A/N: I'm baaack! Ish. And I'm finally feeling motivated to write again. If I disappear again blame schoolwork. Also if I got a blog again would any of you guys read it? I… think I might need one…
I'll keep these chapters as short or as long as they need; I prefer longer ones but I don't think I have the time at the moment (eg this chapter took over 2 hours O.o) and I'd rather publish right now: I feel I've been absent too long.
Disclaimer: all canon characters, places and events belong to Tolkien.
The usually sharp surroundings were blurred by the water in his eyes. Shed tears made tracks down his cheeks, white lines against the black dust and grime. His fellow soldiers were just moving shadows as he stumbled seemingly slowly but in actual fact with some speed through the camp. No one walked into him; they had all learnt to identify someone wandering with grief. His mind was elsewhere, replaying two events over and over again.
"You will look after him, won't you?"
A nervous smile, "I'll do my utmost."
"He means more than the world to me, and he's just a child. He shouldn't be here."
"None of us should be here."
"He doesn't know what he's volunteered for; he just followed me."
"I shan't let him leave my sight, gwador. I promise."
Brothers didn't break promises to each other. His position was clear to him now; he had always been a breakwater, only befriended for times of need. He wondered if the hushed stories his 'gwador' told about his past were even true, or just fabricated to gain pity. He realised this he could stand, it was the fact that his family was not only involved but had paid the worst price. He thanked the Valar that Lianna hadn't come here to die too. But he didn't thank Manwë; his 'gwador' prayed to Manwë.
His feet took him to the tent where his loved one lay, alongside hundreds of others. And there were hundreds of tents. There weren't many healers here – there didn't need to be – but one nodded and led him past rows and rows of Men and Elves to the only person who mattered to him. He looked on the Elf's face, so young yet so learnèd. The near side of his face had been washed and the pale skin seemed to glow with a ghostly bliss. The other, like the hand folded in his chest so it was nearest his visitor, was red raw and still weeping. The clothes and hair down that side had burned away. His blissful expression was at odds with the violent manner in which he died.
No longer aware of his tears, the older Elf reached out a hand and brushed a lock of hair away from the good side of the young Elf's face. He had his mother's hair; deep chestnut brown with flashes of reddish auburn. His mother's forest green eyes, too, though they would never open again. Despite his injuries, the older Elf thought him beautiful, as he always had done. He brushed a finger against the dead Elf's still warm cheek and finally spoke, with a strangely composed tone.
"Novaer, Dannalas; ion-nín. My autumn leaf," then to the healer still by him, he said, "Gîl-nín bannen. Ardhon-nín no morn."
"Herdir; we have been ordered to bear your son back to Eryn Galen and bury him there, if this is in accordance with your wishes," the healer said, nervously.
"I will not suffer him to be buried here," Dannalas' father snapped, stepping away from his son as his temper finally got the better of him. "Who ordered this?"
"Aran-gín, herdir."
"He is a fine person indeed," he said. "Where is His Highness?"
The healer opened his mouth to say something, then thought the visitor just knew something he didn't. "I don't blame him for not responding to His Majesty. He is in his tent, herdir. And if I may say so you are doing a fine thing; I think he needs you now as much as you need him."
Mal intent bubbled in the visitor's brain so the subtleties of what the healer said were lost to him. He bowed, vowing to return to his son ere long, and left. This time his steps were purposeful. Once again he was avoided.
He found the tent empty save one. It wasn't as grand as the other two royal tents in the camp. The bed wasn't ridiculously fancy and the comfortable chair had been brought not for relaxing but for long hours poring over maps. There were no tapestries on what passed for walls and the supports wracked in the winds.
There was no sign of Oropher.
Thranduil stood with his back to the entrance. He was running his hands along something but span round when he heard approaching footsteps. An orc scimitar has restyled his hair and relieved him of the point of his ear in the process. But that wasn't why only the shadow of a smile danced across his face as he saw who it was.
The ten was dark and the tears in his eyes prevented the raven-haired Elf from seeing the tear tracks down the Sinda's face or the staff in his hands. All he saw was the person who had promised to bring his son back and failed.
"You promised me," the words were a hiss, "you promised me he'd still be alive now. But you ran, didn't you? You didn't care, you just ran and left my poor Dannalas to fend for himself. You knew he'd die. He died for you. No one treats my family like that, you gwandagnir!" Thranduil read the intent in his friend's eyes, giving enough time for his eyes to widen in fear and for him to whisper 'aldan' before blood sprayed from his nose and he was thrown backwards onto his back. The staff flew out of his hands and clattered on the baked ground behind him.
"Daro!" He yelled, propping himself up on his elbow and holding out his hand. "You hab do sdop!" His raised hand was knocked downwards and his elbow jarred on the hard ground. "Lasdo an ním!"
"I will never listen to you again." A heel stamped on a foot. "Erio a maetho!"
Thranduil scrambled to his feet and pressed a hand against his bleeding nose, "Im nod fightin' you!"
