Knife's Edge
By
TreeHugger
Disclaimer - I don't own the canon characters. They belong to the Tolkien Estate. Tanglinna, Bronadui, Arasceleg, Heledir, Filigod, Orthelian, Ovorglir, Faelthir, Riwmegor, Celair, Cubell, Auriell, Brenillass, Thindalagos are my own creations.
Author's Note - Amdir is another name for Malgalad the King of Lorien, found in "Unfinished Tales, The History of Galadriel and Celeborn."
I am well aware that there is a moratorium on character death, but as this is a war situation, some of the characters in this tale will have to die for the sake of Middle Earth, and they will not all be the canon characters that we all know died at Dagorlad. I am so very sorry, but there are casualties in every war. :(
Thank you to my beta, the wonderful alliwantisanelfforchristmas. I like green forests . . . I really do. ;)
Also a big, heartfelt thank you to Dragon_of_the_north, Katharine the Great, and Ubiquitous Pitt for reading this chapter beforehand and giving me the encouragement I needed to actually post this tale. Thank you for taking this humble character of mine into your hearts. :) Well, not always so humble.
~*~*~*~*~*
I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish you would just leave
Because your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone.
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase.
~ from My Immortal by Evanescence c. 2003 Wind-up Entertainment
~*~*~*~*~*
Chapter 1 - A Charge Laid
It was a cold and deadly sound, the ringing of metal on metal, as he drew the long sword from the scabbard that rested across his knees. The leather-wrapped hilt fit nicely in his palm, the silver metal of the blade shone like a string of diamonds. His eyes slid along the delicate tracery of letters which flowed along its length, spelling out words of power and protection. Celair-Dagnir it was named: Bright-Slayer. He closed his eyes as if in sudden pain, the long slender fingers dancing over the word Celair, never quite touching the chill metal. Just as suddenly his lips thinned, and he exhaled, standing in one fluid movement, laying aside the embossed scabbard. The sword swept up in a graceful arc, then down in a swift economy of movement. He went through the motions of this lethal dance, his lean body silhouetted against the flames as he performed the various techniques taught to him by Riwmegor, his father-in-law and Sword Master of Oropher's kingdom. Every time they halted in their journey here he did this without fail, as though this discipline of body and weapon was the only thing that kept him from falling into greater despair and wrath.
All about him, sitting or standing by their campfires, were the elves of the Woodland Realm. In the midst of their camp was the green tent of Oropher, their king. His banner stood before the tent's flap, a flutter of rich green and silver in the fitful breeze. The elves watched their Master Archer in the fire's glow, bright eyes filled with worry and sorrow as the dark whispers winged about the Greenwood camp that night beneath the ash- filled sky. Whispers that the archer would seek death on the morrow when their first major battle with the Shadow would take place; whispers that he no longer wished to remain in this life, and would actively set about to obtain his release from it.
The elves would glance at one another, shaking their heads as they polished their own swords and sharpened dagger points, checked bowstrings and arrow fletching, mindful of these things necessary for their survival.
"I beni-galad o in cuil (The light has gone from his life)," they would murmur in low voices shaped by sympathy. "In long e pennin na dae (He walks his path in shadow)."
As they watched silently with sorrow etched on their fair faces, Tanglinna continued his sword dance, his silvery eyes narrowed and devoid of all expression but for single-minded concentration.
A raven-haired elf studied him, his eyes riveted on the silver blur of Tanglinna's sword. "Estelon tur tolath erin celeg rovalath (I hope victory will come on swift wings)," he said softly. "I gelaidh calen an paned ammen tolan bar (The trees are calling for us to come home)."
A tall young elf called Bronadui, with a spill of rich brown hair bound back in a thick braid and only newly made a warrior, shook his head sadly, his pale grey eyes never leaving the archer's face. "What has he to go home to?" he asked in a low voice, causing the other elf to turn and look at him, for this one seldom spoke. "Despair has taken him, Arasceleg. I understand that it is very hard to overcome such an emotion."
"Despair will haunt us all before this is over," Heledir, another young warrior, said with a glance at his younger brother. "None of us will escape this unscathed." He felt that Filigod was too young to be here with the other warriors, though he was the same age as Bronadui who had just spoken. He studied the younger elf's spill of pale hair, braided as Bronadui's and Tanglinna's were. The grey eyes shone brightly, almost too brightly. They had seen the forces of Amdir of Lorien decimated by the enemy in the marshes as they pursued Sauron southward, and they knew not what to make of this unforeseen tragedy. True, in the end Sauron had retreated into Mordor, but at what price to the Alliance? Half of Amdir's folk had perished with him, and it was a severe blow to them all, but mostly to those remaining elves of Lorien and to Oropher's own Silvan folk. Even now the Alliance was camped near the entrance to the enemy's black land, the first assault on the Shadow's dark fortress planned for the morrow. Nay, Filigod should have stayed home to comfort their mother who would not understand if either of them returned without the other. Her grief would be so great that Heledir wondered what would befall her if they both fell in this conflict.
"Aye, we will all live with despair after this," an older elf echoed as he moved to sit cross-legged beside Bronadui. There was not one of them who would not be personally touched by this conflict with the Shadow. Their lives would never be the same; things were always changed after war. He stared down at the small piece of wood in Bronadui's hands. "What are you making now?" he asked with a slight and tired smile, glad to turn the doom-laden talk to something else. The young warrior could not sit still without laying hold of a piece of wood and 'freeing' the shape that rested inside it.
"A bird," Arasceleg answered with a grin. "It seems that more birds reside in the wood he finds than aught else."
A slight smile touched Bronadui's lips as he held the modest carving aloft, examining it before delicately cutting away a small curl of wood.
"Well," he said slowly, "this wood was once a tree, and the trees do house the birds. So it seems fitting that birds emerge from it."
Heledir did chuckle then, and shook his golden head. He opened his mouth to speak, for he much liked the quiet Silvan carver, but then he realized that Tanglinna had ended his nightly ritual and had moved to stand a few feet from them. Silence fell over the small group once more, their eyes cast downward to the ash-strewn ground.
The archer sheathed his sword after carefully wiping the blade. He squatted on his haunches, holding the sword in its scabbard before him, studying it as he noted the sudden stilling of the voices of his companions. They had learned that silence was the only course now. He drew no comfort from words, so the only words he heard this night were the words of songs being sung at other fires.
The songs that drifted closest were from their companions. The music was sung quietly, and he found himself hearing the familiar words of grief in the songs sung this night. They were mourning the death of their fallen comrades, for though Amdir's force had taken the brunt of the attack, no one was left untouched by the hand of Sauron. Oropher's elves had their own dead to attend to, their fallen comrades' bodies wrapped in their bloodstained cloaks. The songs were sung now for those who had died, hoping the songs would follow them to the Halls of Mandos, telling them that they would not be forgotten. These songs blended with others about the encampments. A drift of words in Khuzdul, the Dwarvish tongue, could be heard, as well as that of the Men. Tonight all the children of Iluvatar were united in their grief and in their need to overcome their shared foe before many more of them fell in this dread, smoke-blackened plain, their blood mingling on the tainted ground with that of their friends and foes.
