The messengers have come.
My father passes the parchment to me and I scan the missive, noting Gil-Galad's bold signature at the bottom. It seems the host of Imladris will finally issue forth.
My eyes meet my father's in question. He nods and a chill washes over me. I read Gil-Galad's message once again. My fingers clench, wrinkling the parchment that I hold.
Three years they have lingered in Imladris, three years we have been left waiting, three years of thinking this letter might never come—three years that we have squandered in anticipation.
Anticipation that this endeavor would come to nothing, that Gil-Galad and Cirdan would rethink their bold but desperate plan and slink back to the far reaches of Lindon to let the Men of Gondor fight alone. That is what my father has assumed, what he has repeated in his councils, said to his Lords in private, asserted to the Captains of our army. That this day would never come—that the Noldor were all talk.
But it is here and I fear we are woefully unprepared.
There is no question the Greenwood can muster a sizeable force. A hundred thousand subjects roam this kingdom. Thirty thousand can easily assemble in but a week's time.
But this will be no skirmish, no battle under trees, no sorties under cloak of darkness to decimate a raiding Orc party. It will be unlike anything we have encountered here.
This is war. In unfamiliar land, distant and inhospitable.
"When?" I ask my father.
"We should be able to assemble our troops in a week's time. I will send a message to Imladris today. And to Amdir as well. We shall meet Gil-Galad's host at the Gladden Fields. Lothlorien's legion should be able to join us as we move further south," Father says, as he sits at his desk. He pulls a parchment to him and begins to write.
A week. Just as I thought.
My counsel has been in vain. Long have I spoken to my father of this. The Noldor have tarried in Imladris but I am sure they have not been idle. The refugees of Eregion live there—their smithies blazing with the flames of their forges.
The Noldor make weapons and armor like no others, save the Dwarves perhaps.
My father knows this. He has faced the armies of the Great Enemy and the legions of the kinslayers as well. He knows the strength of their armaments. He knows the way they fight.
I know. I lived among them, during our years in Lindon. Unease and simmering resentment marred our time there, sharing space with those who had killed our kin. That is what drove my father to leave, to forsake our familiar home for the unknown reaches of the forest we dwell in now.
It was the right thing, for him and for our people.
And for me?
I treasured our home by the sea, even with the affliction of Noldor all around us. There are moments that I miss the sound of the waves upon the shore, the sun glinting on the rippling water, the feel of the sand below my feet.
That is not to say I do not love the Greenwood. My feelings for Lindon are wistful, the yearnings of a child for a simpler time, a familiar place.
The Greenwood is my home, every tree and stream, every hill and valley in it. I have fought for this place, bled for it, lost companions to keep it safe. My heart knows the Song of this wood, the whispering of its leaves, the murmur of its streams. It speaks to my soul in ways Lindon never did.
But my time in Lindon taught me of the Noldor. Of their crafts, their skills, their intricate creations. The armor I wear to this day was forged for me in Lindon, by a Noldorin craftsman—a survivor of Gondolin. My swords were forged by those same hands. I know the feel of Noldor skill. It has saved me more than once.
They have not been idle in Imladris. They have tarried not for faintheartedness or indecision, as my father seems to think. They have been forging weapons for an army as has not been seen on these shores since the First Age.
It is what we should have been doing.
I have spoken of this to Father, time and time again. I have begged for leave to ride to Imladris to join the council of Gil-Galad, Cirdan, Elrond-to learn what I can of this endeavor. To take some of our hardiest warriors to that refuge—so they may spar with the might of the Noldor, to arm them with the skills and weapons to withstand the horrors that await us. To bring that knowledge back and prepare the rest of our army.
But Father does not see things as I do. He cherishes the might of our archers and the skillful knife wielders who are so deadly to our foes. We battle under trees here, in the very trees themselves, in gorges and on the heights of the bluffs.
But that is not what we will find in Mordor.
Mordor is plains, choked with dust, marshes and treacherous terrain leading to unassailable mountains. It is open land—no trees, no valleys, no cover to mask our assault.
What do our warriors know of that landscape? How will our light leather and padding protect us? It gives us ease of movement here, the browns and greens blending with the trees to camouflage our passage.
What use are bows and knives in the face of an Orc horde, clad in mail and armor, brandishing axes, maces and cruel curved swords?
Too few of our warriors are skilled with more than bow and knife. They have had no need to be otherwise. Sword work is unwieldy in the confines of the wood—too much of a danger to comrades and to oneself. It is my favored weapon but even I can find myself hampered by it in my forest. Our Silvans make up the bulk of our people—swords have never been their skill and spears are not agile amidst the branches and trunks of trees.
I have never had my father's proficiency with a spear.
I feel his gaze on me and I look up. His clear grey eyes meet mine. We are alike in features I am told but I do not see it. I do not see the chiseled cheekbones or the determined set of the jaw that is so evident in his face when I look in my own mirror. I may share his eyes but my regard does not make others falter.
He is formidable, my father. Brave and skilled, outspoken and opinionated, decisive and steadfast, keen of mind and heart.
His intensity is unparalleled—it gives even me pause when I am under his scrutiny. It is what has kept me from pushing harder to go to Imladris, from setting forth on my own, from arguing for arming ourselves as the Noldor do. I can predict what those suggestions will bring forth-I know my father's temper; it is unpredictable and terrifying when aroused. Especially in regard to all things Noldor.
So I keep my opinions brief, focused, avoiding repetition and overt persuasion-even I must acknowledge his stubbornness is unyielding when he is compelled to encounter ideas that are contrary to his viewpoint.
"You are far too silent, Thranduil." His eyes narrow as he takes the parchment back from me. "You have been telling me this day would come. Now that it is here you have proven accurate in your prediction."
It is my fervent hope that I am accurate only in this and not the other apprehensions that overwhelm me now.
"The departure comes swiftly now that they have made their decision," I say, keeping my voice neutral and controlled. "Three years they have lingered yet now all haste is being made."
"They have loitered far too long in the safety of Imladris. Gondor holds the line but even they may falter without reinforcement. It is time." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "And the Greenwood is ready to meet that challenge."
But we are not, a voice whispers in my head. I cannot say this to him, cannot tell my King how woefully he has underestimated this conflict. We are strong in numbers, of that there is no doubt. But I dread what we will find when we reach Mordor's borders. And what will find us.