed her head to Thranduil's shoulder, and his hand moved up and down across her back, until her breathing calmed, and then she felt the press of his fingers beneath her chin as he tipped her face up toward his, his eyes capturing hers.
"Man agor an le?" he asked more serious than she had ever seen him, and a flush of fear stole the warmth from her again.
"Ôl," she whispered the half-truth, knowing she should speak of the evening Annatar had intruded within her apartments, but saying nothing. "Achas lín od ôl."
"What. Did he. Do!" he growled again.
"Thanduil..." Gil-galad warned softly.
She reached up, pushed at Thranduil's hand, drawing back, fighting not to tremble as she attempted to steady herself. Trying not to become angered at his protective outburst.
"I told you," she said curtly, "It was a dream, a warning in vision had me come here to my brother to alert him to the dangers I fear Annatar represents."
Inwardly she winced as the flash of pain crossed Thranduil's face. He schooled it quickly, but she had seen it nonetheless, and hated herself for – in her own pain – lashing out. She felt him withdraw, felt cold without his arms around her, and as he moved to stand, reached out and caught his hand.
"Arasfain, I'm sorry," she looked up at him, her eyes revealing the truth of her emotion, naked before him. "Please... stay."
With a sigh he sat beside her once more, and she held tightly to his hand – never mind that the warmed silver that banded his index finger was as ice to her – speaking slowly even as she pieced together in her mind what her brother and Thranduil may or may not already know.
"Annatar instructs Celebrimbor and his smiths in the making of artefacts using precious metals and gemstones from the mountains. Only the purest, he insists, for they will better hold the enchantments he works hour by hour to create. Rings, they are – many of them made in preparation, but now," she faltered... took a breath as she freed her hand from Thranduil's and clasped it together with her other, shaking hand as if to prevent the acquisition of such a thing. "Now their work has begun on greater projects, and they finish so quickly. Celebrimbor made a gift of one of the rings to Durin – to Annatar's ire at first. Now though, he simply..."
She shuddered, and Thranduil's hand covered hers, his fingers tightened around hers.
"It is his light, i chanar nín," she whispered, turning her head to take in Gil-galad's worried expression at her words, "It burns bright, and he seems fair."
She turned again to include Thranduil in her warning against Annatar. His expression was of worry, but beneath it she sensed the energy of a near murderous rage, held in check by sheer force of will, as though...
...he knows...
...the rose gold of loving light bubbled like a spring inside of her, and she reached out to paint the gentle touch of it against Thranduil's icy soul, felt him soften beside her, and suddenly weary once more, did not resist when he reached out to draw her to him once more; rested her head against his shoulder, as she finished her warning.
"But feels foul... though great in might," with a sigh, she added, "I have never, but rarely, felt such... such... power in an Elf."
"This is as may be, nethig, but," Gil-galad picked up the hand that Thranduil had abandoned in moving to embrace her. "How does this lead you to fear these skirmishes are to distract us – to draw our gaze away from the doings in Eregion?"
She shook her head and brought her brother's hand to her heart. She could not say how she knew, just that she felt it... that she knew.
"Do you suggest that he rules these Orcs? That somehow he controls where they might attack?"
Opening her eyes, she saw Gil-galad look across her to find Thranduil's eyes.
"What?" she asked, her voice trembling as she too pulled back to look there, to find the troubles there, the expression of a haunted memory.
"No," he told her softly, "It is not for you to worry, Celynen."
"Tell me?" she insisted, "What do you know?"
"You may as well do as she asks, Thranduil," Gil-galad said, "I'd have thought you'd know by now that little that my sister wishes to know escapes her."
Thranduil sighed.
"My company, and those of Elrond and Amroth were ambushed nearby to Lorien, in the foothills below the Dimril Dale. Among the Orcs was one only recently... corrupted, and..." he paused for a moment before continuing, and she saw in the carefully banished flash of emotion that passed across his face that the encounter he spoke of had affected him deeply, no matter how dispassionately he tried to speak of it. "...And I asked of their master. Her answer was confused... speaking of a great light that was always and everywhere. She was clearly terrified, and pled for mercy."
