A/N: For some reason I found this chapter hard to write. It was written in a fair few sittings so I hope it flows. Actually that's a lie; I wrote the vast majortiy of it just now but wrote quickly so even so. Maybe I should have listened to the Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron soundtrack from the off. Haha I have no shame, but imo it's one of the best albums to write Tolkien fanfiction to. Maybe it's because the song I've linked to Thranduil is in this sountrack. I link songs to characters, often with no rhyme or reason. For example I always think of Thingol whilst listening to Stairway to Heaven. Why? No idea.
One could cut the air in the tent shared by the High Elvenking and the King of Númenor with a knife.
"We understand, Amroth," Gil-Galad said, slowly. Elendil shifted in his chair and cast a sideways glance at his sons. Elrond refolded his hands in the shadows of the tent. Amroth, standing at the tent's centre and in full view of all present, felt like an animal in a trap. But a trap of his own making. "We would rather that you stayed," Gil-Galad continued, "but if your mind is made up then there is nothing we here assembled can do or say to sway you."
"Hannon le, aranhîr," Amroth said in a small voice, bowing slightly as he spoke, "for being so understanding.
Gil-Galad's mouth twisted slightly. "Of course we are not fully representative of the allies here."
"No-"
"You will have to tell the Greenwood elves yourself, without our backing."
"Yes…" Amroth fell into silence. He had hoped that once he had the other kings on side, they would help him convince Oropher. But evidently that was not to be. Gil-Galad wanted him to stay; why would he help him leave.
Gil-Galad watched the emotions flitting across Amroth's face with interest: "You didn't think abandoning your fellows mid campaign was going to be easy?"
"I didn't think about it," Amroth admitted, running his hand through his hair and pulling a fistful of moss and weeds out of it. "This was a spur of the moment decision. All I know is that my father's- my Elves shouldn't stay here a moment longer."
"None of us are here by choice," Elendil said, sternly. "What you and your men are experiencing is no different to what the rest of us are dealing with. Take the coward's way out if you must but rest assured it shan't be much easier."
Amroth looked at the Númenorian king, then took a deep breath and pulled himself up to his full 5'8; "Rulers of grand kingdoms you may be, and your families may stretch back into the heyday of the world. But we three are all kings without liege lord. And I resent being talked down to like some foot soldier or commoner. I alone have command over my army, and I have decided we leave."
"Such an attitude would suite this siege well," Elendil remarked.
Gil-Galad raised his hands. "Behold we are going round in circles. I suggest you take your decision to a fresh audience, Amroth; and see if they can shed any new light on matters."
As he spoke the light from the entrance was blocked as someone entered. Gil-Galad looked up and smiled. "My lord Círdan; how fares our absent colleague?"
"He was civil enough to me but to all else his mood is toxic. He awaits news of Amdír." Círdan noticed Amroth for the first time, shivering despite the heat and covered in drying marsh detritus. "Am I to believe it is not good news?"
"Not entirely," Gil-Galad affirmed. Then to Amroth, he said "You should probably tell him sooner rather than later."
Amroth nodded and reluctantly left.
"This should be interesting," Anárion said under his breath. But Gil-Galad still heard him.
"You are not turning this into a game."
Elendil smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes: "You already have, my friend. You neglected to tell him who he'll be facing."
"You mean he hasn't… heard," Gil-Galad's brow furrowed and Anárion and Elrond slipped away to watch proceedings at closer quarters.
oOo
"It is with sincere regret" Amroth rehearsed as he made his way through the camp, "that I must turn back. But my mind is set, herdir; I cannot afford to lose any more men.
"'Of course, Amroth,'" he said, mimicking Oropher's measured yet authoritative voice, "'a king must look to the needs of his people. But may I remind you that there isn't an army here that hasn't sustained heavy losses.'
"Indeed, sire…" Amroth faltered, "But the morale of my Elves has waned considerably due to their ordeal in the marshes. If they were to stay here they would drop like flies, even without fighting. It would be a terrible waste of life, even in this war."
In Amroth's mind's eye, Oropher steepled his fingers and thought for a while, "'I understand your reasoning, so I wish you good speed back across the grasslands. We cannot aid your return home. One thing I will ask though is that any of your Elves who wish to stay do stay here, under my command.'
"Of course, sire." Amroth bowed and tripped over a guy rope, "and thank you for your understanding."
And that is indeed what would have been said had Oropher still been alive.
He was outside the tent now. He paused and took a deep breath, wondering if his shadow could be seen on its canvas walls. Then he stepped up, knocked on one of the supporting posts and entered. He saw who was there. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.
No no no no no…
Both princes looked at each other, knew in an instant what had happened.
"I'm sorry for your loss," they said in unison. Both were genuinely heartbroken to hear of the other's father's death, but Amroth was about to add insult to injury. Telling Oropher he could handle; the Sinda would be angry but he'd be rational and predictable. Amroth had no idea what Thranduil would do.
But he probably wouldn't be throwing heavy objects his way.
"You're wincing."
