Chapter 10: T.A. 2790 – Green are the Leaves I leave in Mirkwood
Restless!
He had no idea when he had felt restless for the last time. Ages must have passed by since and the feeling, unfamiliar and unwelcome, left him thoughtful and pacing his study.
For twenty years he hadn't spent a single thought on the dwarves who had taken flight from Erebor. Now it appeared to him as if it was just a blink of an eye, since he had left Thror and his kin on the banks of the Celduin, the king and all who accompanied him determined to wander south.
Never would he have imagined that these dwarves would survive the hostile deserts of Wilderland, but he obviously had been wrong. They did not only succeed in crossing the desert, they also succeeded in passing over the Anduin and in traversing the wide landscapes of the realm of Rohan to make it to Dunland, the hilly lands west of the Misty Mountains.
Thus, it showed to be true again, that the children of Durin were not only great craftsmen and fierce fighters, but also strong-willed and tenacious if it added up to survive the inconveniences of life.
Dunland then!
That was where Durin's folk had settled and rebuilt a life. He'd never had learned about it, if not, yes, if not...
Word had reached him that Thror, the king under the mountain, was dead; slain in front of the gates of Moria; beheaded, disgraced, his destroyed body fed to the birds.
Word had reached him that Moria, the ancient Dwarven kingdom, had fallen into the hands of a relentless orc commander from Gundabad – Azog – and so it was, that not only the Balrog of Morgoth dwelled in the deepest depths of the abandoned mines, but also a host of orcs.
Word had reached him that Thrain, the new king of Durin's folk, would go to war...
'So, this marks the end of the King under the Mountain', Thranduil thought: 'And in what a disdainful and abhorrent way.' He shook his head, slowly and sorrow-stricken: 'There will be no doubt: His son will avenge his father's death. Equal how long it will take him and equal the cost. The king will summon the armies of the Nogoth and for sure, all seven clans will answer this call. They cannot leave it unheard and unanswered. Not this time, not after an offence like this.'
Soon, he knew, the caverns and mines the Misty Mountains were drawn through with would resound from the noises of axe clashing with shield and sword clashing with sword.
No orc would survive, the outraged dwarves would get hold of, and the toll of black blood would be beyond measure.
'Though', he brought to his mind: 'not only the toll of black blood. The price, the dwarves will pay, will be equally high, if not over and above...'
His gaze met the Lonely Mountain, far in the East, and unease befell him, like he hadn't felt it for a long time.
The silence after battle never was silent.
The moaning of the dying, the groaning with pain of the wounded, the crying of the survivors and the yelling of commands on both sides – the vanquishing and the vanquished – would always be enough for not to name it silence.
And nonetheless there was silence, an awkward silence after the arms got laid down, after the battle cries ebbed away and after the last armour got removed till the next skirmish...
His father had been impatient, unwilling to follow the order of the High-King, Gil-galad, to attack the enemy with combined forces and as his host of Silvan elves never felt sympathy for neither the Noldor nor the Sindar, the king led to war, they would not obey the command of another but their own leader – Oropher.
There was no doubt that the elves of Greenwood were both, valiant and doughty, but there was also no doubt on the fact that they were ill-equipped in comparison to their kin.
He never came to know, if his father had been aware of it when they prepared for the battle in front of the Morannon, the Black Gate, which marked the entrance to Sauron's realm of death and darkness, or if he took this risk willingly, knowing, they wouldn't stand a chance anyway, but when they faced Sauron's forces in the early hours of this day so many years ago, he knew, he'd follow him wherever he would lead them to.
To which end ever...
Too many enemies they had to face and fight that day and he had quickly lost sight of his father, engaged in battle after battle himself.
It was first when he heard those words of terrible ultimateness, that he got aware what happened: 'The king fell! Draw back!'
Never before and never after, he felt the heavy weight of weakness resting upon his shoulders the way it did that day. He was drenched in sweat and blood and it wasn't only black, it poured from all those cuts he was covered with as well. His body solely reacted to his tired mind, fending off an enemy where he found one, mechanically, not willingly any more. And then, when he did as ordered, and drew back, he had to get aware how few were left aside him to follow the command.
It didn't matter if he was covered with mud and blood when he rushed into his father's tent. The tears streaming down his cheeks washed both away within thin lines.
They greeted him as king already, but he would not listen, not even when they told him not to insist of bidding his father the last goodbye, not even when they told him, that the sight would haunt him for now and for all the days which were still to come.
Oropher was still alive, but alas, what was left of him was barely to recognize as the once tall and slender elf he knew to be his father.
He forced himself to bear it, as he knew his father would have done the same for him, but he was not ready for to let him go. Much more than the last spark of life hidden within the broken body of the king it was him who wanted his father to stay alive, to stay with him.
He would not say, that he knew, they should have waited for Gil-galad's command, he would not say, that this act on his father's own authority almost caused them all to die, he'd not say, that what he'd wished to tell him would remain unsaid forever now.