"And if it is Annatar of whom she tried not to speak," Gil-galad said, his face dark with worry. "Our troubles may be greater than we—"
"Did you grant it?" Celyn interrupted her brother to ask of Thranduil.
He sighed and closed his eyes, to whisper, "In the only way I could."
** ** **
"Hiro he, ad pan sui, hidh ap 'wannath."
At first, Thranduil thought that he had dreamed the soft whisper craving peace for the slain.
He had returned to his own pavilion after excusing himself from Gil-galad and Celyndailiel, wearied and emotional, feeling the weight of responsibility crushing him, reeling under the knowledge that Annatar had troubled Celyndailiel, and that she had tried to conceal it from him, then chastising himself for even thinking such things as he had. Was he not promised to another? What right had he to expect others to leave Celyndailiel be?
But then... she had not wanted his attention, did not – he could feel in the very fiber of her being the revulsion she felt at the very thought of him... and fear – and it was that which troubled him greatly, as if she knew of him – of Annatar – as all the troubles in Middle Earth given form.
"Do not allow your heart to grow heavy with guilt for the things in which you have no choice but to act."
The soft voice sounded again, and this time, Thranduil opened his eyes, and came almost at once to his feet, his soft robe falling like a sigh around him, unconstrained as he was now that his armor had been removed. But his breath caught in his chest as he looked on the owner of the voice.
Celyndailiel stood in a soft, white undergown, a dark cloak fell open at her shoulders, and her hair shone, unbound around her, a halo in the darkness.
"Celyn," he gasped softly, "What are you doing here? You cannot be here!"
In spite of his words he reached for her, even as she slipped the cloak from her shoulders and came toward him, and drew her further within yet, cupped her face gently between his palms, taking in every inch of her face, every strand of her hair, each brush of her lashes as she blinked.
"Please, Thranduil," she laid her hands against the front of his robes, her slim, gentle fingers curling around the edges of the fabric. "At first light he will send me back to Ost-in-Edhil, and I cannot leave you, we cannot part without you understand."
He shook his head, to deny her.
"You cannot return there," he told her. "Ride to Harlindon, to Elrond there... or to Lorien, if you must, seek out Amroth. Tell him I sent you and he will—"
She pressed her fingertips to his lips, cutting off his near frantic words.
"If I do not return to Eregion, he will know that his purpose is unmasked," she said, "You know this. But I promise you. I promise that he has not, nor will ever touch me."
He shook his head again, for he felt the downward pressure that lasted but a second against his hands.
"And yet... you are not truthful, Celyndailiel," his voice cracked then, "Please, as you said to me before your brother, if you ever felt a shred of affection for me, tell me... the truth."
"Thranduil," she whispered, all but weeping at his words, "affection? My heart... breaks to know that we will never be together, even as I understand why it must be. My soul... sundered to know eternity without you. How could I ever, ever allow—"
"Ssssh, Mîrlosen," his stomach lurched at her words, at the realization of how his accusations, rightful or otherwise, were as daggers to her heart. Better he cut out his own than hurt her with his words or deeds. "Forgive me... forgive me. I am wretched, and I seek only to keep you safe."
"I know," she leaned into the palm of his hand, and he brushed his thumb across her high cheek-bone, "And would that you could, for I know he would have me for his own, but you cannot, you cannot confront him, Thranduil. Promise me..."
Everything in him tensed; his very being hurt, but he could not lie to her. He would not.
"I will not make a promise that I could not keep, Celyndailiel," he whispered, and leaned down to press his lips in the softness of a kiss against her brow, lingering there – breathing her in. "Know only this: I will never confront him alone, but if he should touch you, if ever I should hear of it, I shall bring down the wrath of Greenwood, Cuivienen and whatever of my friends and allies would join me upon him and destroy him utterly."
She slipped her hands upward on his chest, winding her slender arms around his shoulders, feeling like a wren in his arms as never before. It terrified him.
"I am afraid," she whispered. "Let me stay with you; rest with you. Give me, I beg you, this one, chaste night."