"Taking the moral high ground?" His assailant snapped.
"Baw!"
"Or are you just a coward?"
Thranduil launched himself at him, grabbing his collar and pushing him back several feet. "Shud up for a sec'nd and lisden do me!"
The next moment the Sinda was flying through the air. He came back to earth hard. The Sylvan, long out of control, strode over to him and kicked him in the ribs. Though the cracking sound was not part of the plan. Thranduil, dazed, curled up into a ball as best he could and the Sylvan strode out.
He was livid. He has expected the act of violence to make him feel better but in fact it made him feel worse. Before he left he'd caught a glimpse of his friend's confused and pained expression. Now he hated both Thranduil and himself. As he made his way through the madding crowds he willed Oropher to burst through them in a fit of rage and treat him like he had just treated Thranduil, but Oropher never came.
The camp was in a state of disorganised chaos. It was only a few hours after the end of the battle and the dead and the wounded were still being brought in. So nobody noticed his odd behaviour, save one.
Elrond, hands full of bandages (torn up clothes; the bandages had run out months ago) and ointments, and Erestor, walking with a bad limp and one arm in a sling but still carrying both his and Elrond's sword for him so the healer could have both hands free, spied the Sylvan several yards away and approached him. Elrond immediately recognised the expression on his face and correctly guessed who and what had happened. He ignored the challenging glare thrown his way and pulled himself up to his full height.
"Where is he, Galion?"
"I have not the pleasure of understanding you, herdir."
Elrond grabbed the hand that had broken Thranduil's nose and held it in Galion's line of sight. There was blood on the knuckles. "Don't play the innocent with me, herdir, you can't deceive a liar."
"You're a liar?" Galion's eyes glinted strangely. The mix of anger and guilt made him capable of anything.
"It's a set expression. In plain speech I have done the same as you before so where is he?"
"Oropher's tent," Galion said, flatly. Elrond let go of his hand and was about to walk on when Galion added, "I was justified. I entrusted my son to him and he let him die, no doubt with a smile on his face. And no doubt he's already being mollycoddled by the king as I speak."
Elrond and Erestor exchanged glances. "Show him," Elrond told Erestor. Erestor nodded, handed the Half-Elf his sword and beckoned to Galion to follow him. The Sylvan did; he had nothing better to do. He couldn't face seeing his son again so soon.
They walked for the most part in silence, though after a while Erestor said, "I am truly sorry for your loss. Too much has been sacrificed already in this war – far too much."
"Rim henniad," Galion replied, "you are the first person to say that who wasn't obliged to do so. Thranduil said nothing; all he said was 'listen to me'. I've listened to him far too much; why should I listen to him? He doesn't know what it feels like to lose someone. He didn't even have the dignity to fight me properly."
"You should have listened to him," Erestor said, quietly.
The advisor led the butler into a tent and past rows and rows of people. Galion streamed them out; it wasn't that they didn't matter but there was more than enough death here to drive even the sanest person mad.
As they neared the end of the tent, the bodies gave way to bare ground and Galion wondered when Erestor would stop, but he led him on into the space and right to the end. Looking round Erestor's broad shoulders Galion saw a figure laid out on a table, eyes still open and hands folded on sword hilt.
Then he realised who it was and time stopped.
"Is… is he really dead?" Galion asked in a daze.
"Yes," Erestor replied, equally softly, "he's really dead. He was in a small group that got separated. He was dead when we got to him. He died in his son's arms."
"I wasn't there for Dannalas," Galion murmured, taking in the injuries. The gaping wound in the chest was the obvious cause of death. "It's still bleeding, too," Galion choked.
Though Erestor had already wept, he felt tears prick his eyes again, "He's still warm. He can't have died more than four hours ago. So close to the end of the battle."
Galion's gaze drifted down his back to his legs, "Why is he twisted like that?"
"It's the best we can do," Erestor whispered. The smile that played on his lips was as far from happiness as it is possible to be, "his back's broken… in two places. Had he survived he would never have walked again."
All Galion's tears had been spilt on his son, but his lower lip quivered as he looked at the Sinda's face again. Oropher's eyes, for so long so piercing and full of life, stared unseeingly at the canvas above him.
"This isn't happening."
Erestor shifted both uncomfortably and sympathetically beside him but Galion paid him no heed. He was too busy replaying his actions of the last half hour.
"Manwë, what have I done?"
Translations:
(I have a hench book on Sindarin now, can you tell?)
Gwador – brother
Novaer, Dannalas; ion-nín – Farewell, Dannalas, my son
Gîl-nín bannen. Ardhon-nín no morn. – My star has gone. My world is dark.
Aran-gín, herdir – Your king, Master.
Gwandagnir – kinslayer (contracted so it sounds nice)
Aldan – not again
Daro! – Stop!
Lasdo an ním! [Lasto an nín] – Listen to me!
Erio a maetho! – Stand [lit rise] and fight!
Baw! – No
Rim henniad – Many thanks