Tanglinna stood and moved to place his sword by his bow and quiver. He rubbed one hand over his face, surprised to feel the tears there once again. His mouth twisted angrily, and he dashed the tell tale signs of his sorrow away. Tomorrow he would be with them if the Valar were merciful, and then this unending torment would be over. He smoothed out his bedroll, pointedly ignoring the others near him. He was in no mood for their small talk. He rummaged in his small pack until his fingers encountered the small tube that he sought. He knew his pain would double, but he welcomed it; nay, he needed it. It was from this pain that he drew his strength. He took out the leather container and opened it, uncurling the paper that rested inside.
"Celair."
His lips formed the word that was her name, his head bowing as the now too familiar ache of loss shuddered through him.
Standing in the shadow of his tent was Oropher, the King of Greenwood the Great. His grey eyes moved slowly over the his people, seeing their sorrow, the weariness that this day's battle had brought, the small measure of peace they found in camaraderie with their fellows. He felt a fierce pride flow through him as he observed them in silence. Perhaps they did not have the weapons, arms, and training the others did, but he doubted not that they were strong, fierce, and the best fighters here. The Shadow was ever increasing in their homeland, and fighting it was nothing new to these "simple Wood elves."
Stubborn, independent of spirit, and strong-willed: those were the words that he had heard others speak of them. A smile tugged at his lips, his white teeth flashing in a wolfish manner. All these words had been applied to him as well at one time or another. It was these very attributes that gave them their strength, the strength that had seen them through this march here, not knowing what might befall them. Yes, they were his people, and he would not exchange them for all the Eldar in their fancy armor on Ennor.
His gaze lingered on their eyes, gauging the myriad emotions displayed on their fair faces, faces lined with the heaviness of grief, smudged with filth and blood. Despite this, hope still lived in their bright eyes, as well as a lightness of heart that had sustained them through today's devastation. Some lay dreaming beneath the ash-choked sky; others kept silent vigil, their gazes fastened on Sauron's fortress with a single-mindedness that was terrifying to behold, as voices low with pain and anger sang of revenge to come. Oropher did not doubt that they would triumph on the morrow. They would make victory theirs, he and his people. Who else felt the horror of the Shadow more than they? Who knew only too well what evils Sauron wrought upon the land and its people, evils that would spread if not stopped here at Dagorlad?
Yes, they would prevail.
Oropher sought his son, and soon he discovered him seated with a small group of Silvan Elves, carefully winding a length of bandage onto Ovorglir's arm, the wound now neatly stitched closed by Thranduil. The prince's long golden hair shimmered in the fire's glow, and the Elf King watched the emotions that played over his face, the way the blue eyes shone and the white teeth flashed in a smile. Faelthir was telling some silly tale to keep Ovorglir's mind occupied on something other than what Thranduil had been doing, and Oropher saw the Elves in that little knot laugh. Laughter was not something heard much on this day, and it was a strange sound in this darksome place.
~There is more to you, nin ion (my son), than you know, ~ he thought with satisfaction. ~You think yourself a younger version of me, but there is much of your mother in you as well. ~
Auriell, daughter of the morning she had been named, and as bright and as lovely as the dawn she was. Hair as pale as the gold of a morning sky, her eyes a rich blue flecked with violet. She had been as strong and stubborn as he was, which was what had garnered his attention in the first place. Yet she was also gentle, with the healing touch in her long slender hands. Her voice had been like silver bells, and her laughter had touched his pride-filled heart and melted it. He closed his eyes momentarily, lost in his memories of her. She had sailed West not long before this conflict with the shadow, and the pain of their parting haunted him still. He hoped that Thranduil would be as happy as they had been. Brenillass was the perfect match for his son, showing the patience that would be needed to match Thranduil's temper, and the level-headedness to balance his passions, as well as the gentleness that would foster all that was bright and good in him, such as was exhibited now.
~I hope to have a grandchild to dandle on my knee soon, ~ he thought with a smile as he opened his eyes. But these thoughts of marital bliss and children caused him to search out another. His brow furrowed as his eyes moved from Thranduil, slowly scanning each face until they lit upon a spill of silver hair, the long braid coming loose and hanging unkempt. The elf king sighed heavily, feeling an ache in his heart for his friend. He had heard the whispers about Tanglinna's intentions for the morrow. This was not unexpected. Oropher grunted softly, and moved slowly through the camp.
~Mayhap it is not so easy to die, brun mellon-nin (my old friend), ~ he thought, recalling how he had seen the Master Archer cutting a swath through the foe earlier that day, even as on the other end of the field pinned in the marshes Amdir and half his force were cut down. Tanglinna's face had been bloodied, a snarl on his lips, the gleam in his eyes showing only too well how he relished dealing death to these minions of the Shadow. Oropher moved silently through the camp, nodding in acknowledgement to his people who watched his passage, knowing that they drew comfort from his presence, just as he did from theirs. As long as their king was here to lead them, all would be well. ~And it will be, ~ he thought, nodding at Bronadui, Arasceleg, Orthelian, and Heledir as he walked past them and came to stand behind the archer.
"Mae Govannen, Tanglinna Thindalagosion (son of Thindalagos)," he said in a low voice.
The archer, who had been kneeling by his bedroll, started slightly as anger flared through him at the fact that Oropher had come upon him unawares. He stood smoothly, tucking the small paper into the tube and laying it beneath the blanket that served as his pillow before turning to his king.
"Shouldn't you be out harassing Gil-galad?" Tanglinna said in a voice colored by his annoyance as he untied the laces of his bloodstained tunic.
Oropher chuckled slightly and shook his golden head.
"I have done that this night, so I thought I would come and harass you now."
He had indeed confronted Gil-galad High King of the Noldor, early that night. They had exchanged words, both of them filled with anger and sorrow over what had transpired that day. They had not parted on easy terms, but then their relationship had never been what one would term friendly. Thoughts of his confrontation with one of the self-proclaimed leaders of this Alliance fled as Tanglinna met his eyes coldly, his mouth thinning slightly.
"I am not in the mood for this, hir-nin (my lord). Tomorrow is another day of battle, and I am tired."
Not many would have dared to dismiss Oropher so, and dismissed he had been as Tanglinna dared to turn his back to the king, the silver head bowing slightly.
~I can see your weariness, mellon-nin, ~ Oropher thought, his brows knitting as he noted the stress and pain that had shown so clearly on the archer's face, the bleakness in the silvery eyes. He lifted one brow, leaning back to assess the other elf. "Are you getting too old for this, then?" he quipped. "I am feeling fine, fit, and hale!" He glanced back at the others with a wink, and was rewarded with smile-lit faces.
But Tanglinna would have none of it. He scowled and turned, his eyes filling with the force of what he was feeling, allowing the king to see all the anger, sorrow, and pain that was his life. He held back nothing.