Thranduil smiled, though like most smiles in this place it didn't reach his eyes: "A gift from an orc who wasn't as dead as I thought. Come, sit. I would offer you my chair but… I suppose they're bringing yours. Where's your army?"
"Some way behind," Amroth choked. He needed some time to think about how to phrase what he was going to say but Thranduil was so relieved to see him that he was giving Amroth no time to breathe.
"We must start making plans, not just about the enemy but about Gil-Galad. Has he tried to relieve you of your army? That was the first thing he said to me. Come, sit down, sit down. The ground won't kill you… probably won't kill you. Oh! No, before you settle would you get that map from behind me there? All the movement from earlier is finally catching up with me."
With feet of lead, Amroth moved to pick up the map. He didn't dare look at his companion. Something had happened, Amroth didn't know what and didn't want to find out, and that something had made Thranduil desperate for allies. But Amroth wouldn't give in. He pictured the faces of his army, pulling themselves out of the marsh then turning round and seeing their fallen comrades. They turned to him, their broken spirits bleeding into their eyes. We don't have to stay here, do we?
"I'm not staying." A murmur under the crackle of dry parchment as he handed the map over. But Thranduil heard it anyway.
"There are too many things to be doing, aren't there?" Thranduil replied, consciously misunderstanding the meaning behind the words as he was unable to believe their true meaning. He unrolled the map on his knees and tried to find the location of the camp from what he could remember of their surroundings. Rocks, rocks and more rocks. No trees, no whispering breeze, no laughing Elflings, no father's stories. Ever again. No, don't think about that. "If you're busy this can wait 'til later."
"No, Thranduil," Amroth spoke with more force this time. He clasped his hands together and dug his nails into his palm in an effort to keep the tremor out of his voice: "I'm not staying. I'm leaving. I'm taking my army home."
No longer able to feign ignorance, Thranduil lifted his gaze from the map and looked into Amroth's face with utter astonishment. "You're what?" He breathed. Then as he replayed the words in his mind his expression became deeply sad, and then furious. When he spoke again his voice was a hurried monotone with the momentum of a gathering storm. "You can't leave! Think about it; you on the plains, trying to sleep and then on the east wind you hear the screams of those you abandoned as the darkness swamps them at last, and you awake and you know it's coming after you now and there's no one left to protect you because you gave up on all those you care about when the real world began to bite. This is the real world, Amroth. It is cruel. It is filled with death and grief and pain. And the only way any of us are going to survive is if we stick together."
"You're wrong," Amroth replied, not missing a beat. Something old had returned in this tent, something Thranduil didn't recognise but Amroth knew well. Something both of them had thought dead a long time ago; "This isn't the real world; this is the interlude. The real world is a place of peace and light and laughter, and sometimes things like this happen and we all have to decide for ourselves how we will get the light back. And this darkness eats you; it worms its way into your soul and eats you from the inside out. So when you finally see it your insides are rotten. And once its made your soul its home you can never be fully rid of it, no matter what you do. It is dark tendrils encircling the heart. And it's in you; it's been dormant for so long but now you're here it's moving and it will eat your soul again. And if I stay here it will get inside me and there will be no one left to save the others. I have to leave; I will just rot here."
"But the rest of us 'rotting' as you put it that's fine, is it? Just so long as you get back to your precious forest with your precious golden leaves and singing air. Well what happens when we fall? Rotting we may be but we are also fighting. Sauron is almost vanquished; this is the deep breath before the last push. If you stay here and push with the rest of us there is more chance that we will all survive to see light and goodness again. And if you leave what then? How will you defend yourself should we fail? The whole brunt of the darkness of Mordor will sweep across the free lands and smother you in despair and misery. And you will die alone because we will all have died here."
"I can't stay here; I can't do this. I've never done this before-"
"Neither have I-"
"Yes you have! And so have Círdan and Gil-Galad, and Elendil is close in their council. You may not remember it but it's there, deep down, and it's influencing your decisions. I don't have anything like that. I had no influence last time and I wasn't part of this world long enough to find my feet. But I saw enough of this to know that it's the last place I want to be. You didn't see my people, my brothers and sisters, pulling themselves out of the marsh water freezing cold and soaking wet and distraught. They are broken, Thranduil. Half of them lie dead in the marsh. Those that still live are fading even as they await my return. To bring them into camp would sentence them all to death."
"Only half lie dead?" Thranduil's eyes smoked as he looked at Amroth. He hated Amroth then, but not only because he was leaving. He hated him more because he was getting out, taking the path Thranduil yearned so much to take. He wanted to take his father home, see his woods, his wife, pretend this hadn't happened. But the fear of the guilt of leaving, and of facing the darkness alone kept him here. But Amroth had made his choice and was keeping firm. And even though it wasn't the choice Thranduil would make, and even though it meant everyone else would have to work that bit harder, he admired him. Somehow.
"I'm leaving once my army is ready to move," Amroth said again.
When Thranduil spoke again his voice had dropped away. Amroth had to strain to hear him: "Leave now and I will never forgive you. With my dying breath I shall curse you. Your nightmares were sent by me."
"We are equals, and we have made our decisions. So-"
"Get out."