All he would do would be to stay here until this last fight would be over, equal if it would be for the length of a blink of an eye or if it would be for the length of a day or two.
Healers were around, but he sent them out to care about those who'd have a chance to recover. Within here, there was no hope left.
It was when his father reached out for him, that he knew the time was there. Oropher's grey eyes flashed open in a last struggle, their gaze softened when he recognized his son, his pale lips showed a last hint of a smile, but his last attempt to speak would fail when blood poured over them and when the last desperate tries to breathe would rather choke him than bring him relief.
There was no struggle any more, no fight, when the maltreated body of the king gave up, when broken bones and twisted limbs relaxed and when the last light within his eyes ceased.
There was no struggle any more, no fight, when the paralysed prince sitting by his side gave in to his grief and despair, when he let go of all strength and when he collapsed crying and in abysmally pain...
Thranduil shivered when the chill of a slight evening breeze caressed his cheek like a touch from another world.
He blinked and the memories faded away to the place deep within his heart where he kept them safe.
Oh yes, he knew how it felt to get torn apart by grief, he knew what Thrain must feel and he even understood the wish for revenge, but he also knew that spilled blood, equal of what amount, would never drown the sorrow.
Once again the Lonely Mountain caught his gaze and he narrowed his eyes when a vague thought found him, he wasn't able to get rid of.
What, if none of this happened by chance?
What, if it all replied to a call?
He remembered the days when a shadow seemed to soak into the halls his father had built in Amon Lanc, when it seemed as if an ancient evil started to haunt the days and the nights equally and when the woodmen began to name this dark presence the Necromancer.
He remembered the time, shortly after, when he decided to lead his people northward, leaving behind the Emyn-nu-Fuin and the Forest River to build new halls underground, close to Dale and Erebor. It was the time when he began to watch how giant spiders started to infest the forest and how orcs began to gather near the abandoned fortress which was now known under the name of Dol Guldur.
He remembered when they learned that, greedy as only Durin's folk was known to be, the dwarves of Khazad-dum dug too deep for gems and riches, that deep, that they woke an ancient evil from the past – a Balrog of Morgoth, a demon of fire and flame, of shadow and ash, a terror, too powerful to withstand.
He remembered when the dwarves, unable to fight this enemy, abandoned their halls and kingdom, taking flight and seeking shelter with their kin in the Grey Mountains, the Ered Mithrin, while orcs and goblins started to spread all throughout the Misty Mountains.
Shelter the sons and daughters of Durin's folk found, for sure, and their craftsmanship began to blossom again, but not for long, just until their piled up treasures and hoarded riches lured the great serpents of the north.
And he remembered Erebor, turned into a dragon's lair twenty years ago when the deadly fire-breather turned the city of Dale to ash and sacked both, the dwarven halls and treasure...
Thranduil frowned...
Was it a coincidence, that, right now, after all those losses, orcs of Gundabad claimed the kingdom of Moria with its mines and caverns?
He went to have a look at his maps and to sum up his thoughts again – and what he found did not really please him.
What, if nothing, he had thought about, would have happened by chance?
Wouldn't they soon be surrounded by servants of the enemy?
An enemy, they faced before on the plains of Dagorlad, in front of the Black Gate?
The shadow of Mordor had always been present in the south! Orcs and the spawn of Ungoliant were haunting the forest! A Necromancer, who dwelled in Dol Guldur! The Misty Mountains infested by orcs and goblins and dragons from the north holding the dwarven realms of Erebor and Ered Mithrin...
His eyes widened – none of this could have happened by chance and out of a sudden resolve he knew what he'd have to do. This was, indeed, a threat and even if no one else would see it, he'd not leave it unanswered.
"My Lord, please don't do this! The mountains and the southern woods are no safe place any more. Leave this to a patrol or order an escort to accompany you."
There was honest concern within his words, when the captain of the guard entered the study, and the slight hint of being upset within his voice, made Thranduil lift his gaze.
It wasn't only a hint of being upset as he found out when he beheld the guard, it was some deep worriedness.
"I will not consider leaving this to a patrol", he replied: "The answers, I hope to find, belong to questions I am unable to share with you at present. So, for now, you'll follow my orders as I'm unwilling to endanger the lives of my kin with levity."
"Forgive me, if I'm bold and if I dare to talk back, my lord, but many of us still remember the day when your father fell. None of us would bear losing you as well."
The captain of the guard looked at his king and added: "Losing you would mean to lose the light within the darkness this forest is soaked with at these days."
"Neither will the shadows consume the light you consider me to be, nor will ever a spider or any other evil spirit consume my body or soul."
"But..."
"Be at ease, I left orders for my son and he'll be the one for you to trust in as long as I am absent."
"How long will this be?"
"As long as it needs to find the answers to my questions."