Oropher was shocked by the power of what he saw, but his face remained impassive. If this archer thought he could make King of Greenwood the Great back down, he was mistaken.
~Very well, ~ he thought, feeling his own ire rising, ~have it your way, you stubborn Silvan! ~
"It is said that you wish to die tomorrow," he said bluntly. In truth, he didn't care for all the word games he had been forced to play in these last days, and he knew that Tanglinna didn't either. This suited them both much better, though he saw the other's eyes widen at the unexpected words and then narrow dangerously. ~Ah yes, ~ Oropher thought, suppressing a satisfied grin. ~It seems a battle is to be waged this night, and perhaps this anger can overcome your sorrow. ~ He straightened to his full, impressive height, thrusting out his broad chest, and stared down at Tanglinna who was a few inches shorter and several pounds lighter. He saw the archer's hand close about the hilt of the dagger that was sheathed at his lean waist, his lips curling back in a feral snarl. Oropher glared back at him, knowing that soon they would be snapping at one another's throats like ravening wolves. Perhaps this bout of anger could cleanse Tanglinna of the grief and guilt he carried, just as Oropher wished it to. "Enough have died today! I won't have you throwing your life away! Not for anyone! Do you think this is what they would want?!"
"It is my life, and I will choose when I depart from it!"
""I am your King, and I am ordering you-"
"You are what?" the voice was nigh a whisper, but it cut Oropher's words off as effectively as the roar of a Balrog would. "Do not dare presume to tell me-"
"I will presume to tell you anything that I wish! Your dying won't bring them back!"
"I am not trying to bring them back! I am trying to join them!" Tears swam across Tanglinna's eyes and spilled down his hollowed cheeks. He despised himself for this show of supposed weakness. Shouldn't all the tears he had shed over the past months have drowned this overwhelming grief? He should be an empty shell of his former self by now, not still filled with such crippling anguish that he felt as though his heart were shredded into thousands of tiny pieces by this loss. ~ Celair, why is this so hard? Why did you have to leave me so alone and bereft of all but this never-ending pain? ~
Oropher felt his resolve to be stern crumble, but he knew that he mustn't give in to pity, as Tanglinna would only despise him for it. His eyes narrowed suddenly.
"So you wish to die, do you, Tanglinna Thindalagosion? Then die!" He drew his own curved dagger, plunging it toward the other. He heard the gasps of surprise and horror from those about them, those nearest leaping to their feet, and he even caught a flash of golden hair as Thranduil sprinted toward them, his senses ever on alert. But Tanglinna's own dagger deflected the blade, and the force of the deceptively lean body threw the larger elf back.
Tanglinna glared at him, panting with emotion and wrath, his tears forgotten.
"I thought you wished to die, Mithril," Oropher said quietly, holding out one hand to wave Thranduil and the others away from them, their eyes filled with confusion and dismay. "Why, then, do you defend yourself?"
Tanglinna ground his teeth together, the dagger in his hand shaking slightly. Why had he prevented the fatal blow from falling? That was what he wished, wasn't it? The Master Archer's breath caught raggedly in his throat, and he knew in that moment that he might have killed Oropher if the other had decided to press the issue further. Yes, he realized with a start, a shudder coursing through him, he would have. His emotions were tottering on the edge of a knife, so much so that he feared he would have slain his king and friend! Slowly he lowered the dagger, feeling his muscles shaking with tension as his eyes came to rest on its silver brightness. It was a beautiful blade, one crafted for him by Celair for his conception day, the last one he would ever celebrate. Don Gwaedh it was named: Dark Oath, named by him that day when everything had fallen to pieces around him. Oaths he had taken that day as well: one sworn for vengeance, one sworn to protect others where he could not protect his own beloved.
"Don't call me that," he hissed, turning his back on Oropher and the others. "Never call me that again."
Oropher found himself regretting the use of the old nickname, and he knew that he shouldn't have reminded Tanglinna of it. Mithril and Morn he had called them: Silver and Sable, after their hair.
Tanglinna had always been solitary, seemingly accepting of this lonely life he had after losing his family in the fall of Doriath when he was but a young warrior. He had buried his emotions then, being always taciturn and intensely private. But then Riwmegor's daughter, Faensigilceledir, affectionately called Celair, had entered his life, and everything had changed. Oropher had never seen a more remarkable transformation. Tanglinna had grown so tender and caring, acting like a lovesick child at times. Auriell had rejoiced over the happiness the two had found in one another's company, and had encouraged the romance between her fair friend and the stern Master Archer. The romance blossomed eventually into a betrothal, and then marriage. It seemed that the Valar smiled upon the two, for life began to stir in Celair's womb not many months later. Tanglinna was certain that he could be no happier than he was at that time of his life, despite the threat the Shadow made on Oropher's realm in the Emyn Duir, the Dark Mountains in northeastern Mirkwood.
But then the unthinkable had happened.
Oropher remembered all too well how happily that day had started. Tanglinna had been one of the handful of warriors that had accompanied him on a hunt. It had been successful, and they had returned to the palace, full of good feelings and triumph. Auriell awaited their return bearing a short simple message for the archer, which of course Oropher had read over Tanglinna's shoulder, smiling at the small hearts and flowers Celair had penned on the page with:
"Meet us at Fanui Taen (Cloudy Height). We await you there. Im meleth le, Mithril (I love you, Mithril)."
Oropher had laughed heartily, clapping his old friend on the back, and was rewarded with a grin and a rare blush from Tanglinna. He knew that Celair and Riwmegor had planned a small celebration at the talan Tanglinna had constructed as a getaway home for he and Celair just before their marriage. It was a few miles away, far enough from the others that it had all the privacy they wanted. It had been many years since Tanglinna had celebrated his conception day, not since his family had died at Doriath, and Oropher was glad to see that perhaps he was putting the sorrow of the past behind him for good. The king of Greenwood had watched as Tanglinna had ridden out, a small wreath of flowers clutched in one slim hand. The king had laughed, wondering when he would place those flowers on his silver locks, surely sometime before he reached Fanui Taen. After all, it was what Celair wanted, and what Celair wanted Tanglinna was only too glad to give to her.
Something that had started out so full of fun and excitement had ended tragically, for what Tanglinna had found in their small getaway had changed him into the person who stood before Oropher this day.
He had climbed swiftly into the small house, a smile on his lips, the bright flowers fluttering atop his head. But the smile soon vanished. The trees were whispering with fear and sorrow as he rode to meet his lady-wife and father-in-law.
The Shadow was indeed growing bold and blatant as it crept ever closer to Oropher's Hall, leaving death and destruction in its wake. It had struck out now at all that Tanglinna held dear, shattering all that he had made for himself from the ruins of his former life in Doriath.