"Wha-"
"If you're leaving, get out."
Amroth swallowed, felt 3 inches high. He moved to the tent's entrance. When in the doorway he turned. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Thranduil opened his mouth to spit a retort, but thought better of it. "Take my maimed soldiers home. And Dannalas and my father. But you are not welcome at their funerals. Run, run as fast as you can, and hide, like you hid last time."
"Good luck." Barely a whisper. The words seemed so empty.
Thranduil leant back in his chair and looked through Amroth. "You might see me again," he said, "but chances are I shan't see you."
Amroth wanted so desperately to say something, but there was nothing to say. He looked at his old friend for a while longer, at the ancient soldier slowly taking the whimsical Elf over again, and then left him. His army needed him more than anyone else did.
He walked without seeing where he was going. He was trembling, and despite the dry heat that cloaked this area he felt cold. Chilled to the bone.
"Are you still leaving then?"
It was Gil-Galad, fatherly concern on his face. Behind him were Elrond and Anárion, both surprised that Amroth was uninjured and both highly relieved. Amroth looked at him with betrayed eyes.
"You didn't tell me Oropher was dead."
"I honestly thought you knew-"
"You didn't tell me!" Tears he didn't know he'd been holding back ran down his cheeks. He pressed his fist into his mouth until he could speak again: "Is this what it's like? Is this what it's always like?"
"War always poses challenges."
"I'm abandoning my kinsmen. One of my closest friends hates me, and I'm just walking away. How has this happened? How have we fallen so low? Why do we sing about battles as though they are valiant, as though they are noble? They aren't! They are dark pits of despair where we slowly tear each other to pieces."
"It's because we have hearts," Gil-Galad said, sombrely, "it's because we who know love and compassion are fighting creatures that don't. They force us to make choices no one should have to make."
"I can't do this," Amroth said, and pre-empting Gil-Galad he added, "but you can't have my army. Those who wish to stay will fight under Thranduil's banner, if he'll have them. And I have a favour to do him which is none of your concern. I take my leave to organise it."
Gil-Galad, Elrond and Anárion watched as the new king marched off through the camp. They all knew his summery of war was accurate, but they also knew there was nothing they could do to change it.
A week or so later found the Greenwood Elves lining their section of the camp, heads bowed. Many were in tears. A small portion of Amroth's forces had come up to camp to bear the maimed and the dead king back home. There were no flowers to throw in their path, no flags whole enough to fly at half-mast. But all there saw them in their mind's eye. On the rises all around were the vast majority of Gil-Galad's and Elendil's armies. Come to pay homage but not wishing to intrude. The Wood-elves knew they were there and silently thanked them. Among Thranduil's people were a few hundred of Amroth's who had taken up the offer to stay. They were neither blamed for their king's decision nor praised for staying.
This was the funeral Oropher's army gave him. Later it was this procession that was told in tales of the first king's life, rather than the more serene yet arguably less poignant burial under the tree Oropher had chosen when the shadows first began to gather again.
Thranduil walked behind his father's litter. He had tried to wash but with little success. The dust had embedded itself into his very skin. His hair, cut relatively short, stuck out at odd angles. He wore his armour, for they were still at risk of attack, which was blood-stained and in places had sections of leather hacked off. But to his people he looked as grand as any king of old. It was his expression that gave him his presence; pained but resolute. He kept his chin up but his eyes were cast to the ground. Until he neared the end of the processional route where the path began to slope down and away to the marshes. There he looked up and saw a dark figure towards the end of the crowd.
Galion had thought about walking behind his son but found it too hard. So he stood at the front of the crowd, watching as the procession passed, trying to forget who was part of it. He nodded to the maimed who were conscious, wishing them a safe journey home and a swift recovery. He looked at his son as his litter was carried reverently past, but he had already said his good-byes. This was just the end. He would never see his son's face again, save in pictures. He blinked and it was as though a dam burst. Galion buried his face in his hands, wanted the world to disappear, wanted a sympathetic arm across his shoulder. What had he done? Why had he done it? He'd known it wouldn't bring his son back; all it had done was make him alone.
But there was a hand. On his upper arm. The thumb brushing his tunic. There was someone standing close by, in front of him. He lifted his face and there was the person he'd hoped it would be. Galion's tears had set Thranduil off, but even so he was trying to soothe his friend. His gwador. Galion hadn't realised his grief hand made him tense until the relieved surprise of Thranduil's reappearance after nine days' absence made him smile despite everything. He hadn't been abandoned after all. All was forgiven. And he was being invited to share the anguish with someone who truly cared. He wrapped his arms around Thranduil and buried his face in his friend's hair. He could feel the Sinda's tears running down Thranduil's face. They held each other upright as the last of the procession past.
As the rest of the camp wished the king swift passage through Mandos' Halls in almost inaudible voices and drifted back to what passed as normal life, master and servant remained where they were. So long as they stayed here Dannalas and Oropher were still alive. When they finally moved, they would be turning their backs on their deceased loved ones. They would be that bit more alone.
"Don't leave me."
"I won't leave you."