"Anathathan aen uir an le," he breathed, and then lifting her into his arms, carried her to his cot and settled with her held close against his body, his arms, as his light, wrapped tightly around her.
** ** **
Footsteps behind Thranduil drew his attention from the western horizon, where many hours before, he had watched as Celyndailiel's horse, and the party of four guardsmen the king had spared that traveled with her had dwindled beyond even Elven sight.
"It is time," he as much stated as asked, as he turned to Galion.
"The king is asking for you," Galion confirmed, "Amroth and Elrond have joined us, and we turn our forces toward Hithaeglir."
He shivered.
"North," he murmured. "East..."
"My Lord?"
"So much gathering, and so few to stand against the storm." He shook his head. "Heed me, Galion, a thought disturbs my humor, and I cannot shake the fear that lies yet in me, that today may see the fall of darkness for which we are ever unprepared. I fear for our losses today."
"I pray it may not be so," Galion answered.
Thranduil took a breath, and one last look toward the western horizon across the top of his shoulder, before reaching out to clap Galion, on the shoulder.
"Come," he said, "We must not keep Ereinion waiting."
** ** **
Ahead of her small party, the path narrowed, and the light waned from the press of overhanging foliage and towering rock formations. She shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her, and looked back at the warriors behind her, and ahead to those in front.
They, too, were on edge. She could feel it, but there was nothing to be done. They must pass that way or face a delay of many days – days they could ill afford.
"Ride on," she ordered, even as the captain of her guard turned to advise her against such a course. "We must reach the next waypoint before nightfall."
She saw his objection on his face, but also saw he knew she was right. Even so, his hand, and the hands of his companions slipped to the hilts of their blades as they pressed onward.
It was not enough.
An overhead growl was all the warning they had before dark shapes launched themselves from rock tops, at least three to an Elven warrior, pulling them from their horses to leave them fighting for their lives. One loyal warrior slapped the rump of her mount with the flat of his blade even as they took him down, but creatures that rose up from the ground ahead, turned their blades on the horse and cut it from beneath her, spilling her to the rocky ground beneath.
Winded, she lay, fighting to rise, rolling to her knees, pushing to her feet; stumbling to fall again, and cry out in horror as she tumbled over the corpse of one of her warriors, his eyes staring, his throat torn with a jagged line from side to side.
"There's the prize..."
A voice like gravel over rotting vegetation chilled the blood to a crawl in her veins. She snatched a breath, and in desperation pushed away from the warrior's corpse, slipping on the blood soaked ground, until she could get her feet beneath her.
"...yes, my pretty one... run..." the voice followed her, mocking, teasing in the cruelest way. "I Love a little bit of a chase."
She barely took a step, two, before reaching hands closed around her arms, wrapped across the top of her chest and dragged her backwards, struggling and fighting with each breath she took, until a sharp pain exploded through her shoulder, back to front, and a hot, bright spray of blood – her own – splashed against her neck and face; into her eye.
She voiced her agony, increasing as her captor kicked her legs from beneath her and snatched the blade from her flesh and dropped her to the ground, winding her hair around his fist as he followed her down, his blade now at her throat.
------------------------------
Garo i hâd! – Stand fast! [Lit: Hold place]
Garo...! - Hold...!
Maetho! – Strike! [Lit: Fight]
Artanisnya – my noble lady (Quenya)
I adar lín, u-gerich cilad – father, you have no choice.
Maethathan uireb na forvo lín – I will always fight at your side [lit: I will fight eternal at your right side]
ernil o cuilen – my prince [Lit: Prince of my life]
Meldiren – my friend
I ûr... hír... nín – mercy... my lord
Manmin herdireg – who is your master
Man agor an le? – what has he done to you?
Ôl – a dream
Achas lín od ôl – my fear is from a dream.
i chanar nín – brother [lit: my brother]
nethig – little sister
Hiro he, ad pan sui, hidh ap 'wannath – may she, and all like her, find peace in death.
Anathathan aen uir an le – I would give you eternity
Thequotation at the head of this chapter is Celyndailiel's plea to Thranduil whenshe asks to stay with him for the night.