Oropher, Auriell, Thranduil, Brenillass, and a few other intimates of Tanglinna and Celair had found him later as they rode to join the celebration. When they arrived, the archer was kneeling on the floor of the talan between the bodies of his wife and father-in-law, his face streaked with their blood. Celair's slim hand rested in Tanglinna's, his grey eyes staring blankly at her face which was twisted into a death's mask of pain and horror at what she had suffered in her last moments of life. The King of Mirkwood stared at the heartrending scene before him, his heart aching and torn. He knelt swiftly at his friend's side, trying to calm the fierce anger and disbelief that welled within him. He laid a slightly shaking hand on the archer's shoulder, feeling the deep shudder that trembled through the other's body at the touch. It was then that he saw what he had not before, and he could not prevent the small cry of horrified distress that passed his lips. He heard Brenillass sob out her own loss and pain, knew she buried her face against Thranduil's chest, hearing the rustle of fabric as she did so. Auriell stood just behind her husband, silent tears frozen in her lovely eyes, her pain overwhelming.
~This cannot be happening, ~ Oropher thought, eyes widening as he tried to not see what lay before him. ~Why was this allowed to happen? How - How! ~
Children were a rare and precious gift, and Oropher knew how much Tanglinna and Celair had anticipated the birth of their first, a son they would name Cubell. His grey eyes slid to where the child lay, ripped from his mother's womb before his time. It was an image that would haunt him over the weeks to come.
It was an image that haunted Tanglinna still.
"I am sorry, Tanglinna," Oropher murmured, forcing the memory away, his eyes moving to where Thranduil his own son stood, his fair face fraught with worry and distress. "But I cannot let you do this to yourself. I cannot let you do this to me."
Tanglinna said nothing, shoulders straightening, his mouth a hard thin line. Most distressing were his eyes, as he turned to look at his king and his friend. They had lost all emotion, as if a shutter had slammed down over his soul, locking all that he felt too strongly away from everyone, and most especially from himself.
"It is mine to choose, hir-nin," he said in a flat voice, before he turned away and knelt once more by his bedroll. "Gar-im al-bach. Nin cuil na lith. Nin gur na fern. Car-im al-iest an cuinar.(I have nothing. My life is ash. My heart is dead. I do not wish to live.)"
Oropher felt something akin to defeat wash over him as Tanglinna knelt swiftly to straighten his pack. The king's eyes moved over the closest group to rest on his son once more, the son whose face betrayed the distress and pain he felt.
~What am I to do now? ~ Oropher thought with a measure of hopelessness, his gaze once more on the Master Archer. He watched as the other's dexterous fingers tied the leather strings of his pouch, those same fingers that were so skilled with a bowstring. ~Too many have died in the battle this day, so many of us will not be returning to our green sanctuary beneath the great trees. It was never supposed to be this way. What can this war hold in store for any of us? ~ His eyes lit on his son who had come to stand at his side. Oropher noted that the small roll of bandages was still clenched in his fist, all but forgotten. ~What would I do if I lost you, nin ion? How would I feel then? ~ Oropher wondered, staring at Thranduil's face, memorizing the beloved lines of it all over again. The glimmering of an idea was born in that moment, and though knowing what its reception would be, it was worth the price of the scorn and resentment that would be flung his way because of it.
"So you care not for your own life? Then perhaps you had best care for someone else's," Oropher said tersely, his jaw clenching, grey eyes as cold and sharp as ice. "If your life is worth nothing, then I charge you to watch over one that *is* important."
Tanglinna turned smoothly to meet his king's gaze with one that rivaled it in disdain.
"You cannot lay that charge upon me, for I refuse to take it," he hissed.
"You cannot refuse a direct order from me, Tanglinna Thindalagosion. As your liege, I am *ordering* you to this. You will be held responsible for the life of my son, Thranduil. If anything shall befall him during this battle with the Shadow, you will be the one who will stand before Mandos with his blood on your hands. He is yours to protect."
Oropher stared down at his stunned Master Archer, watching anger and resentment darken the silvery eyes. However it was Thranduil who voiced the protest that Oropher knew was lurking somewhere in Tanglinna's throat.
"I don't need a nursemaid, hir-nin!" his son said vehemently, with an apologetic glance at Tanglinna. "I am not a child that I need someone to watch over my every step. I have fought at your side this day, and bravely! How can you say -"
Oropher silenced him with a glare not often used on his only child, and Thranduil took a step back away from his sire. He had seen his father in a rage many a time, but there was something so cold and deadly in his look that he knew not what to make of this. His eyes slipped to Tanglinna, who was looking equally filled with rage and bitterness, and the prince felt a jolt of pity for his friend.
"He will do what I tell him to do!" Oropher barked, his eyes sliding over them all. None would meet his gaze, none but the archer. "Do you hear me, Tanglinna? If anything at all befalls my son, it is on your head!" The king of Greenwood spun away from them, his rich dark-green cloak flaring out behind him, the silver embroidery on the hem flashing in the light of the campfires.
Uneasy silence settled over the elves once more. Thranduil raised his head to look at the small group. A few of them met his wary gaze, but soon they turned away, returning to their small fire. The prince watched for a moment as they took up their tasks: Heledir sharpening his dagger and speaking quietly to his brother in a reassuring tone; Arasceleg poking with a stick to stir the fire, watching as the embers flared crimson; Orthelian pulling arrows from his quiver to check the fletching; Bronadui, one of the youngest warriors present in any of the camps feeding small curls of wood to the flames, the pale grey eyes sad.
Thranduil drew an uneasy breath, his eyes moving to Tanglinna who was standing with his back to the prince. Thranduil could sense the tenseness in the archer's slim body; the way the shoulders were hunched, the head bowed as he gazed at the blade which he had bent to pick up once more, now clasped in his hand. A tremor of fear knifed through Thranduil as he watched the archer raise the blade, cradled in both hands, staring at his reflection in its silver depths.
"Tanglinna," he began in a low, hesitant voice. He no longer knew how to speak with his friend. "You . . . you do not need to do this. The king . . . he is . . . he was . . . . "
"The king knew what he was doing, nin caun(my prince)," Tanglinna answered in a ragged tone, tears splashing to the silver blade, blurring his reflection, making certain that he used Thranduil's formal title. "He knew the one thing that would bind me to his words."
Thranduil gazed at the others who were studiously ignoring them, though he knew they could hear every word they spoke and read every emotion that played across their faces.
"Tanglinna, I am sorry. You don't have to do-"
"Be quiet, nin caun," the voice was hoarse and angry. Bitter. "Go back to your duties. I will guard your back for the duration of this siege, but I owe you nothing more beyond that. Now leave me!"
Thranduil sighed heavily, turning away.
"Tanglinna-"
"Leave me!"
The prince of Greenwood swallowed, hanging his head in defeat. Pain knifed through him, and he felt tears burn in his eyes. There was so much sorrow in the air, so much suffering. His eyes moved to gaze at the dark fortress of the enemy, shrouded in a choking cloud of ash and smoke. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? More death and pain . . . only of that was he certain. His heart greatly grieved, he moved silently away from his friend, leaving him to his own sorrow.
TBC
By
TreeHugger
Disclaimer - I don't own the canon characters. They belong to the Tolkien Estate. Tanglinna, Bronadui, Arasceleg, Heledir, Filigod, Orthelian, Ovorglir, Faelthir, Riwmegor, Celair, Cubell, Auriell, Brenillass, Thindalagos are my own creations.
Author's Note - Amdir is another name for Malgalad the King of Lorien, found in "Unfinished Tales, The History of Galadriel and Celeborn."
I am well aware that there is a moratorium on character death, but as this is a war situation, some of the characters in this tale will have to die for the sake of Middle Earth, and they will not all be the canon characters that we all know died at Dagorlad. I am so very sorry, but there are casualties in every war. :(
Thank you to my beta, the wonderful alliwantisanelfforchristmas. I like green forests . . . I really do. ;)
Also a big, heartfelt thank you to Dragon_of_the_north, Katharine the Great, and Ubiquitous Pitt for reading this chapter beforehand and giving me the encouragement I needed to actually post this tale. Thank you for taking this humble character of mine into your hearts. :) Well, not always so humble.
~*~*~*~*~*
I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish you would just leave
Because your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone.
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase.
~ from My Immortal by Evanescence c. 2003 Wind-up Entertainment
~*~*~*~*~*
Chapter 1 - A Charge Laid
It was a cold and deadly sound, the ringing of metal on metal, as he drew the long sword from the scabbard that rested across his knees. The leather-wrapped hilt fit nicely in his palm, the silver metal of the blade shone like a string of diamonds. His eyes slid along the delicate tracery of letters which flowed along its length, spelling out words of power and protection. Celair-Dagnir it was named: Bright-Slayer. He closed his eyes as if in sudden pain, the long slender fingers dancing over the word Celair, never quite touching the chill metal. Just as suddenly his lips thinned, and he exhaled, standing in one fluid movement, laying aside the embossed scabbard. The sword swept up in a graceful arc, then down in a swift economy of movement. He went through the motions of this lethal dance, his lean body silhouetted against the flames as he performed the various techniques taught to him by Riwmegor, his father-in-law and Sword Master of Oropher's kingdom. Every time they halted in their journey here he did this without fail, as though this discipline of body and weapon was the only thing that kept him from falling into greater despair and wrath.
All about him, sitting or standing by their campfires, were the elves of the Woodland Realm. In the midst of their camp was the green tent of Oropher, their king. His banner stood before the tent's flap, a flutter of rich green and silver in the fitful breeze. The elves watched their Master Archer in the fire's glow, bright eyes filled with worry and sorrow as the dark whispers winged about the Greenwood camp that night beneath the ash- filled sky. Whispers that the archer would seek death on the morrow when their first major battle with the Shadow would take place; whispers that he no longer wished to remain in this life, and would actively set about to obtain his release from it.
The elves would glance at one another, shaking their heads as they polished their own swords and sharpened dagger points, checked bowstrings and arrow fletching, mindful of these things necessary for their survival.
"I beni-galad o in cuil (The light has gone from his life)," they would murmur in low voices shaped by sympathy. "In long e pennin na dae (He walks his path in shadow)."
As they watched silently with sorrow etched on their fair faces, Tanglinna continued his sword dance, his silvery eyes narrowed and devoid of all expression but for single-minded concentration.
A raven-haired elf studied him, his eyes riveted on the silver blur of Tanglinna's sword. "Estelon tur tolath erin celeg rovalath (I hope victory will come on swift wings)," he said softly. "I gelaidh calen an paned ammen tolan bar (The trees are calling for us to come home)."
A tall young elf called Bronadui, with a spill of rich brown hair bound back in a thick braid and only newly made a warrior, shook his head sadly, his pale grey eyes never leaving the archer's face. "What has he to go home to?" he asked in a low voice, causing the other elf to turn and look at him, for this one seldom spoke. "Despair has taken him, Arasceleg. I understand that it is very hard to overcome such an emotion."
"Despair will haunt us all before this is over," Heledir, another young warrior, said with a glance at his younger brother. "None of us will escape this unscathed." He felt that Filigod was too young to be here with the other warriors, though he was the same age as Bronadui who had just spoken. He studied the younger elf's spill of pale hair, braided as Bronadui's and Tanglinna's were. The grey eyes shone brightly, almost too brightly. They had seen the forces of Amdir of Lorien decimated by the enemy in the marshes as they pursued Sauron southward, and they knew not what to make of this unforeseen tragedy. True, in the end Sauron had retreated into Mordor, but at what price to the Alliance? Half of Amdir's folk had perished with him, and it was a severe blow to them all, but mostly to those remaining elves of Lorien and to Oropher's own Silvan folk. Even now the Alliance was camped near the entrance to the enemy's black land, the first assault on the Shadow's dark fortress planned for the morrow. Nay, Filigod should have stayed home to comfort their mother who would not understand if either of them returned without the other. Her grief would be so great that Heledir wondered what would befall her if they both fell in this conflict.
"Aye, we will all live with despair after this," an older elf echoed as he moved to sit cross-legged beside Bronadui. There was not one of them who would not be personally touched by this conflict with the Shadow. Their lives would never be the same; things were always changed after war. He stared down at the small piece of wood in Bronadui's hands. "What are you making now?" he asked with a slight and tired smile, glad to turn the doom-laden talk to something else. The young warrior could not sit still without laying hold of a piece of wood and 'freeing' the shape that rested inside it.
"A bird," Arasceleg answered with a grin. "It seems that more birds reside in the wood he finds than aught else."
A slight smile touched Bronadui's lips as he held the modest carving aloft, examining it before delicately cutting away a small curl of wood.
"Well," he said slowly, "this wood was once a tree, and the trees do house the birds. So it seems fitting that birds emerge from it."
Heledir did chuckle then, and shook his golden head. He opened his mouth to speak, for he much liked the quiet Silvan carver, but then he realized that Tanglinna had ended his nightly ritual and had moved to stand a few feet from them. Silence fell over the small group once more, their eyes cast downward to the ash-strewn ground.
The archer sheathed his sword after carefully wiping the blade. He squatted on his haunches, holding the sword in its scabbard before him, studying it as he noted the sudden stilling of the voices of his companions. They had learned that silence was the only course now. He drew no comfort from words, so the only words he heard this night were the words of songs being sung at other fires.
The songs that drifted closest were from their companions. The music was sung quietly, and he found himself hearing the familiar words of grief in the songs sung this night. They were mourning the death of their fallen comrades, for though Amdir's force had taken the brunt of the attack, no one was left untouched by the hand of Sauron. Oropher's elves had their own dead to attend to, their fallen comrades' bodies wrapped in their bloodstained cloaks. The songs were sung now for those who had died, hoping the songs would follow them to the Halls of Mandos, telling them that they would not be forgotten. These songs blended with others about the encampments. A drift of words in Khuzdul, the Dwarvish tongue, could be heard, as well as that of the Men. Tonight all the children of Iluvatar were united in their grief and in their need to overcome their shared foe before many more of them fell in this dread, smoke-blackened plain, their blood mingling on the tainted ground with that of their friends and foes.
Tanglinna stood and moved to place his sword by his bow and quiver. He rubbed one hand over his face, surprised to feel the tears there once again. His mouth twisted angrily, and he dashed the tell tale signs of his sorrow away. Tomorrow he would be with them if the Valar were merciful, and then this unending torment would be over. He smoothed out his bedroll, pointedly ignoring the others near him. He was in no mood for their small talk. He rummaged in his small pack until his fingers encountered the small tube that he sought. He knew his pain would double, but he welcomed it; nay, he needed it. It was from this pain that he drew his strength. He took out the leather container and opened it, uncurling the paper that rested inside.
"Celair."
His lips formed the word that was her name, his head bowing as the now too familiar ache of loss shuddered through him.
Standing in the shadow of his tent was Oropher, the King of Greenwood the Great. His grey eyes moved slowly over the his people, seeing their sorrow, the weariness that this day's battle had brought, the small measure of peace they found in camaraderie with their fellows. He felt a fierce pride flow through him as he observed them in silence. Perhaps they did not have the weapons, arms, and training the others did, but he doubted not that they were strong, fierce, and the best fighters here. The Shadow was ever increasing in their homeland, and fighting it was nothing new to these "simple Wood elves."
Stubborn, independent of spirit, and strong-willed: those were the words that he had heard others speak of them. A smile tugged at his lips, his white teeth flashing in a wolfish manner. All these words had been applied to him as well at one time or another. It was these very attributes that gave them their strength, the strength that had seen them through this march here, not knowing what might befall them. Yes, they were his people, and he would not exchange them for all the Eldar in their fancy armor on Ennor.
His gaze lingered on their eyes, gauging the myriad emotions displayed on their fair faces, faces lined with the heaviness of grief, smudged with filth and blood. Despite this, hope still lived in their bright eyes, as well as a lightness of heart that had sustained them through today's devastation. Some lay dreaming beneath the ash-choked sky; others kept silent vigil, their gazes fastened on Sauron's fortress with a single-mindedness that was terrifying to behold, as voices low with pain and anger sang of revenge to come. Oropher did not doubt that they would triumph on the morrow. They would make victory theirs, he and his people. Who else felt the horror of the Shadow more than they? Who knew only too well what evils Sauron wrought upon the land and its people, evils that would spread if not stopped here at Dagorlad?
Yes, they would prevail.
Oropher sought his son, and soon he discovered him seated with a small group of Silvan Elves, carefully winding a length of bandage onto Ovorglir's arm, the wound now neatly stitched closed by Thranduil. The prince's long golden hair shimmered in the fire's glow, and the Elf King watched the emotions that played over his face, the way the blue eyes shone and the white teeth flashed in a smile. Faelthir was telling some silly tale to keep Ovorglir's mind occupied on something other than what Thranduil had been doing, and Oropher saw the Elves in that little knot laugh. Laughter was not something heard much on this day, and it was a strange sound in this darksome place.
~There is more to you, nin ion (my son), than you know, ~ he thought with satisfaction. ~You think yourself a younger version of me, but there is much of your mother in you as well. ~
Auriell, daughter of the morning she had been named, and as bright and as lovely as the dawn she was. Hair as pale as the gold of a morning sky, her eyes a rich blue flecked with violet. She had been as strong and stubborn as he was, which was what had garnered his attention in the first place. Yet she was also gentle, with the healing touch in her long slender hands. Her voice had been like silver bells, and her laughter had touched his pride-filled heart and melted it. He closed his eyes momentarily, lost in his memories of her. She had sailed West not long before this conflict with the shadow, and the pain of their parting haunted him still. He hoped that Thranduil would be as happy as they had been. Brenillass was the perfect match for his son, showing the patience that would be needed to match Thranduil's temper, and the level-headedness to balance his passions, as well as the gentleness that would foster all that was bright and good in him, such as was exhibited now.
~I hope to have a grandchild to dandle on my knee soon, ~ he thought with a smile as he opened his eyes. But these thoughts of marital bliss and children caused him to search out another. His brow furrowed as his eyes moved from Thranduil, slowly scanning each face until they lit upon a spill of silver hair, the long braid coming loose and hanging unkempt. The elf king sighed heavily, feeling an ache in his heart for his friend. He had heard the whispers about Tanglinna's intentions for the morrow. This was not unexpected. Oropher grunted softly, and moved slowly through the camp.
~Mayhap it is not so easy to die, brun mellon-nin (my old friend), ~ he thought, recalling how he had seen the Master Archer cutting a swath through the foe earlier that day, even as on the other end of the field pinned in the marshes Amdir and half his force were cut down. Tanglinna's face had been bloodied, a snarl on his lips, the gleam in his eyes showing only too well how he relished dealing death to these minions of the Shadow. Oropher moved silently through the camp, nodding in acknowledgement to his people who watched his passage, knowing that they drew comfort from his presence, just as he did from theirs. As long as their king was here to lead them, all would be well. ~And it will be, ~ he thought, nodding at Bronadui, Arasceleg, Orthelian, and Heledir as he walked past them and came to stand behind the archer.
"Mae Govannen, Tanglinna Thindalagosion (son of Thindalagos)," he said in a low voice.
The archer, who had been kneeling by his bedroll, started slightly as anger flared through him at the fact that Oropher had come upon him unawares. He stood smoothly, tucking the small paper into the tube and laying it beneath the blanket that served as his pillow before turning to his king.
"Shouldn't you be out harassing Gil-galad?" Tanglinna said in a voice colored by his annoyance as he untied the laces of his bloodstained tunic.
Oropher chuckled slightly and shook his golden head.
"I have done that this night, so I thought I would come and harass you now."
He had indeed confronted Gil-galad High King of the Noldor, early that night. They had exchanged words, both of them filled with anger and sorrow over what had transpired that day. They had not parted on easy terms, but then their relationship had never been what one would term friendly. Thoughts of his confrontation with one of the self-proclaimed leaders of this Alliance fled as Tanglinna met his eyes coldly, his mouth thinning slightly.
"I am not in the mood for this, hir-nin (my lord). Tomorrow is another day of battle, and I am tired."
Not many would have dared to dismiss Oropher so, and dismissed he had been as Tanglinna dared to turn his back to the king, the silver head bowing slightly.
~I can see your weariness, mellon-nin, ~ Oropher thought, his brows knitting as he noted the stress and pain that had shown so clearly on the archer's face, the bleakness in the silvery eyes. He lifted one brow, leaning back to assess the other elf. "Are you getting too old for this, then?" he quipped. "I am feeling fine, fit, and hale!" He glanced back at the others with a wink, and was rewarded with smile-lit faces.
But Tanglinna would have none of it. He scowled and turned, his eyes filling with the force of what he was feeling, allowing the king to see all the anger, sorrow, and pain that was his life. He held back nothing.
Oropher was shocked by the power of what he saw, but his face remained impassive. If this archer thought he could make King of Greenwood the Great back down, he was mistaken.
~Very well, ~ he thought, feeling his own ire rising, ~have it your way, you stubborn Silvan! ~
"It is said that you wish to die tomorrow," he said bluntly. In truth, he didn't care for all the word games he had been forced to play in these last days, and he knew that Tanglinna didn't either. This suited them both much better, though he saw the other's eyes widen at the unexpected words and then narrow dangerously. ~Ah yes, ~ Oropher thought, suppressing a satisfied grin. ~It seems a battle is to be waged this night, and perhaps this anger can overcome your sorrow. ~ He straightened to his full, impressive height, thrusting out his broad chest, and stared down at Tanglinna who was a few inches shorter and several pounds lighter. He saw the archer's hand close about the hilt of the dagger that was sheathed at his lean waist, his lips curling back in a feral snarl. Oropher glared back at him, knowing that soon they would be snapping at one another's throats like ravening wolves. Perhaps this bout of anger could cleanse Tanglinna of the grief and guilt he carried, just as Oropher wished it to. "Enough have died today! I won't have you throwing your life away! Not for anyone! Do you think this is what they would want?!"
"It is my life, and I will choose when I depart from it!"
""I am your King, and I am ordering you-"
"You are what?" the voice was nigh a whisper, but it cut Oropher's words off as effectively as the roar of a Balrog would. "Do not dare presume to tell me-"
"I will presume to tell you anything that I wish! Your dying won't bring them back!"
"I am not trying to bring them back! I am trying to join them!" Tears swam across Tanglinna's eyes and spilled down his hollowed cheeks. He despised himself for this show of supposed weakness. Shouldn't all the tears he had shed over the past months have drowned this overwhelming grief? He should be an empty shell of his former self by now, not still filled with such crippling anguish that he felt as though his heart were shredded into thousands of tiny pieces by this loss. ~ Celair, why is this so hard? Why did you have to leave me so alone and bereft of all but this never-ending pain? ~
Oropher felt his resolve to be stern crumble, but he knew that he mustn't give in to pity, as Tanglinna would only despise him for it. His eyes narrowed suddenly.
"So you wish to die, do you, Tanglinna Thindalagosion? Then die!" He drew his own curved dagger, plunging it toward the other. He heard the gasps of surprise and horror from those about them, those nearest leaping to their feet, and he even caught a flash of golden hair as Thranduil sprinted toward them, his senses ever on alert. But Tanglinna's own dagger deflected the blade, and the force of the deceptively lean body threw the larger elf back.
Tanglinna glared at him, panting with emotion and wrath, his tears forgotten.
"I thought you wished to die, Mithril," Oropher said quietly, holding out one hand to wave Thranduil and the others away from them, their eyes filled with confusion and dismay. "Why, then, do you defend yourself?"
Tanglinna ground his teeth together, the dagger in his hand shaking slightly. Why had he prevented the fatal blow from falling? That was what he wished, wasn't it? The Master Archer's breath caught raggedly in his throat, and he knew in that moment that he might have killed Oropher if the other had decided to press the issue further. Yes, he realized with a start, a shudder coursing through him, he would have. His emotions were tottering on the edge of a knife, so much so that he feared he would have slain his king and friend! Slowly he lowered the dagger, feeling his muscles shaking with tension as his eyes came to rest on its silver brightness. It was a beautiful blade, one crafted for him by Celair for his conception day, the last one he would ever celebrate. Don Gwaedh it was named: Dark Oath, named by him that day when everything had fallen to pieces around him. Oaths he had taken that day as well: one sworn for vengeance, one sworn to protect others where he could not protect his own beloved.
"Don't call me that," he hissed, turning his back on Oropher and the others. "Never call me that again."
Oropher found himself regretting the use of the old nickname, and he knew that he shouldn't have reminded Tanglinna of it. Mithril and Morn he had called them: Silver and Sable, after their hair.
Tanglinna had always been solitary, seemingly accepting of this lonely life he had after losing his family in the fall of Doriath when he was but a young warrior. He had buried his emotions then, being always taciturn and intensely private. But then Riwmegor's daughter, Faensigilceledir, affectionately called Celair, had entered his life, and everything had changed. Oropher had never seen a more remarkable transformation. Tanglinna had grown so tender and caring, acting like a lovesick child at times. Auriell had rejoiced over the happiness the two had found in one another's company, and had encouraged the romance between her fair friend and the stern Master Archer. The romance blossomed eventually into a betrothal, and then marriage. It seemed that the Valar smiled upon the two, for life began to stir in Celair's womb not many months later. Tanglinna was certain that he could be no happier than he was at that time of his life, despite the threat the Shadow made on Oropher's realm in the Emyn Duir, the Dark Mountains in northeastern Mirkwood.
But then the unthinkable had happened.
Oropher remembered all too well how happily that day had started. Tanglinna had been one of the handful of warriors that had accompanied him on a hunt. It had been successful, and they had returned to the palace, full of good feelings and triumph. Auriell awaited their return bearing a short simple message for the archer, which of course Oropher had read over Tanglinna's shoulder, smiling at the small hearts and flowers Celair had penned on the page with:
"Meet us at Fanui Taen (Cloudy Height). We await you there. Im meleth le, Mithril (I love you, Mithril)."
Oropher had laughed heartily, clapping his old friend on the back, and was rewarded with a grin and a rare blush from Tanglinna. He knew that Celair and Riwmegor had planned a small celebration at the talan Tanglinna had constructed as a getaway home for he and Celair just before their marriage. It was a few miles away, far enough from the others that it had all the privacy they wanted. It had been many years since Tanglinna had celebrated his conception day, not since his family had died at Doriath, and Oropher was glad to see that perhaps he was putting the sorrow of the past behind him for good. The king of Greenwood had watched as Tanglinna had ridden out, a small wreath of flowers clutched in one slim hand. The king had laughed, wondering when he would place those flowers on his silver locks, surely sometime before he reached Fanui Taen. After all, it was what Celair wanted, and what Celair wanted Tanglinna was only too glad to give to her.
Something that had started out so full of fun and excitement had ended tragically, for what Tanglinna had found in their small getaway had changed him into the person who stood before Oropher this day.
He had climbed swiftly into the small house, a smile on his lips, the bright flowers fluttering atop his head. But the smile soon vanished. The trees were whispering with fear and sorrow as he rode to meet his lady-wife and father-in-law.
The Shadow was indeed growing bold and blatant as it crept ever closer to Oropher's Hall, leaving death and destruction in its wake. It had struck out now at all that Tanglinna held dear, shattering all that he had made for himself from the ruins of his former life in Doriath.
Oropher, Auriell, Thranduil, Brenillass, and a few other intimates of Tanglinna and Celair had found him later as they rode to join the celebration. When they arrived, the archer was kneeling on the floor of the talan between the bodies of his wife and father-in-law, his face streaked with their blood. Celair's slim hand rested in Tanglinna's, his grey eyes staring blankly at her face which was twisted into a death's mask of pain and horror at what she had suffered in her last moments of life. The King of Mirkwood stared at the heartrending scene before him, his heart aching and torn. He knelt swiftly at his friend's side, trying to calm the fierce anger and disbelief that welled within him. He laid a slightly shaking hand on the archer's shoulder, feeling the deep shudder that trembled through the other's body at the touch. It was then that he saw what he had not before, and he could not prevent the small cry of horrified distress that passed his lips. He heard Brenillass sob out her own loss and pain, knew she buried her face against Thranduil's chest, hearing the rustle of fabric as she did so. Auriell stood just behind her husband, silent tears frozen in her lovely eyes, her pain overwhelming.
~This cannot be happening, ~ Oropher thought, eyes widening as he tried to not see what lay before him. ~Why was this allowed to happen? How - How! ~
Children were a rare and precious gift, and Oropher knew how much Tanglinna and Celair had anticipated the birth of their first, a son they would name Cubell. His grey eyes slid to where the child lay, ripped from his mother's womb before his time. It was an image that would haunt him over the weeks to come.
It was an image that haunted Tanglinna still.
"I am sorry, Tanglinna," Oropher murmured, forcing the memory away, his eyes moving to where Thranduil his own son stood, his fair face fraught with worry and distress. "But I cannot let you do this to yourself. I cannot let you do this to me."
Tanglinna said nothing, shoulders straightening, his mouth a hard thin line. Most distressing were his eyes, as he turned to look at his king and his friend. They had lost all emotion, as if a shutter had slammed down over his soul, locking all that he felt too strongly away from everyone, and most especially from himself.
"It is mine to choose, hir-nin," he said in a flat voice, before he turned away and knelt once more by his bedroll. "Gar-im al-bach. Nin cuil na lith. Nin gur na fern. Car-im al-iest an cuinar.(I have nothing. My life is ash. My heart is dead. I do not wish to live.)"
Oropher felt something akin to defeat wash over him as Tanglinna knelt swiftly to straighten his pack. The king's eyes moved over the closest group to rest on his son once more, the son whose face betrayed the distress and pain he felt.
~What am I to do now? ~ Oropher thought with a measure of hopelessness, his gaze once more on the Master Archer. He watched as the other's dexterous fingers tied the leather strings of his pouch, those same fingers that were so skilled with a bowstring. ~Too many have died in the battle this day, so many of us will not be returning to our green sanctuary beneath the great trees. It was never supposed to be this way. What can this war hold in store for any of us? ~ His eyes lit on his son who had come to stand at his side. Oropher noted that the small roll of bandages was still clenched in his fist, all but forgotten. ~What would I do if I lost you, nin ion? How would I feel then? ~ Oropher wondered, staring at Thranduil's face, memorizing the beloved lines of it all over again. The glimmering of an idea was born in that moment, and though knowing what its reception would be, it was worth the price of the scorn and resentment that would be flung his way because of it.
"So you care not for your own life? Then perhaps you had best care for someone else's," Oropher said tersely, his jaw clenching, grey eyes as cold and sharp as ice. "If your life is worth nothing, then I charge you to watch over one that *is* important."
Tanglinna turned smoothly to meet his king's gaze with one that rivaled it in disdain.
"You cannot lay that charge upon me, for I refuse to take it," he hissed.
"You cannot refuse a direct order from me, Tanglinna Thindalagosion. As your liege, I am *ordering* you to this. You will be held responsible for the life of my son, Thranduil. If anything shall befall him during this battle with the Shadow, you will be the one who will stand before Mandos with his blood on your hands. He is yours to protect."
Oropher stared down at his stunned Master Archer, watching anger and resentment darken the silvery eyes. However it was Thranduil who voiced the protest that Oropher knew was lurking somewhere in Tanglinna's throat.
"I don't need a nursemaid, hir-nin!" his son said vehemently, with an apologetic glance at Tanglinna. "I am not a child that I need someone to watch over my every step. I have fought at your side this day, and bravely! How can you say -"
Oropher silenced him with a glare not often used on his only child, and Thranduil took a step back away from his sire. He had seen his father in a rage many a time, but there was something so cold and deadly in his look that he knew not what to make of this. His eyes slipped to Tanglinna, who was looking equally filled with rage and bitterness, and the prince felt a jolt of pity for his friend.
"He will do what I tell him to do!" Oropher barked, his eyes sliding over them all. None would meet his gaze, none but the archer. "Do you hear me, Tanglinna? If anything at all befalls my son, it is on your head!" The king of Greenwood spun away from them, his rich dark-green cloak flaring out behind him, the silver embroidery on the hem flashing in the light of the campfires.
Uneasy silence settled over the elves once more. Thranduil raised his head to look at the small group. A few of them met his wary gaze, but soon they turned away, returning to their small fire. The prince watched for a moment as they took up their tasks: Heledir sharpening his dagger and speaking quietly to his brother in a reassuring tone; Arasceleg poking with a stick to stir the fire, watching as the embers flared crimson; Orthelian pulling arrows from his quiver to check the fletching; Bronadui, one of the youngest warriors present in any of the camps feeding small curls of wood to the flames, the pale grey eyes sad.
Thranduil drew an uneasy breath, his eyes moving to Tanglinna who was standing with his back to the prince. Thranduil could sense the tenseness in the archer's slim body; the way the shoulders were hunched, the head bowed as he gazed at the blade which he had bent to pick up once more, now clasped in his hand. A tremor of fear knifed through Thranduil as he watched the archer raise the blade, cradled in both hands, staring at his reflection in its silver depths.
"Tanglinna," he began in a low, hesitant voice. He no longer knew how to speak with his friend. "You . . . you do not need to do this. The king . . . he is . . . he was . . . . "
"The king knew what he was doing, nin caun(my prince)," Tanglinna answered in a ragged tone, tears splashing to the silver blade, blurring his reflection, making certain that he used Thranduil's formal title. "He knew the one thing that would bind me to his words."
Thranduil gazed at the others who were studiously ignoring them, though he knew they could hear every word they spoke and read every emotion that played across their faces.
"Tanglinna, I am sorry. You don't have to do-"
"Be quiet, nin caun," the voice was hoarse and angry. Bitter. "Go back to your duties. I will guard your back for the duration of this siege, but I owe you nothing more beyond that. Now leave me!"
Thranduil sighed heavily, turning away.
"Tanglinna-"
"Leave me!"
The prince of Greenwood swallowed, hanging his head in defeat. Pain knifed through him, and he felt tears burn in his eyes. There was so much sorrow in the air, so much suffering. His eyes moved to gaze at the dark fortress of the enemy, shrouded in a choking cloud of ash and smoke. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? More death and pain . . . only of that was he certain. His heart greatly grieved, he moved silently away from his friend, leaving him to his own sorrow.
TBC